As I sit at my keyboard listening to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy", I slowly come to grips with the magnitude and magnificence of Tottenham Hotspur's soul-stirring 5-1 triumph over the Hated Arsenal Scum in tonight's League Cup semifinal at Tottenham's White Hart Lane stadium.
While The Scum fielded an understrength team (whether as a sign of contempt or out of a desire to see their younger players perform against fully-motivated competition), the fact that Tottenham had failed to beat The Scum in 21 straight attempts, and that a berth in a cup final to be played at the renovated 90,000 seat Wembley Stadium was on the line produced an electric atmosphere that penetrated even the remotest outposts of Spursdom.
For years, I wondered what I would do if and when Tottenham finally beat the Scum. Would it be champagne? Public singing of the song whose punch line is "Shoot the Arsenal Scum, Shoot the Arsenal Scum", or merely quiet reflection.
But tonight, thanks to four magnificent Tottenham blasts by Jermaine Jenas, Aaron Lennon, Robbie Keane and a clinical last second strike by the elegantly named Steed Malbranque, which along with a comical self-inflicted goal by the inept Scummer Nicklas Bendtner produced the final 5 goal tally, I have my answer--capturing the magnificence of the occasion here on the blog.
The gamewatching experience was relatively sedate here in Delft--I went to my usual local pub and encountered another wayward Tottenham soul, a fellow returned from Thailand who was complaining about the cold. I was wearing a Tottenham scarf and my 1999 vintage Tottenham Away jersey--from the season when Tottenham last won the League Cup...and last beat the Scum.
I was half watching through the first half, where the two goal margin left me 'cautiously optimistic', as the handlers at the White House are wont to say. But after the third goal, a sense of belief set in. I started waving my scarf around intermittently as if I was one of the fervent throng at The Lane. Another goal goes in, and my body temperature rises and anticipation sets in. We've been taking it from these sons (and daughters) of Vishnu-knows-what for the better part of a flipping decade, and Justice was finally on the horizon.
The fourth goal leads almost to complacency, until a strike by Arsenal's talented first-string striker Emmanuel Adebayor brings the total to 4-1 with a fair amount of time on the clock. Presumed joy gives way to the kind of expectant angst that typefies most of a Spurs supporter's continued existence until the waning moments of gave a sense of relief among the rabid, scarf waving legions preparing to sing lustily over the corpse of their vanquished foe. Finally, the last-second cannon by Malbranque sealed the deal--and a scene of joy unlike any experienced recently at the Lane ensued, with Keane doing a dance at midfield, players piling onto each other, and 36000 singing as one to the tunes of Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur and the ever-topical Spurs Are On Our Way To Wembley (the original version is on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCXdlxZ5RiM).
A key ingredient to Spurs' revival has been new manager Juande Ramos. While I was outraged by his selection and his replacement of previous manager and fellow Hague-area resident Martin Jol, Ramos has brought sharp tactics and restored the confidence of Spurs' leaky defense--and has not had a team of his lose a match in an elimination cup in over a year, a record continued with today's electric win.
Merry, an Arsenal fan I work with sneered when I suggested we had a chance tonight. She said "yeah, you Tottenham fans think 'one day, we'll beat the Arsenal'. Hell, you even have a manager named 'One Day'!"
Merry: Today, we have beaten the Scum. Today, we have claimed our place at Wembley. Merry, One Day Has Come!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
January 2008
Reflections on the Balkan Winter
Planes, trains and renegade cabbies. Turkish coffee served in American-sized cups. A Muslim brewery in Sarajevo and a Rugby Pub in Ljubljana. A conversation in Sarajevo about the San Francisco based President of a professional association I belong to. And the highways, byways and Cyrillic advertising of Republika Srpska.
Those were some of the enduring memories of my wintry whirlwind trip to the Balkans, touching on four countries of Former Yugoslavia and capped off with New Years in Budapest. I've written about them in much detail in the previous postings below--also capturing adventures like the Night Train to Vienna (from which I was evacuated) and two days in the not-ready-for-the-First-World Serbian capital of Belgrade. I've also posted an album, available through a link at the appointed location.
Would love your thoughts--particularly if you've spent some time in the region!
Primary Colo(u)rs
The US political season is off to a roaring start, with no clear leader in either the Republican or Democratic races for the Presidency. Indeed, with Hillary Clinton's resurgence in New Hampshire and no less than three Republicans winning early state contests, the possibility that these contests will turn into four-month, knock-down, drag-out bloodbaths becomes more tantalising by the day.
The battle for delegates will head to some unlikely places on February 5, when Democrats Abroad opens the first-ever Global Primary to apportion its delegates for the Democratic Party's presidential nominating convention. While state contests in (states) will draw most of the attention and all of the resources, Democratic voters outside the US will have our own primary where our votes proportionately will matter far more than those cast on US soil.
In the Netherlands, where I'm active on the Democrats Abroad communication group, voting will be kicked off officially on the evening of the 5th at Amsterdam's Balie events centre·from 5 PM to 9 PM at De Balie, Kleine-Gartmanplantsoen 10 (near the Leidseplein), Amsterdam, with speeches from leading local experts on the American scene, the city's Deputy Mayor, and the US Consul General. While there will be no official representation from the campaigns, local supporters of Clinton and Senator Barack Obama will sharpen their elbows and attempt to make their cases to the few uncommitted voters who make it to the event.
Most Democrats in the NL, and in the rest of what George Bush calls "Abroad" will cast their votes over the Internet--making the DA Global Primary a significant test of this voting technology. Delegates will be apportioned to candidates by their share and size of the vote in each contested country, with national caucuses convening to select delegates to regional and global caucuses and ultimately to the nominating convention in Denver in August. As this represents my first chance to throw my hat into the caucus ring since I was elected as a Gary Hart delegate to the regional caucus in Wisconsin's State Senate District 1 in 1984, I will again seek a regional caucus seat.
I will do so as an enthusiastic backer of Senator Barack Obama. I don't agree with Obama on every issue, but there is an underlying passion, intensity and integrity that Obama brings to the table, along with an ability to galvanise and build a movement for real change in America. The Clintons, showing family unity unprecedented since the arrival on the scene of a certain Nice Jewish Girl from Los Angeles, mock and deride Obama for being insufficiently substantive, and for lacking the 'policy experience' that compares to that earned by Mrs C. through her unimpressive stint as a US Senator, her disastrous tenure as her husband's Health Care czar, and her career as influence broker and gatekeeper in the Arkansas Governor's Mansion.
I'll concede Hillary has more policy experience. But as we are learning day by day in an ever-globalising world, policy offers far less leverage for real change than the ability to galvanise and mobilise people. Capital, ideas and energy move across and around borders at astounding rates of speed. Attempts by one jurisdiction to legislate bad things away often yield worse collateral damage when the jurisdiction gets cut out of markets and processes. In Barack Obama, we have a presidential candidate who has a much sharper idea of how today's world works, and isn't promising us a rerun of "That '90s Show."
I'll be casting my vote in the Netherlands...for the next President of the United States, Barack Obama.
Up the Kriek
Cherries and beer aren't words one normally hears in the same sentence--unless you happen to be relaxing in a cheerful beer cafe in the Benelux.
Cherry beers, called Kriek in the Benelux in honor of the species of cherry used to flavor such brews, occupy a beloved niche in the beer scene here, and a number of the more popular versions are available in the US and UK.
They tend to be appreciated for three reasons--as a refreshing, sweet-sour alternative to a mid-day soft drink, a tipple favored by women who have been conditioned not to drink 'beer' for social acceptance reasons, or, in my case, as a taste-bud-resetting alcohol-lowering pause to a session scaling the lofty heights of the Benelux brewers' art.
Generally, kriek beers are brewed using open fermentation and airborne yeasts, which explains why most such brews come from the area around Brussels as it's the only place such yeasts are found in the wild. They are brewed from a sour mash called 'lambic' derived from barley and wheat malt, and with the addition either of whole cherries, cherry juice or cherry syrup, depending on the brand.
The most popular Kriek in the world is BelleVue, with wide international distribution. It's more of the 'cherry syrup' variety, but it has a complex flavor and I find it very refreshing. More traditional is Boon, brewed with whole cherries and sold in corked 375ml and 750ml bottles. And my favorite--Liefman's from Flanders, which is brewed with Flemish brown ale instead of lambic, and is available at top beer pubs, off-licenses and liquor stores.
Wishing you a cherry...er...cheery January, that's FlightKL18.
Planes, trains and renegade cabbies. Turkish coffee served in American-sized cups. A Muslim brewery in Sarajevo and a Rugby Pub in Ljubljana. A conversation in Sarajevo about the San Francisco based President of a professional association I belong to. And the highways, byways and Cyrillic advertising of Republika Srpska.
Those were some of the enduring memories of my wintry whirlwind trip to the Balkans, touching on four countries of Former Yugoslavia and capped off with New Years in Budapest. I've written about them in much detail in the previous postings below--also capturing adventures like the Night Train to Vienna (from which I was evacuated) and two days in the not-ready-for-the-First-World Serbian capital of Belgrade. I've also posted an album, available through a link at the appointed location.
Would love your thoughts--particularly if you've spent some time in the region!
Primary Colo(u)rs
The US political season is off to a roaring start, with no clear leader in either the Republican or Democratic races for the Presidency. Indeed, with Hillary Clinton's resurgence in New Hampshire and no less than three Republicans winning early state contests, the possibility that these contests will turn into four-month, knock-down, drag-out bloodbaths becomes more tantalising by the day.
The battle for delegates will head to some unlikely places on February 5, when Democrats Abroad opens the first-ever Global Primary to apportion its delegates for the Democratic Party's presidential nominating convention. While state contests in (states) will draw most of the attention and all of the resources, Democratic voters outside the US will have our own primary where our votes proportionately will matter far more than those cast on US soil.
In the Netherlands, where I'm active on the Democrats Abroad communication group, voting will be kicked off officially on the evening of the 5th at Amsterdam's Balie events centre·from 5 PM to 9 PM at De Balie, Kleine-Gartmanplantsoen 10 (near the Leidseplein), Amsterdam, with speeches from leading local experts on the American scene, the city's Deputy Mayor, and the US Consul General. While there will be no official representation from the campaigns, local supporters of Clinton and Senator Barack Obama will sharpen their elbows and attempt to make their cases to the few uncommitted voters who make it to the event.
Most Democrats in the NL, and in the rest of what George Bush calls "Abroad" will cast their votes over the Internet--making the DA Global Primary a significant test of this voting technology. Delegates will be apportioned to candidates by their share and size of the vote in each contested country, with national caucuses convening to select delegates to regional and global caucuses and ultimately to the nominating convention in Denver in August. As this represents my first chance to throw my hat into the caucus ring since I was elected as a Gary Hart delegate to the regional caucus in Wisconsin's State Senate District 1 in 1984, I will again seek a regional caucus seat.
I will do so as an enthusiastic backer of Senator Barack Obama. I don't agree with Obama on every issue, but there is an underlying passion, intensity and integrity that Obama brings to the table, along with an ability to galvanise and build a movement for real change in America. The Clintons, showing family unity unprecedented since the arrival on the scene of a certain Nice Jewish Girl from Los Angeles, mock and deride Obama for being insufficiently substantive, and for lacking the 'policy experience' that compares to that earned by Mrs C. through her unimpressive stint as a US Senator, her disastrous tenure as her husband's Health Care czar, and her career as influence broker and gatekeeper in the Arkansas Governor's Mansion.
I'll concede Hillary has more policy experience. But as we are learning day by day in an ever-globalising world, policy offers far less leverage for real change than the ability to galvanise and mobilise people. Capital, ideas and energy move across and around borders at astounding rates of speed. Attempts by one jurisdiction to legislate bad things away often yield worse collateral damage when the jurisdiction gets cut out of markets and processes. In Barack Obama, we have a presidential candidate who has a much sharper idea of how today's world works, and isn't promising us a rerun of "That '90s Show."
I'll be casting my vote in the Netherlands...for the next President of the United States, Barack Obama.
Up the Kriek
Cherries and beer aren't words one normally hears in the same sentence--unless you happen to be relaxing in a cheerful beer cafe in the Benelux.
Cherry beers, called Kriek in the Benelux in honor of the species of cherry used to flavor such brews, occupy a beloved niche in the beer scene here, and a number of the more popular versions are available in the US and UK.
They tend to be appreciated for three reasons--as a refreshing, sweet-sour alternative to a mid-day soft drink, a tipple favored by women who have been conditioned not to drink 'beer' for social acceptance reasons, or, in my case, as a taste-bud-resetting alcohol-lowering pause to a session scaling the lofty heights of the Benelux brewers' art.
Generally, kriek beers are brewed using open fermentation and airborne yeasts, which explains why most such brews come from the area around Brussels as it's the only place such yeasts are found in the wild. They are brewed from a sour mash called 'lambic' derived from barley and wheat malt, and with the addition either of whole cherries, cherry juice or cherry syrup, depending on the brand.
The most popular Kriek in the world is BelleVue, with wide international distribution. It's more of the 'cherry syrup' variety, but it has a complex flavor and I find it very refreshing. More traditional is Boon, brewed with whole cherries and sold in corked 375ml and 750ml bottles. And my favorite--Liefman's from Flanders, which is brewed with Flemish brown ale instead of lambic, and is available at top beer pubs, off-licenses and liquor stores.
Wishing you a cherry...er...cheery January, that's FlightKL18.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Balkan Pics
I accumulated 443 pictures during my foray into the Balkans; a representative assortment of 60 are available at:
http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=579150359&k=4WM44Z5YQ3TF6FLGWDV5P
Will post some more in the next few days. In the meantime, enjoy the travelogues below.
Mike
http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=579150359&k=4WM44Z5YQ3TF6FLGWDV5P
Will post some more in the next few days. In the meantime, enjoy the travelogues below.
Mike
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Bests, Worsts and Other Observations
As I stand in the "Drink Bar" of the Hotel Gellert in Budapest, the process of itemising the various bests and worsts comes into play: not just for a second shot at the most pertinent items, but also to keep currently memorable moments from fading into memory, and to provide a vehicle for internet searchers to find the venues most worth patronising.
Most congenial pub: Rugby Pub, Ljubljana
Best pizza: Hole in One, Zagreb
Best grilled meat: Cevapi at Hodzic 2, Sarajevo
Best overall meal: Duck in Orange Rosemary Sauce, Kisablo Pub. Budapest
Best regional meal: Smoked Trout Filets in Chopped Peanuts and. Honey Mustard Cream Sauce, Hotel Moskva, Belgrade
Best breakfast: All dishes involving Bosnian smoked beef, Halvat Guest House, Sarajevo
Most memorable TV Moment: Panel discussion on religious tolerance on Republika Srpska (Bosnian Serb) TV featuring a Catholic priest, an unusually portly rabbi, a blue-eyed imam and an intense-looking Serbian Orthodox priest.
Best coffee: Srpska Kava at Mani Prag, across from Hotel Prag, Belgrade.
Best hostelry, by far: Halvat Guest House (both in the guest house and in their excellent private accommodation), Sarajevo
Best public event: Televised Xmas sing, main square, Zagreb
Most disconcerting arrival incident: Being fleeced by Belgrade Taxi Driver 2697
Second most disconcerting arrival incident: seeing table of lurid anti-abortion literature immediately upon arrival in Zagreb
Biggest surprise: Ljubljana-this place has hit the big time with its pristine Old Town and attractive setting
Biggest shock: Belgrade-the Second World isn't completely down for the count
Best train: Sleeper on Croatian Railways from Munich-Zagreb. Even included an amenity kit and an edible chocolate.
Worst train: Austrian Rail's disastrous Belgrade-Vienna run with the squabbling Greeks, crazy Serbs, and Austrian train manager screaming "Schnell" to evacuate our smoky car.
Best lager: LAV, from Carlsberg Serbia.
Worst lager: Lasko Club from Slovenia. Undrinkable (but regular Lasko on tap in Slovenia is OK).
Best driver: the fellow in Belgrade who drove me to the train station for free, and ran two red lights in the process, even though I was an hour early for the train.
Best hotel lobby moment: Playing balloon volleyball with the front desk clerk at Belgrade's Hotel Rex.
Best place to visit on December 25: Jewish Museum, Sarajevo
Strangest culinary discoveries: 1) That the breast of goose Jewish style at the resolutely unkosher Carmel Restaurant in Budapest tasted almost identical to my mom's pot roast. (Had she known she could have charged me more for it.)
2) That the Croatians spike their mustard with tarragon. Weird, but not bad.
3) Everything that isn't pork in Sarajevo pretty much is pork in Belgrade.
Best music: 1) Balkan brass band that surrounded me after giving a 200 dinar (EUR 3) note to tubaist. 2) Croatian music for "Catholic Christmas"-most of it was original
Worst music: Crappy American oldies used a background music. You can check out of the Hotel California. But you can't leave even if you're in Republika Srpska.
Best e-mail exchange: When I emailed a friend in Islamabad that the Serbs have a sense of perspective because the article on the assassination of "Benazir Buto" was on page 6, he said "it's on page six here too. And 1,2,3,4,5.7..."
Silliest bit of fun: the hunt for stretch Yugos in Belgrade.
Best souvenirs: Old 5000 Dinar note with picture of Marshal Tito; freshly imprinted t-shirt with logo of 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics.
Best architecture-style: Sarajevo's fusion of Turkish, Hapsburg, fin de siecle and socialist styles
Best architecture-grandeur: Budapest-scale, setting and style make for a breathtaking city
Best travelling habit: Tipping 20%. My Karma has improved precipitously since I started tipping decently.
Worst travelling habit: taking taxis rather than learning transit systems. Even though the legal cabs were cheap everywhere I went (and cheaper than basic London underground fares), I feel I missed our for not riding subways and trams more
Best train scenery: Sava River valley between Zagreb and Ljubljana
Best bus scenery: Republika Srpska ski region east of Sarajevo
Best use of dormant skill: deciphering Cyrillic street signs in Belgrade (and signage at Serb Sarajevo bus station)
Best bridge, Chain Bridge, Budapest
Coolest transit system: Sarajevo's mix of donated tram cars and trolley buses--some with their original markings. Kind of a working tram museum.
Best expression: Bosnian expression of feeling uncomfortable: "feeling like a pig in Teheran".
Worst airline: Swiss
Most congenial pub: Rugby Pub, Ljubljana
Best pizza: Hole in One, Zagreb
Best grilled meat: Cevapi at Hodzic 2, Sarajevo
Best overall meal: Duck in Orange Rosemary Sauce, Kisablo Pub. Budapest
Best regional meal: Smoked Trout Filets in Chopped Peanuts and. Honey Mustard Cream Sauce, Hotel Moskva, Belgrade
Best breakfast: All dishes involving Bosnian smoked beef, Halvat Guest House, Sarajevo
Most memorable TV Moment: Panel discussion on religious tolerance on Republika Srpska (Bosnian Serb) TV featuring a Catholic priest, an unusually portly rabbi, a blue-eyed imam and an intense-looking Serbian Orthodox priest.
Best coffee: Srpska Kava at Mani Prag, across from Hotel Prag, Belgrade.
Best hostelry, by far: Halvat Guest House (both in the guest house and in their excellent private accommodation), Sarajevo
Best public event: Televised Xmas sing, main square, Zagreb
Most disconcerting arrival incident: Being fleeced by Belgrade Taxi Driver 2697
Second most disconcerting arrival incident: seeing table of lurid anti-abortion literature immediately upon arrival in Zagreb
Biggest surprise: Ljubljana-this place has hit the big time with its pristine Old Town and attractive setting
Biggest shock: Belgrade-the Second World isn't completely down for the count
Best train: Sleeper on Croatian Railways from Munich-Zagreb. Even included an amenity kit and an edible chocolate.
Worst train: Austrian Rail's disastrous Belgrade-Vienna run with the squabbling Greeks, crazy Serbs, and Austrian train manager screaming "Schnell" to evacuate our smoky car.
Best lager: LAV, from Carlsberg Serbia.
Worst lager: Lasko Club from Slovenia. Undrinkable (but regular Lasko on tap in Slovenia is OK).
Best driver: the fellow in Belgrade who drove me to the train station for free, and ran two red lights in the process, even though I was an hour early for the train.
Best hotel lobby moment: Playing balloon volleyball with the front desk clerk at Belgrade's Hotel Rex.
Best place to visit on December 25: Jewish Museum, Sarajevo
Strangest culinary discoveries: 1) That the breast of goose Jewish style at the resolutely unkosher Carmel Restaurant in Budapest tasted almost identical to my mom's pot roast. (Had she known she could have charged me more for it.)
2) That the Croatians spike their mustard with tarragon. Weird, but not bad.
3) Everything that isn't pork in Sarajevo pretty much is pork in Belgrade.
Best music: 1) Balkan brass band that surrounded me after giving a 200 dinar (EUR 3) note to tubaist. 2) Croatian music for "Catholic Christmas"-most of it was original
Worst music: Crappy American oldies used a background music. You can check out of the Hotel California. But you can't leave even if you're in Republika Srpska.
Best e-mail exchange: When I emailed a friend in Islamabad that the Serbs have a sense of perspective because the article on the assassination of "Benazir Buto" was on page 6, he said "it's on page six here too. And 1,2,3,4,5.7..."
Silliest bit of fun: the hunt for stretch Yugos in Belgrade.
Best souvenirs: Old 5000 Dinar note with picture of Marshal Tito; freshly imprinted t-shirt with logo of 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics.
Best architecture-style: Sarajevo's fusion of Turkish, Hapsburg, fin de siecle and socialist styles
Best architecture-grandeur: Budapest-scale, setting and style make for a breathtaking city
Best travelling habit: Tipping 20%. My Karma has improved precipitously since I started tipping decently.
Worst travelling habit: taking taxis rather than learning transit systems. Even though the legal cabs were cheap everywhere I went (and cheaper than basic London underground fares), I feel I missed our for not riding subways and trams more
Best train scenery: Sava River valley between Zagreb and Ljubljana
Best bus scenery: Republika Srpska ski region east of Sarajevo
Best use of dormant skill: deciphering Cyrillic street signs in Belgrade (and signage at Serb Sarajevo bus station)
Best bridge, Chain Bridge, Budapest
Coolest transit system: Sarajevo's mix of donated tram cars and trolley buses--some with their original markings. Kind of a working tram museum.
Best expression: Bosnian expression of feeling uncomfortable: "feeling like a pig in Teheran".
Worst airline: Swiss
Ooh, Da-noo-bie, Shattered, Shattered
When I was younger, I used to butcher song lyrics. So that the Rolling Stones' "Shattered" came out, it was "Oh, dan-u-bie, shattered, shattered.". Now, as I prepare to ring in 2008 watching fireworks over the Danube, I find that butchered Stones tune streaming through my head as I walk away from the Gellert into the pleasant, untouristed neighborhood where I seek an early dinner, followed a bit of fortification before I brave the long walk to the public street party where thousands of Magyars will embrace 2008.
As I walk down the boulevard, a couple of signs for import beer catch my eye. In the centre of town, such signs say "avoid", but away from the tourists, the signs seem a mark of quality. I'm drawn towards the menu, which mostly consisted either of heavy Hungarian standards or occasional American-style. choices. But as I prepare to turn away, I see "Duck breast in orange-rosemary sauce." A smile reaches across my face. As I enter, I'm greeted by a cavernous pub-like venue that looked like a pirate ship. I was the only guest, but they were happy to serve me as they decked out for the festivities later in the evening.
The place is the Kisrablo at Zenta u. 3, Budapest. It must be a dark horse for best duck a' l'orange on the planet. Thr presentation is most-unusual: a char-grilled duck breast that looks more like a sirloin, served with crownlike potato croquettes and a sauce redolent of fresh oranges rather than the syrupy, liqueur-spiked renditions which have made the dish cliched if tasty.
The staff at Kisrablo is English-speaking and congenial, particularly waiter Verhas Gabor, who offered some interesting commentary about life for an enterprising young man in the New Europe while providing impeccable service.
I parcel out the duck in tiny bites. It is fabulous. And the light house-music soundtrack provides an even deeper degree of comfort. Hearing Bob Sinclar's World Hold On as I walked in told me I'd found the right place (as the song had been the theme song to last year's Argentina trip)..
Even the Borsodi Sor, the second-place local brew (next to Heineken' Dreher) fulfilled its role cleanly and inoffensively, though this dish would go much better with a clean sauvignon blanc.
I make up for the wine deficiency with a dessert serving of Tokay, Hungaria's epic after diinner wine. It mounts a full-on incursion on the tastebuds, hijacking them with a symphony of sweet, sour and herbal tastes. Only the salt taste buds escape the onslaught unscathed. After experiencing such flavorsome luxury, I'm left to ponder why Tokay, while storied, is losing out to the likes of port, sauterne and ice wine in the dessert wine category. If you've never had an ice-cold half-glass of 5 Star (5 Puttonyos) Tokay (brand isn't too important), go to your nearest halfway-decent wine shop and get a small bottle. Worth every penny, and shouldn't be too many. At the Kisrablo, the Tokay cost less than EUR 2, and the whole meal came in at EUR 25 including a reasonable tip.
I could have done with a quarter glass. I don't want to leave any, but I've gotten the, albeit superlative, idea. Small sips are better than big sips. Tokay could teach me a few things about restraint.
Hungarian's a brutal language. It would make much more sense to me if written in Arabic, Georgian or Cuneiform. In Latin it challenges one to decipher it, only to sneer at the disconnect between what the non Hungarian seeks to decipher and what the words really mean. Porkolt is a stew, what non-Hungarians call "goulash", which does not necessarily contain pork. Borozo means wine bar. Sorozo means beer bar.. It is doubtful that Bozo means clown.
As the last drips of tokay are drained, I head towards a nearby sorozo to conquer a foe I couldn't surmount last night, Dreher "Bak", which is no bock but a full-throated stout. Imagine Guinness concentrate in a syrup form. At 7.3% alcohol, you could mix with an equal amount of fizzy water to get the equivalent of two of Dublin's finest.
A small amount of translucency is present after pouring this not-so-amber nectar. The foam tastes great. The first steps seem more subtle than yesterday's truculence. Indeed, it gives way to a bit more balance. Am glad I gave it a second effort.
One other thing I gave a second-effort was Unicum, the liqueur favored by the characters in "Prague", a book actually about expats living in Budapest. For those familiar with Jagermeister, it tastes like Jager had an affair with an orange peel and produced Unicum as the offspring. For those unfamiliar with Jager, imagine adult cough syrup mixed with a bit of Coca-Cola...and an orange peel.
The rest of the evening was uneventful, aside from my ill considered purchase of a bottle of Hungarian bubbly at the not-terribly-well attended street party. There was little in the way of actual fireworks over the Danube--just a few freelance volleys. But the Danube itself was stunning. And Budapest shone. Not a bad place to ring in 2008.
As I walk down the boulevard, a couple of signs for import beer catch my eye. In the centre of town, such signs say "avoid", but away from the tourists, the signs seem a mark of quality. I'm drawn towards the menu, which mostly consisted either of heavy Hungarian standards or occasional American-style. choices. But as I prepare to turn away, I see "Duck breast in orange-rosemary sauce." A smile reaches across my face. As I enter, I'm greeted by a cavernous pub-like venue that looked like a pirate ship. I was the only guest, but they were happy to serve me as they decked out for the festivities later in the evening.
The place is the Kisrablo at Zenta u. 3, Budapest. It must be a dark horse for best duck a' l'orange on the planet. Thr presentation is most-unusual: a char-grilled duck breast that looks more like a sirloin, served with crownlike potato croquettes and a sauce redolent of fresh oranges rather than the syrupy, liqueur-spiked renditions which have made the dish cliched if tasty.
The staff at Kisrablo is English-speaking and congenial, particularly waiter Verhas Gabor, who offered some interesting commentary about life for an enterprising young man in the New Europe while providing impeccable service.
I parcel out the duck in tiny bites. It is fabulous. And the light house-music soundtrack provides an even deeper degree of comfort. Hearing Bob Sinclar's World Hold On as I walked in told me I'd found the right place (as the song had been the theme song to last year's Argentina trip)..
Even the Borsodi Sor, the second-place local brew (next to Heineken' Dreher) fulfilled its role cleanly and inoffensively, though this dish would go much better with a clean sauvignon blanc.
I make up for the wine deficiency with a dessert serving of Tokay, Hungaria's epic after diinner wine. It mounts a full-on incursion on the tastebuds, hijacking them with a symphony of sweet, sour and herbal tastes. Only the salt taste buds escape the onslaught unscathed. After experiencing such flavorsome luxury, I'm left to ponder why Tokay, while storied, is losing out to the likes of port, sauterne and ice wine in the dessert wine category. If you've never had an ice-cold half-glass of 5 Star (5 Puttonyos) Tokay (brand isn't too important), go to your nearest halfway-decent wine shop and get a small bottle. Worth every penny, and shouldn't be too many. At the Kisrablo, the Tokay cost less than EUR 2, and the whole meal came in at EUR 25 including a reasonable tip.
I could have done with a quarter glass. I don't want to leave any, but I've gotten the, albeit superlative, idea. Small sips are better than big sips. Tokay could teach me a few things about restraint.
Hungarian's a brutal language. It would make much more sense to me if written in Arabic, Georgian or Cuneiform. In Latin it challenges one to decipher it, only to sneer at the disconnect between what the non Hungarian seeks to decipher and what the words really mean. Porkolt is a stew, what non-Hungarians call "goulash", which does not necessarily contain pork. Borozo means wine bar. Sorozo means beer bar.. It is doubtful that Bozo means clown.
As the last drips of tokay are drained, I head towards a nearby sorozo to conquer a foe I couldn't surmount last night, Dreher "Bak", which is no bock but a full-throated stout. Imagine Guinness concentrate in a syrup form. At 7.3% alcohol, you could mix with an equal amount of fizzy water to get the equivalent of two of Dublin's finest.
A small amount of translucency is present after pouring this not-so-amber nectar. The foam tastes great. The first steps seem more subtle than yesterday's truculence. Indeed, it gives way to a bit more balance. Am glad I gave it a second effort.
One other thing I gave a second-effort was Unicum, the liqueur favored by the characters in "Prague", a book actually about expats living in Budapest. For those familiar with Jagermeister, it tastes like Jager had an affair with an orange peel and produced Unicum as the offspring. For those unfamiliar with Jager, imagine adult cough syrup mixed with a bit of Coca-Cola...and an orange peel.
The rest of the evening was uneventful, aside from my ill considered purchase of a bottle of Hungarian bubbly at the not-terribly-well attended street party. There was little in the way of actual fireworks over the Danube--just a few freelance volleys. But the Danube itself was stunning. And Budapest shone. Not a bad place to ring in 2008.
Budapest: Back to Civilisation
The red, ultramodern Hungarian Railways train lifted me off the platform in the town of Tatabanya in the direction of Budapest's domestic Deli rail station, one which while well served by trains was ill served by taxis. After several failed attempts to call the Frommer's guidebook's preferred company, I waited until a private cabbie showed up, and entered with trepidation.
In the end, I was only charged about 3 times the prevailing normal fare, but as it was a short, uphill trip, I accepted the EUR 8 damage with little complaint. Turning back from my hotel, the Gellert, a four-star pre-war relic, the Danube unfolded before my eyes, far more graciously than it did when I saw it last in Beograd.
Budapest has its wear and tear from decades of commie neglect and mismanagement, but it's been a free city for seventeen years and a generation is emerging that knew not the Wall. American-style coffee bars are sprouting alongside the entrenched BK and McD's. The grime level is way below Belgrade, but not as pristine as Ljubljana. Ethnic food is visible, offering an alternative to gulyas and paprikas. It's cold, but there's less snow on the ground than further south in the erstwhile Yugoland.
I too was showing wear and tear. After a walk across the Danube, a stroll down kitschy pedestrianised Vaci Utca, and a trip through the intermittently compelling National Museum (the twentieth century stuff being REALLY compelling, chronicling Hungary's experience being truncated, compromised, ostracised and socialismised in a mere 100 years), I opted for a plate of excellent beef gyros across the street from the museum, and a quick and relatively cheap cab ride to the Gellert. There, a bath and nap beckoned.
The difference between bunk and bed became increasingly apparent as I began to intermittently lose consciousness on the soft if singular mattress. The room, as it happens, was clearly unrenovated-best evidenced by the domestic origin of the minibar's fridge, confirmed as a pre-Wall tumbling brand by friend and former London Business School classmate Sandor Talas, who escorted me on a night-time tour of Budapest's considerable monumental patrimony and to a dinner at the capital's Jewish themed but seriously unkosher Carmel restaurant.
At London, Sandor was clearly one of the smartest of a smart crew of students. And having had no conversation involving more than grunting, direction-giving, and food/beer/coffee ordering since leaving the ever-congenial Halvat Guest House in Sarajevo, it took more than a few moments to readjust to live, two-way conversation.
Budapest is photogenic beyond belief. Castles, palaces and a Parliament that may be the single best building in Europe. Soaring monuments to long-dead national heroes. A Paris-style urban plan of diagonal roads and traffic circles. And all connected to a historical vein that reinforces Hungary's linguistic and ethnic uniqueness. The Hungarians are no Slavs. Their language is related only to Turkish, Finnish and Estonian-and it's a tenuous relationship at that. The main connective tissue to its region is its Catholicism, weakened by Communism, secularism and by a longstanding Protestant streak. The other connective tissue is its geography. Greater Hungary, which now encompasses substantial Hungarian minorities in Slovakia, Romania, and Serbia was so large that Sandor quipped that Hungary is the only country that borders itself in each direction.
The Carmel Restaurant, whose mixed lineage could best be delineated between dishes of Jewish heritage and dishes where bacon was the defining ingredient,was chosen by Sandor because goose was on the menu. I hadn't had goose since Strasbourg in 1996. Tonight's version, Goose Breast Jewish Style was excellent, but tasted quite similar to my mom's pot roast. Had she known, she'd have probably raised her prices.
After a long-earned sleep and zoo-like breakfast scene at the Gellert (where a dearth of seating made the acquaintance of a surfeit of guests at 09:45), I made my way up the promontory where Buda rises above Pest. I'd been here too in 1992; indeed, little I saw this year in the sightseeing department I hadn't seen in 1992, other aspects were brand new. Prices, less than half of western levels in 1992, tended towards a 20% discount away from the main tourist zones, but those in the tourist zones (Castle Hill and Fashion Street) approached London levels. The city is a hell of a lot cleaner, with major sites like the main musea, national heroes monuments and Parliament literally sparkling.
One major change is that the number of cafes and informal eateries seems much lower than previously. Having foregone lunch because of a substantial breakfast and a very limited desire for stewed paprika-based dishes, I had a hankering for the mitteleuropa custom of coffee and pastry, which used to be commonly available. But the city's temple to the late-afternoon repast, Gerbeaud, had a line out the door on this snowy day and most other so-called cafe's were packed to the gills with people having early New Year's Eve dinners. My quest, as usual ended at the Gourmand Cafe near the Astoria metro station--about two hours after I began the quest at the same station.
I haven't planned much for New Years Eve, other than to go to a big street party in Roosevelt Square on the Danube's eastern shore in Pest. The hill in Buda has a better view, but I'm going to opt for liveliness but without completely sacrificing majesty. But I will sacrifice is the New Year's kiss. I'll save that till when I get home.
In the end, I was only charged about 3 times the prevailing normal fare, but as it was a short, uphill trip, I accepted the EUR 8 damage with little complaint. Turning back from my hotel, the Gellert, a four-star pre-war relic, the Danube unfolded before my eyes, far more graciously than it did when I saw it last in Beograd.
Budapest has its wear and tear from decades of commie neglect and mismanagement, but it's been a free city for seventeen years and a generation is emerging that knew not the Wall. American-style coffee bars are sprouting alongside the entrenched BK and McD's. The grime level is way below Belgrade, but not as pristine as Ljubljana. Ethnic food is visible, offering an alternative to gulyas and paprikas. It's cold, but there's less snow on the ground than further south in the erstwhile Yugoland.
I too was showing wear and tear. After a walk across the Danube, a stroll down kitschy pedestrianised Vaci Utca, and a trip through the intermittently compelling National Museum (the twentieth century stuff being REALLY compelling, chronicling Hungary's experience being truncated, compromised, ostracised and socialismised in a mere 100 years), I opted for a plate of excellent beef gyros across the street from the museum, and a quick and relatively cheap cab ride to the Gellert. There, a bath and nap beckoned.
The difference between bunk and bed became increasingly apparent as I began to intermittently lose consciousness on the soft if singular mattress. The room, as it happens, was clearly unrenovated-best evidenced by the domestic origin of the minibar's fridge, confirmed as a pre-Wall tumbling brand by friend and former London Business School classmate Sandor Talas, who escorted me on a night-time tour of Budapest's considerable monumental patrimony and to a dinner at the capital's Jewish themed but seriously unkosher Carmel restaurant.
At London, Sandor was clearly one of the smartest of a smart crew of students. And having had no conversation involving more than grunting, direction-giving, and food/beer/coffee ordering since leaving the ever-congenial Halvat Guest House in Sarajevo, it took more than a few moments to readjust to live, two-way conversation.
Budapest is photogenic beyond belief. Castles, palaces and a Parliament that may be the single best building in Europe. Soaring monuments to long-dead national heroes. A Paris-style urban plan of diagonal roads and traffic circles. And all connected to a historical vein that reinforces Hungary's linguistic and ethnic uniqueness. The Hungarians are no Slavs. Their language is related only to Turkish, Finnish and Estonian-and it's a tenuous relationship at that. The main connective tissue to its region is its Catholicism, weakened by Communism, secularism and by a longstanding Protestant streak. The other connective tissue is its geography. Greater Hungary, which now encompasses substantial Hungarian minorities in Slovakia, Romania, and Serbia was so large that Sandor quipped that Hungary is the only country that borders itself in each direction.
The Carmel Restaurant, whose mixed lineage could best be delineated between dishes of Jewish heritage and dishes where bacon was the defining ingredient,was chosen by Sandor because goose was on the menu. I hadn't had goose since Strasbourg in 1996. Tonight's version, Goose Breast Jewish Style was excellent, but tasted quite similar to my mom's pot roast. Had she known, she'd have probably raised her prices.
After a long-earned sleep and zoo-like breakfast scene at the Gellert (where a dearth of seating made the acquaintance of a surfeit of guests at 09:45), I made my way up the promontory where Buda rises above Pest. I'd been here too in 1992; indeed, little I saw this year in the sightseeing department I hadn't seen in 1992, other aspects were brand new. Prices, less than half of western levels in 1992, tended towards a 20% discount away from the main tourist zones, but those in the tourist zones (Castle Hill and Fashion Street) approached London levels. The city is a hell of a lot cleaner, with major sites like the main musea, national heroes monuments and Parliament literally sparkling.
One major change is that the number of cafes and informal eateries seems much lower than previously. Having foregone lunch because of a substantial breakfast and a very limited desire for stewed paprika-based dishes, I had a hankering for the mitteleuropa custom of coffee and pastry, which used to be commonly available. But the city's temple to the late-afternoon repast, Gerbeaud, had a line out the door on this snowy day and most other so-called cafe's were packed to the gills with people having early New Year's Eve dinners. My quest, as usual ended at the Gourmand Cafe near the Astoria metro station--about two hours after I began the quest at the same station.
I haven't planned much for New Years Eve, other than to go to a big street party in Roosevelt Square on the Danube's eastern shore in Pest. The hill in Buda has a better view, but I'm going to opt for liveliness but without completely sacrificing majesty. But I will sacrifice is the New Year's kiss. I'll save that till when I get home.
Night Train to Vienna
The sight of the aging Austrian couchette car was eerily reassuring as I came to the platform for the Night Train to Vienna. But there was no shortage of drama as I attempted to fight my way into the four-berth compartment, as a squabbling Greek couple was first blocking my entry, claiming ownership of the space, and then attempting to haggle with the harried attendant, who explained that the adjacent sleeping car was out of order. They were stuck with me, and as it later an older Serb gentleman carrying a briefcase from a team handball tournament in Slovenia.
This explained why I was unable to book sleeping car accommodation for this trip, which offers a softer, quieter journey. It also explains the unusually packed couchette car. To be fair, the vaunted lie-flat airline seat is no more comfortable than this couchette-no longer or softer, really. The clientele is another story. Fifteen minutes after departure, the cacophony of passengers yammering in Serbian and other assorted tongues of Mitteleuropa make sleep seem a distant possibility, even with an extra hit of valerian root-spiked melatonin. It's a good thing I brought the booze and the beer. I'm going to need all the help I can get.
The older gentleman voices concern about the coach getting. robbed. I've got my valuables placed strategically so I'm not that bothered, but when he tries to padlock and chain the compartment the Greeks and I form a united front. The issue seems settled after we forced the Serb to attempt to subvert the seemingly secure built-in locking device. The sheepish grin on the Serb's part implies a possible victory on our part. We shall see.
A relatively fitful night, marked by a dream where a train ride through Germany gives way to a drive down an Interstate through Texas with characters vaguely reminiscent of my old German friend Till and actor Peter Riegert, who starred as Boone in Animal House and Assemblyman Zellman in the Sopranos.
Dream collided with reality at 7 am with the smell of brake smoke. I was awoken by the Greeks, but by 7:10 it was unclear what was going on. There were a few passengers walking outside, but we hadn't been ordered off and the heat was still running.
Then, suddenly, the world "schnell" was uttered. While it literally means fast, I learned from the stern hotel maid during my infamous Hamburg trip that it meant "get the f*@k out,fast!". I grabbed my luggage and was ordered through the couchette car and the genuinely smoky out-of-order sleeping car into the second class coach. Shortly thereafter, the train then moved across the Hungarian countryside.
Then it stopped for a while in a post-communist relic of a town called Tatabanya. Seeing a brand new Hungarian train on the other platform and having my Inter-rail ticket in hand, I make a run for it. Western Europe will have to wait a couple more days. I head for Budapest. And, alas, I discover I had sacrificed my latest MP3 player in the rush to leave the couchette car. Grrr.
---
This explained why I was unable to book sleeping car accommodation for this trip, which offers a softer, quieter journey. It also explains the unusually packed couchette car. To be fair, the vaunted lie-flat airline seat is no more comfortable than this couchette-no longer or softer, really. The clientele is another story. Fifteen minutes after departure, the cacophony of passengers yammering in Serbian and other assorted tongues of Mitteleuropa make sleep seem a distant possibility, even with an extra hit of valerian root-spiked melatonin. It's a good thing I brought the booze and the beer. I'm going to need all the help I can get.
The older gentleman voices concern about the coach getting. robbed. I've got my valuables placed strategically so I'm not that bothered, but when he tries to padlock and chain the compartment the Greeks and I form a united front. The issue seems settled after we forced the Serb to attempt to subvert the seemingly secure built-in locking device. The sheepish grin on the Serb's part implies a possible victory on our part. We shall see.
A relatively fitful night, marked by a dream where a train ride through Germany gives way to a drive down an Interstate through Texas with characters vaguely reminiscent of my old German friend Till and actor Peter Riegert, who starred as Boone in Animal House and Assemblyman Zellman in the Sopranos.
Dream collided with reality at 7 am with the smell of brake smoke. I was awoken by the Greeks, but by 7:10 it was unclear what was going on. There were a few passengers walking outside, but we hadn't been ordered off and the heat was still running.
Then, suddenly, the world "schnell" was uttered. While it literally means fast, I learned from the stern hotel maid during my infamous Hamburg trip that it meant "get the f*@k out,fast!". I grabbed my luggage and was ordered through the couchette car and the genuinely smoky out-of-order sleeping car into the second class coach. Shortly thereafter, the train then moved across the Hungarian countryside.
Then it stopped for a while in a post-communist relic of a town called Tatabanya. Seeing a brand new Hungarian train on the other platform and having my Inter-rail ticket in hand, I make a run for it. Western Europe will have to wait a couple more days. I head for Budapest. And, alas, I discover I had sacrificed my latest MP3 player in the rush to leave the couchette car. Grrr.
---
Belgrade: This Time with Guidebook
As I'll be leaving by train tonight, the noon hour leaves me with a renewed sense of purpose. For, not having benefit of a hotel, I need to keep myself entertained for nine-plus hours before rolling into Austria-Hungary on a carpeted plank.
While yesterday I was content to drift through this cacophonic city with little more than a map and restaurant guide, today I'll be more of a disciplined tourist. This city has three can't miss sights, all of which I missed yesterday: the Kalmegdan fortress where the Sava meets the Danube, the St Sava Orthodox Cathedral, and the infamous Marakana, home stadium of Red Star Belgrade. Of course, they are on opposite ends of the centre of town.
The Serb Coffee arrives with fizzy water on the side at an old-school cafe called Mali Stadion. One key to happy travelling is to NEVER drink tap water in a new country. Brush your teeth with bottled water. Fizzy is better as the fizz is added insurance. Bottled water is cheap in most places, and you have one fewer vehicle for getting sick. Even if the guidebook writers say it's ok in one country, drinking local tap water is a bad habit.
Of course, most of the people around me are having a noontime Slivovitz. I'll pass this time. Perhaps a Unicum in Budapest, in homage to a book I read a few years ago about expat life in the Magyar capital. Fittingly, the book was called "Prague".
And speaking of Prague, I was soon beckoned by the sight of Mani Prag, home of quite possibly the best coffee on the planet. My return was greeted by a smile and a handshake. The coffee didn't disappoint. No sugar required.
Following the recommendations of the guidebook, I headed for Skadarska street, a street filled with clearly upscale traditional Serbian restaurants. I settled on Ema Dana for lunch, and once again, I succumbed to menu delights that were unavailable. A desire to have a virtuous turkey steak gave way to a wiener schnitzel after the waiter's vouching for it's non-porkness.
First glass of wine of the trip yields unexpected delight. A small bottle of Crnogorski Vranac from Montenegro. A red with some balance, fruitiness and flavor akin to a good California Zinfandel, a grape rumored to have Adriatic roots. I'd bring a bottle back but I'm laden down already. I overpacked weightwise--indeed, I barely touched the components of my backpack. But the contents of my big shoulder bag were well used, and high hotel laundry costs left me to do some sink washing.
...As it happened, my sightseeing today was uneventful, with the unshovelled steps defying me to enter the Kalmegdan fortress, and the unfinishedness of St. Sava's Cathedral rendering it an impressive but shortlived detour as night descended. The Marakana after dark seemed too big a risk for limited payoff (what's the point of visiting a dark stadium?), and by the time I finished posting my previous updates at an internet cafe in the crumbling Tito-era Slavija Hotel, I was exhausted. I'd had my fill of cyrillic and cold, and even risked hailing a cab to a more tourist friendly final meal in this burg. McDonalds tempted me. But then I saw the Hotel Moscow (or as it's spelled on the building, Xotel Mockba). I thought, what better place to close this visit than in a place named for Mockba.
The place did not disappoint. A four star hotel, the Mockba was clearly a cut above the Rex or the Beograd. When I ordered an all-smoked supper of smoked beef "prsut" and smoked trout with honey-mustard sauce and peanuts, the tuxedoed waiter said "absolutely", instead of "how about some chicken on the grill.". And the beer, the legendary Niksicko Pivo from Montenegro, considered by many experts the region's best lager. I still preferred LAV, for one doesn't forsake one's true LAV, but the Niksicko was robust and hoppier than the others I've tried here.
The beef was good, but the trout was absolutely divine. The smoked trout filets were delicately sauteed and served with chopped peanuts, which upon examination are no more silly to serve on trout than sliced almonds. Absolutely fabulous, easily the best sit-down meal I've had in the Balkans. And Nikola is certainly the most professional waiter.
Still, listening to "These are the days, my friend" in an opulent, marble-floored dining room is surreal beyond belief.
In two hours, I will pull out of Belgrade. Tomorrow, I will be back in "civilisation", or at least the EU's more sanitised version. Belgrade is the least photogenic European city I've seen, the least polished, and certainly the least affluent. But it's a young, edgy place, and there's a resilience, pride and independence rarely seen elsewhere on this continent.
Oh, they still drive Yugos here. Tons of them. While my efforts to find limo-length stretch Yugos carrying Serbian politicos fell vainly, I discovered a number of four and five door versions as well as the legendary boxy three door. The Yugo is a great metaphor for for Belgrade. It's a combination of socialist style, socialist infrastructure, and the sheer human perseverence required to own and drive one. But they speak to higher aspirations. The Yugo models sold here are called the Koral and the Florida. As the ice on the sidewalks firms up, such aspirations are only natural.
While yesterday I was content to drift through this cacophonic city with little more than a map and restaurant guide, today I'll be more of a disciplined tourist. This city has three can't miss sights, all of which I missed yesterday: the Kalmegdan fortress where the Sava meets the Danube, the St Sava Orthodox Cathedral, and the infamous Marakana, home stadium of Red Star Belgrade. Of course, they are on opposite ends of the centre of town.
The Serb Coffee arrives with fizzy water on the side at an old-school cafe called Mali Stadion. One key to happy travelling is to NEVER drink tap water in a new country. Brush your teeth with bottled water. Fizzy is better as the fizz is added insurance. Bottled water is cheap in most places, and you have one fewer vehicle for getting sick. Even if the guidebook writers say it's ok in one country, drinking local tap water is a bad habit.
Of course, most of the people around me are having a noontime Slivovitz. I'll pass this time. Perhaps a Unicum in Budapest, in homage to a book I read a few years ago about expat life in the Magyar capital. Fittingly, the book was called "Prague".
And speaking of Prague, I was soon beckoned by the sight of Mani Prag, home of quite possibly the best coffee on the planet. My return was greeted by a smile and a handshake. The coffee didn't disappoint. No sugar required.
Following the recommendations of the guidebook, I headed for Skadarska street, a street filled with clearly upscale traditional Serbian restaurants. I settled on Ema Dana for lunch, and once again, I succumbed to menu delights that were unavailable. A desire to have a virtuous turkey steak gave way to a wiener schnitzel after the waiter's vouching for it's non-porkness.
First glass of wine of the trip yields unexpected delight. A small bottle of Crnogorski Vranac from Montenegro. A red with some balance, fruitiness and flavor akin to a good California Zinfandel, a grape rumored to have Adriatic roots. I'd bring a bottle back but I'm laden down already. I overpacked weightwise--indeed, I barely touched the components of my backpack. But the contents of my big shoulder bag were well used, and high hotel laundry costs left me to do some sink washing.
...As it happened, my sightseeing today was uneventful, with the unshovelled steps defying me to enter the Kalmegdan fortress, and the unfinishedness of St. Sava's Cathedral rendering it an impressive but shortlived detour as night descended. The Marakana after dark seemed too big a risk for limited payoff (what's the point of visiting a dark stadium?), and by the time I finished posting my previous updates at an internet cafe in the crumbling Tito-era Slavija Hotel, I was exhausted. I'd had my fill of cyrillic and cold, and even risked hailing a cab to a more tourist friendly final meal in this burg. McDonalds tempted me. But then I saw the Hotel Moscow (or as it's spelled on the building, Xotel Mockba). I thought, what better place to close this visit than in a place named for Mockba.
The place did not disappoint. A four star hotel, the Mockba was clearly a cut above the Rex or the Beograd. When I ordered an all-smoked supper of smoked beef "prsut" and smoked trout with honey-mustard sauce and peanuts, the tuxedoed waiter said "absolutely", instead of "how about some chicken on the grill.". And the beer, the legendary Niksicko Pivo from Montenegro, considered by many experts the region's best lager. I still preferred LAV, for one doesn't forsake one's true LAV, but the Niksicko was robust and hoppier than the others I've tried here.
The beef was good, but the trout was absolutely divine. The smoked trout filets were delicately sauteed and served with chopped peanuts, which upon examination are no more silly to serve on trout than sliced almonds. Absolutely fabulous, easily the best sit-down meal I've had in the Balkans. And Nikola is certainly the most professional waiter.
Still, listening to "These are the days, my friend" in an opulent, marble-floored dining room is surreal beyond belief.
In two hours, I will pull out of Belgrade. Tomorrow, I will be back in "civilisation", or at least the EU's more sanitised version. Belgrade is the least photogenic European city I've seen, the least polished, and certainly the least affluent. But it's a young, edgy place, and there's a resilience, pride and independence rarely seen elsewhere on this continent.
Oh, they still drive Yugos here. Tons of them. While my efforts to find limo-length stretch Yugos carrying Serbian politicos fell vainly, I discovered a number of four and five door versions as well as the legendary boxy three door. The Yugo is a great metaphor for for Belgrade. It's a combination of socialist style, socialist infrastructure, and the sheer human perseverence required to own and drive one. But they speak to higher aspirations. The Yugo models sold here are called the Koral and the Florida. As the ice on the sidewalks firms up, such aspirations are only natural.
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