 Rich whirls me around the dance floor in front of the bandstand in Zagreb Croatia's Zrinjevac Park. Photo: Lidija Šulevski Remember the chicken dance? The one where you flap your wings and shake your tail feathers? When was the last time you did it walking down the street in a foreign city? Yeah, I can’t remember either; maybe never — until last Monday night in Zagreb, Croatia. That’s when Rich and I heard the chicken dance song coming from the bandstand in Zrinjevac Park and found it too infectious to resist. Fortunately for what remains of my dignity, we weren’t the only ones flapping wings and shaking tail feathers down the sidewalk, under the amused gazes of passing drivers and fellow pedestrians. We hurried toward the bandstand, coming to roost just as the tune ended. No matter. There’s music every night this week and next, mostly foot-taping golden oldies like the Drifters’ “Under the Boardwalk” and I-love-this-one heartwarmers like Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World. The first time we went, Rich and I settled at one of the tiny wooden tables placed around the bandstand and looked around at the small crowd. On a nearby lawn, kids were chasing each other through the twilight, jugglers were practicing under the trees, and women on park benches were languidly cooling their faces with paper fans. Beneath the lights strung in the branches overhead, people were dancing. And pretty soon, we were too.  Hazy on the steps? The thoughtful planners laid out patterns so people could practice. All day long you see people trying out the moves. “It feels like Hometown, USA,” I said to Rich. “It’s like the best part of every summer I can remember.” That nostalgia was precisely what city officials were trying to spark when they started the Zagreb Time Machine project, which for many years has sponsored summer dances, street theater, and other public entertainments designed to “bring the romantic spirit of past times to life.” I’d somehow missed all the other activities but fell instantly in love with the Dance Evenings. Zagreb’s Time Machine is set to the mid-20th century, but local history dates back a great deal farther than that. The city was founded in Roman times, expanded during the medieval and industrial eras, survived Nazi occupation, became an economic powerhouse in the former Yugoslavia, and today serves as the capital of independent Croatia — to mention but a few highlights. Through all the changes, one thing has proved constant: this is a city that loves its comfort food.  Mladen and Lidija bring in fresh skuša riba (mackerel) at the 2016 EatWith dinner where we first met. When Rich and I reconnected with Lidija and Mladen, Croatian friends we’d met during an EatWith dinner during our 2016 visit to the city, we told them about our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. They instantly responded with a flood of suggestions about what we should be eating while we’re in town. "Strukli, of course," Lidija mused aloud. "And mlinci. Have you tried deer goulash? The best place to find such dishes is Zagorje." Setting off in Mladen's car, we soon found ourselves on the winding roads of Zagorje, a rural area north of Zagreb that needed no government-funded entertainments to give the impression we'd traveled backward in time. Around each curve we discovered families raising cows, grapes, and corn on small farms in sleepy valleys presided over by Medieval castles. “This was the center of the Peasant Revolution of 1573. It all started right here,” Lidija told me. “The nobility demanded that each family contribute food to them. People were living on the edge of hunger, but the lord had an army, and they had to pay. Like today we are forced to pay taxes. So the peasants staged a revolt. It lasted only 12 days. And they took the leader of the rebellion, Matija Gubec, and said to him, ‘You wanted to be king. Here is your crown.’ And they put upon his head an iron crown that was heated red-hot in the fire.” Yikes! “And then they tore him into four pieces.” Quadruple yikes! Gubec became a folk hero, inspiring various political movements, the first Croatian rock opera, and Josip Broz Tito, who was born in a humble Zagorje farmhouse and went on to become president of Yugoslavia. As you can imagine, Zagorje’s cuisine is designed to fortify hard-working agricultural families attempting to subsist on what’s left after the powerful have taken the lion’s share of everything produced on the land. Traditional fare is hearty, made from fresh, inexpensive local ingredients, and bristling with the fats and carbs you’d need for long hours of physical labor. Not exactly health food, but it is a glorious indulgence you’ll never regret. “Here we will eat štrukli,” said Lidija, pulling up at a 1938 country inn called Villa Zelenjak Ventek. When the staff learned this was to be our first tasting of štrukli, Dora, a young, English-speaking manager, arrived to tell us about the treat in store. It seems you make a basic dough, roll it so thin that it completely covers the tabletop, stuff it with a mix of cottage cheese, eggs, sour cream, and salt, and bake it into a sort of cheese strudel. Dora kindly shared photos and the recipe, so that I could pass the legendary dish on to my readers. [See štrukli recipe and photos here.] After lunch, we worked off a few calories strolling around Kumrovec, a charming village of restored nineteenth-century homes centered around Tito’s birthplace and a museum honoring his legacy. While many regarded him as a ruthless dictator, others look back with what’s now known as “Yugonostalgia,” fond memories of simpler times when everyone had a job, a place to live, and enough to eat. “Were you better off then?” I asked Lidija. “In many ways, yes,” she said, with a philosophical shrug. “Things are much harder for us now.” Our final stop of the day was Gresna Gorica, a rustic restaurant nestled in vineyards below the fairytale towers of Veliki Tabor castle. Sitting outside among the vines, we sampled lard laced with bacon, cottage cheese topped with crème fraiche, deer goulash, beans drizzled with pumpkin seed oil, and duck served over something called mlinci, a mysterious dish that appeared to be pasta but inexplicably wasn’t. I may have been a bit muddled by the staggering heat and the natural exhaustion following a day’s vigorous sightseeing, but I simply couldn’t seem to grasp Lidija’s explanation of how mlinci is prepared. It’s a kind of bread and you boil it? Really? “Come to my house and I will make it for you,” Lidija said. “Then you will see how it works.” How good was it? It was so yummy Rich and I started doing the chicken dance right there at the dinner table. Luckily our Croatian friends were familiar with this silly tradition, so they didn’t think we were completely insane. (Or if they did, they were too polite to say so.) We all stuffed ourselves and then sat for a long time, blissfully picking over the remains of the mlinci. [Get mlinci recipe here.] “One thing is clear,” I said to Rich said on the way home. “If we’re going to keep eating like this, we’re going to have to do the chicken dance a lot more often.” Rich just made happy clucking sounds and kept on walking.  See all posts about the Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. See all recipes and videos. Don't miss a single loony adventure or the next mouthwatering recipe. Sign up below for updates. Thanks for joining us on the journey.
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 At Balkan dinners, Bey's Soup is often the star attraction. “Bey’s Soup is the ultimate comfort food of the Balkans,” Dalida told me, as she began chopping onions. “We eat it in every season, at the holidays, for special occasions — all the time really.” “Who is Bey?” I asked. “Ah, that would be Gazi Hüsrev Bey,” she said, smiling the way you do when someone mentions your absolutely most favorite uncle. “Bey was his title; it means governor. Gazi Hüsrev Bey was the great benefactor of Sarajevo.” You can’t spend more than a few hours in Sarajevo, capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina, without hearing about this man. His name is still, respectfully, on the tip of every tongue — which is not bad considering he lived 500 years ago, in the dark ages before social media. Hüsrev came from money and power, grandson to one sultan, and after a string of successes on the battlefield, chosen by another — Suleiman the Magnificent — to govern Bosnia for the Ottoman Empire. As fans of Game of Thrones know only too well, wealthy titled grandsons and war heroes don’t always make the best rulers. But to this day, Gazi Hüsrev Bey is generally viewed as a mix of Santa Claus, Jack Bauer, and the prime minister played by Hugh Grant in Love Actually. In other words, exactly the right person for the job. On Hüsrev’s watch, Sarajevo became known as “a flower among cities.”  Art on the wall of the school commissioned by Gazi Hüsrev Bey in Sarajevo Walking around the city this past week, I have been astonished at the scope of the Bey’s projects. He not only built a gorgeous mosque but helped finance the Old Orthodox Church and a Franciscan monastery. Rich and I visited the school he founded (originally for boys, although later open to all) with plenty of scholarships and an emphasis on “the rational and traditional sciences.” Nearby we saw the Bey’s library, housing the most important collection of manuscripts in the country, many from Hüsrev’s personal collection. He built public bath houses, drinking fountains, parks, and a caravansary where visitors to the city could stay for several days for free; sadly this last is no longer in operation and Rich and I had to pay for an Airbnb. I was staggered to discover that the public toilet he’d had installed in 1530 is still in operation, and I felt I owed it to my readers to pop in for a look around so I could report on its condition. You’ll be glad to know that the plumbing has been upgraded since the Bey’s day. There are stalls, clean ceramic squat toilets, modern sinks, and an optional donation tin.  The sign explains the WC was built in 1530, destroyed in 1992 [first year of the Siege of Sarajevo], and rebuilt in 2001. The Bey also fed his people. “He opened a soup kitchen, a free place to eat,” Dalida told me, as she finished chopping the vegetables and brought out a large soup pot. “It was meant for the poor, but the food was so good everyone went. They say even Gazi Hüsrev Bey himself ate there.” Dalida and I were in the kitchen of her friend and employer, Uliana, co-founder of Balkantina, a small company organizing food tours and cooking classes out of a gourmet shop behind the Sacred Heart Cathedral in Sarajevo. Rich and I had dropped by the shop one day, and when Uliana heard about our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour, she invited us to her home to see Begova Čorba (Bey’s Soup) prepared as part of a traditional Bosnian dinner. When we arrived at her apartment, Uliana welcomed us with a platter of cheese, tomatoes, paper-thin ham, olive oil, and honey. “We always begin with a meze plate,” she explained. “And of course, rakija.” The traditional tiny servings of high-octane, homemade fruit brandy were poured and we toasted the occasion. After we’d nibbled our honey-dipped cheese, sipped our rakija, and been introduced to Uliana’s enormous Maine coon cat, Max, Dalida showed me the first, most characteristic ingredient in Bey’s Soup: a long string of dried okra. Now, I’ve had okra dishes that I loved, but I’ve run across a few that, as one writer so delicately expressed it, had the consistency of snot. Not to worry, it turns out that dried okra, commonly sold hereabouts on a string, eliminates sliminess, leaving a delicious vegetable bursting with vitamins and minerals. (If you’re pregnant or have asthma, high cholesterol, diabetes, or a compromised immune system, check out the medical benefits of okra.) No dried okra in your supermarket? Here’s how to dry it in your home oven.  In the Balkans, okra is usually dried and sold on a string about a meter long . Bey’s Soup likes to simmer as long as possible, an hour and a half at least. While Dalida’s pot bubbled away on the stove, filing the air with the scent of onion, chicken, okra, and lemon, she whipped up a batch of dolmas (grape leaves and small yellow peppers stuffed with ground beef and rice). Then she tossed together a salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, and sour cream. By this time the soup had simmered sufficiently, and she removed the chicken from the bone and thickened the broth with a roux. Dinner was ready. The results were marvelous, a thick, delicious chicken soup for the body and soul. Just the sort of food to nourish a weary traveler newly arrived in the city, yet fit for any special occasion, such as getting to know new friends. Did Gazi Hüsrev Bey ever actually eat this soup? Who knows? But like the city of Sarajevo itself, Bey’s Soup will forever stand as a testimony to his generosity. And I like to think he would have enjoyed knowing that. One year into his reign, he set up a vakuf (endowment) to make sure the city would have the policies and funds it needed to keep his legacy going. Part of that document says: "Good deeds cause evil to flee, and the loftiest of all good deeds is charity. The loftiest of all charities is the one that lasts forever, while the most beautiful of all good deeds is the one that keeps on giving.... The efficacy of the vakuf will persist for as long as this world exists, and its work will continue until Judgment Day.” Not all the Bey’s good works are intact; the bath house and free lodgings closed long ago, and the school and library have relocated to larger quarters. But it’s pretty clear that if anything can survive until Judgement Day, it’s the pleasure of sitting down to a nice warm bowl of Bey’s Soup. Want to try this at home? Get Bey's Soup Recipe here. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY SOME OF MY OTHER FAVORITE COMFORT FOODS AND THESE STORIES ABOUT REMARKABLE PEOPLE Trying to recall exactly where Sarajevo is?  See all posts about the Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. See all recipes and videos. Don't miss a single loony adventure or the next mouthwatering recipe. Sign up below for updates. Thanks for joining us on the journey.  The Bosnian Pyramids: sensational find or shameless hoax?  Sam Osmanagich, a Bosnian businessman based in Houston since 1992 and dressing as Indian Jones since becoming an amateur archaeologist in 2005. Growing up in California, I was steeped in the culture of goofy roadside attractions involving ghosts, aliens, Bigfoot, and ancient, unfathomable mysteries recently invented by hucksters who’d like to sell you a ticket and a t-shirt. So you can imagine how my internal radar pinged the moment I first beheld a lurid color poster promoting the Bosnian Pyramids. I could hardly wait to Google them. “They’re supposedly much bigger and way older than Egypt’s pyramids,” I told Rich. “Apparently they are energy amplifiers that can heal your body, your chakras, and your aura.” The Bosnian Pyramids were “discovered” (naysayers claim invented) in 2005 by Sam Osmanagich, a Bosnian business man who declared the cluster of pointy hills near Sarajevo "the greatest pyramidal complex ever built on the face of the earth." His announcement caused a sensation, providing a huge boost to national pride — and tourism — in the aftermath of the devastating Bosnian War of 1992-1995. Supporting Osmanagich’s claims became a litmus test of patriotism in many circles. Just last night a local man told me the pyramids were a national treasure and the first thing we should visit in the region. He takes his little daughter there every year for a general cleansing. The scientific community has spent years vigorously protesting that Osmanagich is perpetrating "a cruel hoax on an unsuspecting public." As Boston University archaeologist Curtis Runnels put it, “All of the ‘finds’ being made by Osmanagich are either natural features like rocks, or the result of long occupation in these valleys by people since the Greco-Roman period. As for the supernatural powers he claims for these ‘pyramids,’ one only has to note that Mr. Osmanagich published a book claiming the Maya came from the Pleiades constellation.” Nevertheless, tourists happily continue to flock to the site, and Osmanagich happily continues to collect the entrance fees, sell them t-shirts, and assure them their auras have never looked better.  As you can see from this picture, not all auras are created equal. But not to worry, the Bosnian Pyramids can (allegedly) upgrade yours. Important tip: according to the Ancient Origins website, you won't get the full boost if you're a skeptic or wear artificial fibers in your clothing. “We should go to the pyramids,” I said to Rich. “Maybe we’ll be the first to see Bigfoot there.” But before organizing an expedition to the pyramids, I thought it would be fun to research roadside attractions right here in Sarajevo. And it turns out the town has some doozies. The ICAR Canned Beef Monument stands as an ironic tribute to the horrendous food sent over as humanitarian aid during the Siege of Sarajevo, which lasted three years, ten months, three weeks, and three days. Yes, the UN meant well. But they delivered rations left over from the Vietnam conflict that were 20 years past their expiration date. They shipped in tins of pork, which couldn’t be eaten by the Muslim half of the population. And then there were the cans of something called ICAR beef, reportedly so foul even starving dogs wouldn’t touch it. One blogger 's grandfather told him, “If there is another siege, I would rather die than eat ICAR.” After the war, the “grateful citizens of Sarajevo” put up this monument, a meter-high replica of the ICAR beef can, which sadly, or perhaps appropriately, has fallen into a dreadful state of disrepair.  The base says, "Monument to the International Community."  Amanpour in 1992 Less than a block away stands another icon of the war, the former Holiday Inn. Situated on “Sniper Alley,” one of the most dangerous roads in the besieged city, the hotel was home base for many war correspondents, including CNN’s Christiane Amanpour. "Many times it was shot by artillery fire, mortars were fired that landed on or near it, windows were broken regularly,” she said. “I remember the coffee bar, which had a canopy on top of it, in the atrium lobby was hit and caught fire." Despite the risks, and often the lack of hot water or electricity, it was the most stable factor in their lives at the time. “We considered the Holiday Inn our recreation, our home. It was where we woke up, where we went to sleep, where we visited each other, sometimes in each others' rooms. It was where love affairs blossomed, it was where we worked, it was where we escaped death. It was really everything to many of us." The Holiday Inn was considerably less exciting in 2005 when Rich and I first visited it en route to a volunteer work project. We arrived late at night by taxi, staring about us at all the bombed-out, bullet-riddled buildings — never a reassuring sight. We spent the night half-expecting the sound of artillery fire (none came), had coffee under the refurbished canopy in the atrium lobby, and departed for another city to do our work. Since then, the city of Sarajevo has been busy patching the bullet holes, rebuilding its infrastructure, and enticing tourists from around the world to enjoy its rich East-meets-West culture. The hotel's post-war recovery has been a bit more haphazard, culminating in losing its Holiday Inn branding and eventually being shut down by Bosnia's State Investigation and Protection Agency for reasons I probably don’t want to know about. We revisited a few days ago to find it in fine condition, fully restored and renamed Hotel Holiday, allowing them to capitalize on its fame without technically violating laws pertaining to terminated franchise agreements. For another blast from the past, Rich and I stopped for coffee at the Caffe Tito, a tongue-in-cheek tribute to the former Yugoslavian dictator. For an authoritarian ruler, President for Life Josip Broz Tito was surprisingly popular, a strongman who united former enemies and forged them into a socialist state with a market economy. “Yes, Tito was a dictator,” said Adis, our guide on the free walking tour the day before. “And yes, he imprisoned people and had his political enemies killed. But sometimes that’s necessary to keep a country together.” Yikes! I guess that’s one perspective. “Now that Tito’s gone, I hear there’s a lot of corruption,” someone said. Adis grinned. “You call it corruption, we call it a free market.” Caffe Tito sits by a park and playground, where we spent a few heartwarming moments watching little children climb around on old tanks and artillery weapons. Inside was a wealth of memorabilia honoring the man and his era, from his leadership of the Partisans during WWII until his death in 1980. Cult-like portraits of Tito, camouflage fabrics, and vintage weaponry rubbed shoulders with dial telephones, mid-century radios, and vinyl record albums. It was at the Caffe Tito that Rich and I took a hard look at the proposed expedition to the Bosnian Pyramids. It was 90 degrees, with humidity somewhere around 60 percent, and I was holding a glass of cold water to my forehead, wishing I had the nerve to dump it over my head right there at the table. Maybe if I slipped off behind one of the armored tanks… “Do you remember what I wrote last week about the wisdom of not climbing to high castles in hot weather? “ I said. “I’m thinking that might apply to pyramids too.” Abandoning the Bosnian Pyramid expedition was clearly the smart move. Oh sure, I had been looking forward to having my aura cleansed; it was feeling a bit grubby after all the bus rides and sweaty weather. And I was sorry now that I’d wasted minutes viewing the intro to the surprisingly dull video Bosnian pyramid SHOCK: Ancient Civilization Received Knowledge from SPACE.” Perhaps I’ll never discover the “truth” about how aliens figure into the story. But I know one thing for sure: for every once-in-a-lifetime-marvel that I skip, there are at least a dozen other, equally outlandish sites out there, just waiting for me to stumble upon them. I’m saving my strength, trusting my aura will somehow recuperate without paranormal assistance, and keeping my eyes open for signs pointing to the next offbeat roadside attraction, wherever it may be. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENOY THE OFFBEAT ROADSIDE ATTRACTIONS OF This Adventure is Just One Stop on OUR MEDITERRANEAN COMFORT FOOD TOUR Days on the road: 102 Current location: Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina Traditional recipes posted: 15  See all posts about the Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. See all recipes and videos. Don't miss a single loony adventure or the next mouthwatering recipe. Sign up below for updates. Thanks for joining us on the journey.  Crowds throng the approach to the Old Bridge, destroyed during the war in 1993, rebuilt and reopened in 2004, now the centerpiece of tourism in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina. “Whatever you do, don’t cross her,” Rich said, after our first encounter with the manager of our hotel in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina. This formidable woman had issued a flurry of instructions and left a large, laminated card in our room listing more rules. No cooking in the room, despite the fact we had a suite with a full kitchen. No guests in the room, which made us wonder why the table offered seating for four and the massive leatherette couch could easily hold eight. No doing laundry in the room, even though there was a washing machine in the bathroom; she’d snapped off the washer’s door handle so we wouldn’t be tempted to transgress. “Guests are required to report and compensate for any damage caused by their inappropriate behavior,” warned the rule card. Yes, ma’am! After months of warm, make-yourself-at-home-have-a-glass-of-homemade-brandy hospitality, we were gobsmacked to find ourselves sneaking food into our room and doing clandestine laundry. But if we’ve learned anything on this trip, it’s the importance of flexibility. This Monday, July 29, we’ll hit the 100 day mark, the longest time we’ve ever been on the road. We thought we were fairly travel savvy before, but this journey has brought us fresh insights about packing, food, and comfort. Like what, for instance? Well, here are a few highlights. Packing Electronics account for about a third of the weight of my suitcase, and I’ve figured out how to eliminate an entire device: by downloading the Kindle app onto my phone. My iPhone 7 plus has an oversize screen, which is a bit more comfortable for reading than standard models. Try yours and see what you think.  They say no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy, and much the same could be said for travel wardrobes. I packed for a range of weather but didn’t foresee that 2019 would be the hottest summer in the history of the world. I’ve jettisoned garments I needed in April (heavy socks, long-sleeved T-shirts) to make room for a sundress and low-cut socks. What about the discards? I left them in public places, such as bus station restrooms, where others are likely to find them and take them home. I’m comfortable living out of a suitcase but every once in a while it's refreshing to leave my bag behind (stored in lodgings we’d just checked out of). We did this during the detour to Kosovo and our farmstay in Reç, Albania. If you’ve ever toyed with the idea of luggage-free travel, an overnight stay is a low-risk way to give it a whirl. Food In the past, my research about local cuisine consisted mainly of finding a few common menu items I might actually want to order. Which is why I lived on sarma (stuffed cabbage) and shopska salad last time I traveled through Eastern Europe. Now I study Wikipedia and travel blogs to learn about regional classics and their backstory. Meals are far more interesting when you know that the trout on your plate was swimming in the river beside the restaurant just hours ago, or that locals have been known to come to blows over references to ćevapi as sausage. In many places we’ve visited lately, most locals rarely go out for anything except coffee or ice cream, and when they do splurge on a restaurant meal, they expect a real feast. Rich and I generally share an entrée and remind ourselves that we aren’t obliged to finish every bite or bottle that lands on our table. When we stay in, we make light meals to give our digestive systems a bit of a rest. In short, we pace ourselves. Comfort Like eating, sightseeing is best approached, as the Spanish put it, “poco a poco,” little by little. As an energetic person and die-hard optimist, I’m tempted to believe I can do everything. But I’ve learned to take each journey as an opportunity to evaluate and honor the current parameters of my capacities. Twice lately I’ve hiked up to high castles in 90 degree heat and seriously regretted it. I’ve vowed to be more sensible in the future.  The local dogs are much wiser than I am. They spend the heat of the day dozing in the shade or dancing in the fountain. Our ability to navigate well in strange places often depends on the weather, the kindness of strangers, and sheer dumb luck. But we can do a few things to hedge our bets, and one of them is making a point of arriving early for trains and buses. Who needs the stress of running through sweltering streets, dragging a suitcase, racing the clock? I greatly prefer strolling into a station and leisurely consulting the departure board and a few humans to verify that I’m waiting in the right place at the right time. Should things go south — like the train that was cancelled out from under us in Elbasan, Albania — I’m in a better frame of mind to regroup. Travel reminds us that we have remarkably little control over anything. Our grasp of the language, food, customs, money, social norms, and historical context are usually hazy at best. On a good day, we have the presence of mind to recall that we’re there for the fun of trying to unravel the mystery. Here are a few of the conundrums we attempted to grapple with during our time in Albania. Follow Your Curiosity Traveling with a purpose has added a lot of zest to our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. How might your next trip be different if you set out to follow your curiosity? You might be intrigued by classic diners in the US, want to visit the settings for all your favorite British whodunits, or feel the urge to explore ancient battlefields and figure out how it all happened (and how you could have done it better). Pursuing a goal offers countless opportunities to connect with fellow aficionados, explore unusual parts of the culture, and feel the satisfaction of completing a quest. How do you begin? Google your interest and your destination and see what comes up. Are you intrigued by the paranormal? Search for ghost tours and you’ll find nearly 35 million results in Italy alone (although to be fair, some of those are more about zombies). Staying at an Airbnb? Let your hosts know about your interests using the form Airbnb sends you when you book. I’ve used it often over the last 100 days to ask about traditional food and restaurants; I’ve received suggestions, even invitations to coffee, dinner, and excursions. If you open up the conversation, you never know where it will lead.  Our Airbnb hosts Alex and Marina invited us to dinner in Crete on the first night of our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. Of course, not all suggestions prove helpful. The Mostar hotel manager directed us to the most touristy places in town, praising their views of the Old Bridge. She had an opinion about everything and wasn’t shy about sharing. Her views on dogs, which arose when friends came to collect us for lunch Tuesday accompanied by their exceedingly well-trained service animal, grew nearly apoplectic. “Impossible! Dogs? In a hotel? No! Impossible!”  The dangerous beast that the hotel manager banned from the premises. Otherwise known as Scout, one of the nicest dogs I've ever met. Fortunately, Rich and I had discovered a delightful, shady little restaurant, with a view of the river (if not the Old Bridge), a dog-friendly policy, and a large fan with a tub of water that spread a fine, cooling mist in all directions. As the owner passed around complementary aperitifs, I reflected that these are the best lessons we can learn on the road: how to ignore bad advice, break ridiculous rules, and enjoy ourselves in our own way, wherever we are. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY  We're currently in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina; we'll soon be heading to Sarajevo. See all posts about the Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. See all recipes and videos. If you haven't already subscribed, sign up here so you don't miss a single loony adventure or the next mouthwatering recipe. Thank for joining us on the journey.  Everybody in Albania knows the proper breakfast beverage is liquid yogurt or warm milk. “You want coffee now?” Our waiter could not conceal his astonishment. “With breakfast?” Too well-trained to roll his eyes, the waiter (who also served as the desk clerk of our hotel in Durrës, Albania) murmured, "Right away, madam" in a way that spoke volumes. He disappeared into the back, ostensibly to fetch the coffee but actually to regale his co-workers with this latest proof of foreigners' barbaric ways. I’m always tripping over this stuff in the Balkans. After months on the road exploring culture through cuisine (our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour just hit the 90 day mark!) I’ve learned that around here you drink liquid yogurt or a large glass of warm milk at breakfast and take your coffee at dawn or much later in the morning, usually in a café. And not just any café. It turns out the vast majority are all-male preserves where weighty subjects — business contracts, politics, car repairs, gossip about sports figures — are discussed. Could I go into one and get served? Yes, and I’ve done it, accidentally; everyone was very polite. But gatecrashing guys’ hangouts isn’t as amusing as it may sound. Occasionally I run across an all-women’s café, but that’s awkward for Rich. We sometimes pass up a dozen places before we find one where we’ll both feel comfortable.  A typical men's café in Korçë, Albania In rural villages, the question doesn’t arise because women only drink coffee at home. Country families still tend to follow the old ways, defined for 500 years by the Kanun, which held that women were property and could not sign contracts, wear a watch, smoke, or vote in elections, to name but a few. (Don’t get me started on how I feel about this.) I'll give Northern Albania credit for coming up with one unusual alternative: a woman could become a “sworn virgin” who assumed the dress, demeanor, and legal rights of a man, a lifetime commitment that included a vow of celibacy. In the past, some women did this to acquire the legal right to serve as the head of a family or business; for the handful following this path now, it tends to be more a lifestyle choice.  Lume was one of several sworn virgins interviewed for a documentary on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4G47jIVoXWM Luckily, modern Albanian women have a far wider range of rights and opportunities than their foremothers. Lots of them are earning good money in agrotourism, providing meals and/or overnight stays in rural homes so visitors from more industrialized settings can appreciate the full “farm-to-fork” experience. Which is how, on a recent rainy afternoon, I found myself hanging around an outdoor kitchen with Emanuela, a full-time professional chef who spends her evenings preparing dinner for a dozen people at her brother Florian’s guesthouse. [See recipes here] Florian told me his guesthouse was the first ever to open in Albania. It's just a few miles outside of Shkodër, one of the most ancient cities in the Balkans. Few of the city's glorious old buildings remain, and most visitors zip through it on the way to the Albanian Alps, also known as the Accursed Mountains, which offer the kind of vigorous hiking over treacherous terrain that Rich and I prefer to avoid at all costs. Instead, we chose to idle away a few days in the old city visiting museums, markets, parks, and of course, coffee houses. We often saw women from the countryside wearing traditional ethnic dress, men driving horse-drawn carts laden with charcoal or hay, and one robust figure, observed lingering over a beer every morning at a small café, whom we were half convinced was a sworn virgin.  When we discussed traditional dress with Diana, a local schoolteacher and our translator at Zina's guesthouse, she showed us this photo of herself in an outfit handed down through her family for generations. Rich and I were comfortably ensconced in a downtown hotel dating back to 1694, enjoying meals served in the old courtyard by a staff willing to provide coffee with breakfast and without attitude. However, being selflessly devoted to doing comfort food research on behalf of our readers, we pried ourselves out of this cozy spot for one night so that we could sleep in a rural guest house rumored to have a particularly high standard of old-fashioned country cooking. Our hostess, Zina, turned out to be a woman about my own age who spoke no English; luckily her daughter-in-law, Diana, was on hand to do the necessary translating. The first thing they asked was whether we wanted any coffee. When I said yes, Zina quickly produced tiny cups of espresso and glasses of raki, homemade fruit brandy with throat searing flavor and an alcohol content somewhere to the north of zowie!  Coffee & raki: the perfect eye-opener to start the morning? I took a cautions sip. When I had recovered my powers of speech, I said to Diana, “I can never tell when to drink raki. Some people say before a meal to prepare the stomach. Others say after to improve digestion. Last night someone suggested it with our meal. I’ve also heard it’s always drunk with coffee.” “I have raki every morning with my coffee,” said Diana. “It helps me start my day.” “Where do you work?” “I teach English in a school.” I wondered if any of my old schoolteachers ever did the same; it would explain a lot. The house was spacious and impeccably clean, every window offering views of mountains, cornfields, and the vast chestnut forest Pylli I Gështenjave. Our bedroom held old-fashioned wooden furniture including a wardrobe big enough to contain all of Narnia. It was wasted on us, as this was one of our luggage-free trips, but we appreciated the thought. The online description had mentioned a private bathroom, but as we’d discovered before, “private” can be used in the sense that the bathroom is not open to the general public rather than actually being en suite. Fortunately, we were the only guests and we had not only the bathroom but the entire upper floor to ourselves. Downstairs, Zina welcomed us into her kitchen, and I am pleased to report that her husband Mirash pitched in with the cooking and spent a lot of time taking care of Diana’s four month old daughter. The food was prepared on a wood-burning stove, and involved such intensive labor, so much variety, and such massive quantities, that we gorged ourselves to bursting and still felt horribly guilty that we weren’t able to consume more than a small fraction of what was on the table. [See recipes here] “I’m never going to eat again,” Rich muttered, as we staggered upstairs after dinner. But Zina had other ideas. The next morning, after Rich and I had ambled around making friends with the family’s animals, she presenting us with an enormous breakfast of pancakes with homemade fruit compote and honey, fried eggs, slabs of smoky cheese, and large glasses of hot, fresh milk with little pools of butterfat floating on the surface. “It’s like drinking it directly from Lara’s udder,” I said with a shudder. “I really can’t.” To my astonishment and admiration, Rich manfully downed his glass. “My parents gave me warm milk as a kid,” he said. “I’m not crazy about it, but I can drink the stuff.” And that’s the beauty of travel. You learn things about each other that somehow never came up, even in 34 years of conversation. Rich may credit his upbringing, but I know the real reason he was able to belly up to that milk so cheerfully: before breakfast, he’d downed a glass of raki with his early morning coffee. “I can never figure out when to drink what,” he said. “But I know why I’m drinking it: because it’s there.” And I suppose that’s as good a policy as any. Is your mouth watering? Want to try making these dishes at home? See Emanuela's and Zina's Albanian Farmhouse recipes here.  Rich and I bid a fond farewell to Albania and traveled by bus to Bosnia & and Herzegovina, where we are looking forward to more adventures and great comfort food. We're also hoping for better wifi, as connection has been a bit iffy in recent weeks, which is why I haven't posted much on Facebook and sometimes don't reply to comments right away. Today marks our 90th day on the road! Take a stroll back through some of the highlights. See all posts about the Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. See all recipes and videos. If you haven't already subscribed, sign up here so you don't miss a single loony adventure or the next mouthwatering recipe. Thanks for joining us on the journey.  Ali, riding on the back of his trick horse and carrying the fish we'd eat for lunch Four years ago, my husband — and I say this lovingly — became obsessed with an Albanian restaurant called Ali Kali. “The owner brings in your food riding on the back of a trick horse,” he said. “Ali Kali means Ali’s Horse. It’s fantastic. We’ve gotta go.” “I’m in, obviously. Where is it?” We were in California at the time, and I thought maybe this was the latest LA fad. “On the coast of central Albania.” “Oh good. So only 10,000 kilometers from here.” For us, getting there is half (often three quarters) of the fun. But I was just a teensy bit concerned about how we were going to navigate once we arrived in Albania. Trains are our favorite form of travel, but I’d read that their railway system was being dismantled bit by bit so the nation could devote more of its transportation resources to new superhighways. We soon discovered to our dismay that this was only too true, as demonstrated by these photos from the railway station in Durrës, the transportation hub of the nation. There was still one Albanian railway line in operation, so after our visit to Korçë, we just had to figure out how to travel 77 miles to the town of Elbasan, where we could catch the 1:30 train to the port of Durrës, which would put us within a taxi ride of Ali Kali. “The only way to get to Elbasan is by furgon,” Rich reported after an online investigation. “It’s a kind of unofficial minivan; you have to ask around and someone will point out the right vehicle. They won’t depart until all the seats are filled, however long that takes.” I knew from our trip to Kosovo that air conditioning would, at best, mean opening a window or door. Temperatures in Elbasan were predicted to hit 100. Call us wimps, but we hired a car and driver from a reputable service. Even this relatively luxurious form of transportation had potential drawbacks. “The greatest risk most people in Albania face is on the roads, where traffic accidents are very frequent and the fatality rate is one of the highest in Europe,” our guide book observed helpfully. “Until a few years ago, Albanian roads were so bad that it was difficult to drive fast enough to kill anyone. Now, though, cars zip along newly upgraded highways that are also used by villagers and their livestock. There is no stigma attached to drink-driving and practically no attempt is made to check it.” Yikes! Obviously we’d be lucky to reach Elbasan alive, never mind getting all the way to Ali Kali. As it turned out, the standard of driving we saw was no more alarming that you’d find on, say, the New Jersey turnpike. Our driver, Reoland A., was professional, competent, and a thoroughly nice guy. So Rich and I were lulled into a state of tranquility that was abruptly shattered when we arrived in Elbasan to discover that the afternoon train had been cancelled. According to men in a nearby café, there weren’t enough passengers to justify the petrol.  The railway station at Elbasan, Albania was locked up tight when we arrived. Reoland (bless him!) ended up driving us all the way to Durrës, and by the time we arrived, he not only knew all about our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour, but we’d arranged for he and his wife, Irmira, to join us at Ali Kali a few days later. After four years of anticipation, I wondered, would the place live up to Rich’s expectations? “Even better than I’d hoped,” Rich said happily. Our expectations were far lower about visiting the capital city, Tirana. I’d read it was drab and utilitarian, relieved only by swaths of garish paint applied to concrete apartment blocks in a project designed to distract the eye from an otherwise the grim landscape. Spearheaded in 2000 by then-mayor and later prime minister Edi Rama, the paint project wasn’t universally popular, according to our guide book. “The colours and patterns became livelier and livelier, until even the more progressive of Tirana’s citizens began to complain that their city was starting to look like a circus.” Once again, I beg to differ with the guide book (which to be fair was five years out of date). The moment I saw Tirana's vibrant buildings, I fell in love with the whole wacky concept — amateurish execution, eye-popping designs, and all. To me, the zingy buildings reflect the city's abundant energy and all-out determination to transform itself into a world-class city. They seem to be making considerable progress. The highway between the port of Durrës and the capital is lined with gigantic, glittering corporate headquarters. The boulevards leading to Tirana's city center are shaded by tall trees that hide some of the less fortunate architectural efforts of the past. Sophisticated bars, restaurants, and shops are springing up all over the downtown area. As for coffee houses, in 2016, Albania surpassed Spain as the country with the most coffee houses per capita in the world. The city has come a long way since the dark gray days of communist dictator Enver Hoxha, who ruled the country from 1944 until his death in 1986. He isolated his country from the USSR because he decided the Russians had become too ideologically slack, and from the rest of the world because it was too corrupt. His Sigurimi secret police constantly spied on citizens, and the slightest infraction, such as listening to an Italian song on the radio, could land you in prison or a concentration camp. Part of Tirana’s makeover includes new museums that tell the story of those dark times, so that residents and visitors born in happier circumstances don’t forget the past and find themselves condemned to repeat it. The museums are part of the city’s strenuous, ongoing efforts to attract tourists. It’s a work in progress. Officials have dubbed Tirana “The Place Beyond Belief,” which strikes me as the sort of ambiguous nickname that could easily come back to haunt them in later years. No matter, the city’s economy is in growth mode now, and residents and visitors are flocking to the glamorous new bars and world-class restaurants that have sprung up in the past few years. Reoland and Irmira joined us for a visit to Ceren Ismet Shehu, one of the area’s hottest new venues, on a hillside overlooking the city. “I went to the UK and started as a dishwasher,” chef/owner Ismet Shehu told me with a grin. “I worked my way up to chef. Then two years ago I came home and made this restaurant for my family. I didn’t tell my mother until it was ready; I brought her here as a surprise.” The appetizers included spinach burek, goat stuffed with quail eggs, layered flia pastry, cheese with blueberries, fig rounds, pink pasta stuffed with green cheese, yogurt dip, and more. The lamb, slowly simmered in milk inside a clay pot, was soft, succulent, and melting off the bone. “Well?” I asked Rich afterwards. “It was the best lamb I’ve ever tasted,” he said. “But you know what would have made it even better? Being carried in on the back of a horse.” So that’s our new restaurant standard, my friends. From now on, equine presentation is the benchmark against which we’ll be judging all future dining experiences. I’ll let you know how they measure up. UPDATE ON OUR MEDITERRANEAN COMFORT FOOD TOUR Days on the road: 82 Countries visited (so far): Greece, North Macedonia, Kosovo, Albania Equestrian restaurants: 1  We left Tirana this morning and headed north to a remote village in the mountains. Stay tuned! See all posts about the Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. See all recipes and videos. If you haven't already subscribed, sign up here so you don't miss a single loony adventure or the next mouthwatering recipe. Thanks for joining us on the journey.  A young folk dancer in one of the many international dance festivals held annually in Durrës, Albania. Some readers (and you know who you are) have expressed skepticism about our visit to Albania. “Why?” and “Are you nuts?” are among the milder comments I’ve received. “There’s nothing to see there,” a Spanish friend insisted. I beg to differ. Last Friday we entered Albania over wooded mountains, descending into a broad green valley filled with working farms. Horses pulled ploughs and carts. Flocks of sheep and goats ambled beside the road. Men and women stood waist-deep in fields of purple flowers, harvesting blossoms and spreading them out to dry. Haystacks stood beside cottages that looked like illustrations from medieval fairy tales.  There was a brief traffic jam while we waited for the shepherd to escort the flock off the road. “Did we just go back in time?” said Rich. Time seems to operate differently in the Balkans, and our destination, the lively, cosmopolitan city of Korçë, was no exception. Its checkered past included centuries of Ottoman rule, occupation by various European powers, and a grim isolationist period under communism. Having managed to remain separate from the USSR, Albania was fortunate enough to escape the ghastly Soviet brutalist architecture, so the visible reminders of Korçë’s history showed its Ottoman and European heritage. When freedom was declared in 1990, the city set to work sprucing itself up — painting buildings, expanding parks, adding daring new architecture, and opening shops, bars, and coffee houses galore. All this plus low prices has made Korçë a popular regional vacation destination. But American visitors remain so rare that people would stop us on the street to exclaim, with surprise and pleasure, “Hey, did I hear you speaking English?” Normally, I’d expect this to be followed by solicitations for money, inappropriate sex, or worse, but in Korçë, people simply wanted to chat with us for the sheer novelty value. Of course, having practically no English-speaking visitors meant practically no English-speaking locals in service jobs, such as running our hotel. Fortunately, my family is big on charades, so upon meeting our hosts, Elena and George, I easily pantomimed my pleasure at finding that our room was spacious, sunny, and blessed with a balcony overlooking a tree-lined boulevard.  Our kind hosts, George and Elena, delivered a homemade breakfast to our room every morning, and cooked and cleaned for us as unobtrusively as elves. Rich produced a credit card, and here we hit a snag: the hotel only took cash and we had no local currency. “Bank?” said Rich. George and Elena nodded their understanding but were stumped as to where we might find such a thing. They took us outside and flagged down passing strangers, who looked equally dumbfounded by the question. A guy in a nearby shop added his two cents worth, and in no time there were eleven (I counted) people working on the problem. Eventually a group of women led us to an ATM five blocks away. From the ATM Rich and I went on to lunch, so it was only later that I had a chance to check out our accommodations more thoroughly and discover the full, hideous reality of our shower. It was sparkling new and perched at the top of a flight of polished marble stairs, with no handrail. Instantly I pictured myself descending those slick steps with damp, slightly soapy feet and toppling to my doom. Stark naked, soaking wet, and crashing onto a bidet was not the way I wanted to go out.  Incredibly, Rich survived several showers in this high-risk environment. “If you’re really concerned, we can always move to another hotel,” Rich said soothingly. “I know of one near here; we’ll go check it out.” And that’s how we came to pay our first visit to Bujtina Sidheri, a marvelously atmospheric old hotel and restaurant with rough stone walls, beamed ceilings, and small, old-fashioned bedrooms. I could tell Rich wasn’t keen to move there because he instantly came up with a plan for emailing our current hotel, which prior correspondence showed had someone online capable of communicating in English. We could request another room with a more conventional shower, he suggested, citing my not-entirely-fictitious issue with mild vertigo. “But we should come back here to eat,” he said. “Online reviews say the food is great.” The next morning Elena and George delivered a homemade breakfast to our room and conveyed via hand gestures that we were free to use the floor-level shower in the room across the hall. That’s when it dawned on us that we were the only guests in the hotel, which was deserted and eerily silent at all times. As was Bujtina Sidheri when we returned to it that night. Eventually we tracked down Griselda, the young woman who had shown us around the day before. Hastily concealing her surprise at seeing actual dinner guests, she escorted us to a table. There followed an elaborate interchange via pantomime, Google Translate, and smartphone photos, then Griselda disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. “What did we just order?” I asked. “Who knows? I’m sure it will be wonderful,” Rich said.  It was. Our salad had elegant slivers of apple, cantaloupe, strawberry, kiwi, and orange, some cherries, and a chunk of magnificent Gorgonzola, all drizzled with a balsamic vinaigrette. Rich’s pork came topped with avocado, pomegranate, and fresh dill. My chicken rollups were tender and perfectly sauced with a creamy chicken broth, a scattering of pomegranate seeds, a dusting of poppy seeds, and a pansy. We’d just begun tucking into the salads when two musicians arrived with guitars. After a bit of banter with Griselda and cheerful nods to us, they sat down and began to play. The lighthearted folk music danced through the rooms, as perfect an accompaniment to the meal as the crisp white wine. [Want to hear the tunes? Check out my video below.] After spice cake with brandied pear, I used Google Translate to tell Griselda I was a travel writer and ask if I could return the next day to film the magic happening in the kitchen. She nodded enthusiastically. We set a time. And then the conversation floundered over the question of what would be prepared. The only word I clearly recognized in Google's English translation was “cheeks.” I nodded and the matter was settled. “You think she meant pork cheeks?” I asked Rich afterwards. “You mean like the carrillada we eat in Seville? Who knows?”  If you've never attempted a conversation via Google Translate, this recipe Griselda gave me the next day will hint at the difficulties of nailing down details using this form of communication. Upon our return, we discovered Griselda was making spinach pie. Rich was aghast. “But we just filmed spinach pie in Bitola. Are you OK to do a repeat?” I shrugged. “Let’s roll with it and hope for the best.” We soon learned that the two pies do share a common tradition but vary wildly in execution. Griselda worked with two other cooks, Julia and Vida, their tasks as perfectly choreographed as a ballet. Together they created a streamlined version of spinach pie in just half an hour. It was twice-baked and emerged from the oven puffed up to enormous proportions, hissing steam like an outraged dragon. Afterwards, as Rich and I sighed blissfully over the warm, flaky pastry and lush filling, I reflected that Albania was rather like this twice-baked spinach pie. It wasn’t at all what I’d originally expected, but it turned out to be absolutely wonderful — deeply traditional yet wholly original, surprising yet comforting. Our entire visit to Korçë had proved to be safe, fun, friendly, blessed with good food, and filled with quirky moments. And that's just the way I like it. [Recipe: Griselda's Twice-Baked Spinach Pie] UPDATE ON OUR MEDITERRANEAN COMFORT FOOD TOUR Days on the road: 75 Hotels & Airbnbs: 21 Buses: 13 Ferries: 6 Trains: 3 Trains canceled out from under us: 2 Memorable meals: too many to count  We've now left Korçë and moved west to Durrës, Albainia's main port and a popular beach resort for Italians and residents of the Balkans. Internet access is shaky, but I'll post what I can here and on Facebook. If you haven't already subscribed, sign up here so you don't miss a single loony adventure or the next mouthwatering recipe.  Thanks for joining us on the journey.  The railway station in Bitola, North Macdonia “How can there be no taxis?” I demanded. “This is North Macedonia’s second largest city. Wikipedia called Bitola the transportation hub of the region. What gives?” “To be fair, there is a taxi. There’s just nobody in it.” Rich and I gazed at the empty yellow cab at the curb, the silent train station, and the handful of men quietly sipping Turkish coffee at the station café. As usual in such situations, I felt decisive action was called for, so I departed in search of the ladies’ room. I eventually located it at the far end of the station, and by the time I returned, Rich was standing beside our bags with a stranger and a bemused expression. “This guy will drive us out there,” he said. “Is he a taxi driver?” “I don’t know. He was walking by, and I thought he might belong to the yellow cab, so I said, ‘Taxi?’ And he said, ‘OK.’ Apparently he has a car and is willing to provide transport. He seems like a nice guy.” “Famous last words.” The stranger grabbed my suitcase and took off down the parking lot to a battered blue car. He wrestled with the latch on the car’s trunk, muttered what I assumed were a few choice Macedonian cuss words, gave up, and tossed the bags into the back seat. I climbed in after them, saying a quick prayer to St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers who are about to do foolish things.  You'll notice this map identifies Bitola as being in Macedonia, while the name of the country is shown as North Macedonia. In January 2019 a long-standing dispute with Greece was resolved by changing the name of the country to North Macedonia. My map program hasn't had time to catch up completely. Hope that clears up any confusion. We were (I hoped) on our way to Vila Dihovo, a rural guest house in a tiny village just fifteen minutes outside the city of Bitola in the foothills of Baba Mountain in scenic Pelister National Park. The guest house was family run, served homegrown produce and homemade beer and wine, and let you pay whatever you thought was right for lodging and meals. The driver — what are the odds? — delivered us safely to Vila Dihovo’s front gate for a modest fee. Our host Petar hurried out to greet us and grabbed our bags. We followed him into a stone building and up a set of wooden stairs festooned with a colorful little runner that had come loose from its moorings and was now a tumble of rucked-up fabric and scattered iron rods. I picked my way carefully along the bare wooden edges, wondering how many guests per week broke ankles here. Our small room was entirely filled with three massive wooden beds. “Are we sharing with another family?” I whispered to Rich. A modern shower stall, unable to squeeze into the minuscule bathroom, had inserted itself into the corner beside the largest bed, which was festively attired in purple seersucker sheets and a yellow canopy. We were just in time to join our fellow guests for dinner on a porch overlooking the garden. Meals, we soon learned, were one of the true perks of the place. Not only was the food delicious, but the conversations with our well-traveled fellow guests — British, Dutch, German, and American — were interesting and convivial. After breakfast, the others took themselves off on serious mountain hikes while Rich and I ambled about the village, admiring the old stone houses and making friends with the local dogs. I kept wondering how people survived without so much as a corner store or café, even if there was a city just fifteen minutes away by car. After a couple of days in the village, I was ready to embrace the more cosmopolitan pleasures of downtown Bitola. Settled during the Bronze Age, home to the ancient Greco-Roman metropolis Heraclea Lyncestis, serving as an international diplomatic hub under Ottoman rule (1382 to 1912), occupied in WWII by the Germans and Bulgarians … in short, Bitola has been at the crossroads of history ever since they invented history. While much of this was exceedingly uncomfortable at the time, today Bitola enjoys a rich legacy of architecture, archeological sites, and of course, cuisine. Which is why I was so dismayed to discover, on a first pass through town, that nearly every eatery's sign included the word "pizza." I asked our Airbnb hostess, Victoria, if she could recommend anyplace for traditional fare. “Most of the old dishes are only made at home,” she explained. “When people go out, they want something different.” She did recommend a couple of restaurants, but the next day, she and her husband, Mladen, invited us to come for lunch on Monday so I could see how she made two classic Macedonian dishes: zelnik (spinach pie) and turli tava (vegetable stew with chicken). As you can imagine, we accepted with delight. Monday morning, I joined Victoria in her kitchen as she began the pie dough. Unsatisfied with the texture, she repeatedly whacked the dough against the countertop to force out excess air. Note to self: this is the recipe I want to make when I'm having a very bad day. While the dough rested up after its ordeal, Rich and I accompanied Mladen on an expedition to fetch the spinach. We detoured into a tiny storefront serving what Mladen declared to be Bitola’s best burek (pie stuffed with cheese, meat, or other fillings). Rich and I felt we owed it to our readers to do a taste test and returned at the earliest opportunity. Mladen threaded his way through the old bazaar, a warren of small shops selling everything from clothes to kitchenware, and into the tarp-covered produce market. He explained that while a few things, such as bananas, were imported, most were locally grown and only sold in season. Lettuce was reaching the end of its time and would soon become tasteless. Cherries were just coming into their own, a bit expensive now, but delicious. Spinach didn’t seem to be available, so we would substitute blitva (a local green that’s like kale’s more delicate cousin). Returning with the blitva, I rejoined Victoria in her kitchen as she completed the zelnik. The filling of egg, cheese, and fresh greens was simple. Making the special rippled crust was more of a challenge and good fun to watch. Following local tradition, we began the meal with salad and rakia (fruit brandy), which we were assured was the best way to prepare the stomach for the pleasures that lay ahead. And I don’t think it was just the rakia talking when we all agreed that the zelnik was absolutely marvelous, the rich filling perfectly complemented by the delicate, rippling crust. The conversation flowed, turli tava emerged from the oven, and a bottle of wine went around. Eventually Victoria brought out her signature cake made with cherries from the tree shading the path to the door. At last Rich and I rose, groaning, from the table, said our farewells and stumbled upstairs to our apartment for a much-needed siesta. As I closed my eyes, I remembered Victoria beating the dough against the countertop to get the air out, at which point I said to her, “As I always remind my readers, perfection is not a requirement.” She laughed and set the dough down with a gentle pat. No, I thought drowsily as I dropped toward sleep, perfection isn’t a requirement. In fact, it’s never really possible. But some days, like this one, come very, very close. We've been on the road 68 days and are currently in Bitola, North Macedonia. We plan to cross over into Albania tomorrow morning. This is where we expect things to get seriously offbeat. If you haven't already subscribed, sign up here so you don't miss a single loony adventure or the next mouthwatering recipe. Thanks for joining us on the journey.  Liburnia is a delightfully old-school restaurant in Pristina, the capital of Kosovo Like so many of Rich’s truly brilliant ideas, I thought it was totally insane when he first proposed it. Five days earlier, we’d left the warm hospitality of Greece and headed to the more bracing atmosphere of Skopje, the capital of what’s now known as North Macedonia. Skopje turned out to have a marvelous Old Bazaar, a Bohemian district bristling with hip eateries, and a just-completed plan to reinvent itself by filling the city center with fake baroque buildings, pseudo-classical statues, and decorative elements covered in gold spray paint. When he first caught sight of it, Rich said, “Call Las Vegas, see if anything is missing.”  All in all, Skopje had good entertainment value, and we enjoyed our five days there despite temperatures soaring into the nineties. Shortly afterwards, we’d arranged to go to a rural guest house in the cooler climate of North Macedonia’s mountains, but there remained a two-day gap. And that’s when Rich came up with his idea: a luggage-free overnight trip to Kosovo. “It’s just a two hour bus ride to Pristina, the capital,” he pointed out. “We can bring our toothbrushes and passports and be there by lunchtime.” As my regular readers know, we’ve traveled in France and California without any suitcases, just a few bare necessities carried on our persons. Afterwards I’m always barraged with emails, mostly about hygiene, so let me just assure you that on these occasions I wear fast-drying shirts and undergarments and launder them in the hotel sink every night. Reasonable standards can be maintained just about anywhere. Including, of course, Kosovo. “It’s a whole new country that we’ve never visited,” Rich added persuasively. “But why go luggage-free?” I objected. I’m a fairly minimalist packer, but I do like a few creature comforts. “It’ll just be for one night. Why drag the suitcases along?” Why indeed? So before cooler heads could prevail, I threw my toothbrush, sunscreen, and nightdress into my purse, Rich and I abandoned our bags to the tender mercies of the bus station's left luggage department, and we headed to the departure platform. And here was our first surprise. When they told us there was a bus to Pristina, somehow — call me crazy — I expected an actual bus. But apparently the Skopje-Kosovo run isn’t in high demand (go figure) so we discovered we’d be riding in a crowded van, ringing with Albanian pop music, air conditioned via the simple expedient of opening the side door for brief periods of time. It was a wonderful ride, through Skopje's teaming Albanian street market, over winding mountain roads, across two efficient and courteous border checkpoints, past broad green fields and villages with red tiled roofs, and finally into the heart of Pristina, the capital of Kosovo. Even those who love it best admit that Pristina is not a city with storybook charm. Nor does it contain a wealth of breathtaking monuments, unless you count the public library built in such a ferocious brutalist style that I suspect it will cause me nightmares for years to come.  Yikes! What were they thinking? Would you have the nerve to check books out of this place? And yet, there’s plenty to love about Pristina. For one thing, there are all the tiny storefronts where people make their living providing such old-fashioned services as sewing clothes, mending shoes, even — and when was the last time you saw this? — repairing vacuum cleaners. Sure, there are supermarkets, but plenty of people shop at little fruit stands and in the marvelously labyrinthine farmers’ market, where next to the egg stalls you can see half a dozen hens pecking in the dirt or sitting on nests to hatch more inventory. Another surprise was America’s enormous popularity among the citizenry of Pristina. I saw a replica of the Statue of Liberty presiding over the freeway. The stars and stripes were on display in the lobby of our hotel, offered for sale at the farmers’ market, and displayed in the public library’s “American Corner,” a long-standing education and outreach program of the US Embassy. But the biggest red-white-and-blue love fest is reserved for Bill Clinton. It began during the Kosovo War of 1998 to 1999. I don’t pretend to understand the complexities of Balkan conflicts (does anyone?), but as near as I can make out, after Yugoslavia broke up in 1992, two of its larger states, Serbia and Montenegro, got together, called themselves the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and sought to control Kosovo, in part by ethnic cleansing. They were opposed by the Kosovo Albanian rebel group known as the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA). Still with me? OK, then, here’s the part where Bill Clinton comes in; the locals give him credit for getting the US and NATO involved, bringing in the air support that turned the tide. As one shop owner told me, “If it wasn’t for Bill Clinton, we would still be fighting the war.” Bill was in town just last week to mark the 20th anniversary of the conflict’s end. No doubt he thoroughly enjoyed his ride down the Bulevardi Bill Klinton to view his life-sized statue waving at his Kosovo fans.  At left, Bill Clinton's image waves at pedestrians and cars on Boulevardi Bill Klinton in Pristina, Kosovo. But the most stunning surprise in Kosovo was the fabulous food. Blogger Jackie Nourse wrote, “Looking back at my 9-month trip around the world, I can honestly say that besides Italy (obviously), Kosovo cuisine was my favorite.” Why is this little corner of the world so blessed? As one cab driver explained, “This is where the Mediterranean meets the Orient.” It’s a match made in foodie heaven. Our first taste of this extraordinary gastronomy was the Albanian classic tavë kosi, baked lamb in yogurt sauce, ordered at the wonderfully atmospheric Liburnia restaurant. The lamb fell apart under my fork and melted in my mouth, perfectly complemented by the hot, creamy yogurt sauce and a crisp salad. Complimentary glasses of rakia (fruit brandy) appeared on the table. “For the digestion,” murmured our waiter. “Oh, well, if it’s medicinal…” said Rich. [See recipe for tavë kosi here.] The next day we popped into Furra Labi to sample some classic breakfast pastries. We ordered a spinach byrek, the Balkans’ favorite grab-and-go pie, and a slice of flia, think layers of pastry and cream. "And two coffees," I said. But here we hit a snag; the woman behind the counter explained they didn't serve coffee. Her boss, Leonard, saved the day. "No problem," he said. "I will go get you coffee. Macchiato?" “Of course,” I replied, having read this is what everyone in Kosovo drinks. The pastries were delicious, and when Leonard returned, it took just one sip to understand why Kosovo’s macchiato is considered a hot contender for best on the planet. When it was time to catch the van back to North Macedonia, we were sorry to leave Kosovo, which we’d found hospitable, entertaining, inexpensive, and delightfully free of tourists. It doesn’t have the gorgeous monuments we'd visited in Greece, or the architectural lunacy of its neighbor Skopje, but Pristina is a city brimming with energy, fueled on marvelous food and endless cups of macchiato. With or without luggage, I hope to visit Kosovo again soon, and often. 61 Days on the Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour
Yes, we've spent two months indulging in some of the world's favorite foods and finding out about local cuisine and culture. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it! Our culinary adventures have taken us to Greece, North Macedonia, and Kosovo (so far). For details, recipes, and videos: Our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour Heraklion, Crete: It's All About the Kindness of Strangers Holy Snail Day The Best Worst Town in Greece The Marvels of Lesbos Island Greece's Island of Longevity Breaking Bread with Strangers in Athens Greek Coffee: Freddos, Frappés & Fortunetelling Mysteries of Moussaka, Revealed We're now in the mountains of North Macedonia, in a tiny village called Dihovo, which along with the nearby town of Bitola is the epicenter of the nation's slow food movement.  I intended to photograph first and then eat, but as soon as the moussaka hit the table, the forks seemed to leap into our hands. “In China, robots are making moussaka,” Stavros told me. “They freeze it and send it all over the world. Even some islands in Greece are serving such things. But this—” He broke into a smile and gestured to the dish he and his wife, Katerina, had labored over for the last three hours. “This is made with love.” It was also made with fresh vegetables from the farmer’s market and lavish quantities of olive oil, ground beef, butter, white flour, and whole milk. The moussaka at the Giannoula family restaurant is all-out, no-ingredients-barred, hedonistic indulgence, the kind of old-fashioned comfort food people ate before corporations, calories, and chemicals invaded the kitchen. Don’t even think of substituting low-fat milk or lean turkey meat in this recipe. “You could,” Stavros told me doubtfully, when I asked. “But it would not be the same.” As is so often the case, it was Rich’s sniffer — his legendary nose for good eats — that had led us to Taverna Giannoula. “I have a place in mind for lunch,” he remarked out of the blue last Thursday. “Where?” I demanded suspiciously. We’d just finished a long, uphill hike to Ano Poli, the sleepy old section of Thessaloniki, Greece.  How quiet is Ano Poli on a hot Thursday afternoon? Well, for a start, they let dogs nap in the doorways of cafés. After hours of rambling past the faded buildings and sparkling vistas, I was hot, tired, and determined to keep heading in a downhill direction, preferably towards a cold beverage. “It's right around the corner.” “I love it already.” Arriving at Taverna Giannoula, I observed with pleasure the simple wooden tables, the cheerful red checkered cloths, and the small, immaculate kitchen. It was nearly 2:00 pm, still on the early side for lunch by local standards, and we soon learned that everyone in the place was a member of the family: Stavros the owner, his wife Katerina who served as chief cook, his brother Nikos who helped out, his mother-in-law who sat by the window sipping her soup and keeping a discrete eye on us, and his two young sons, who were playing a computer game in the back corner with friends, uttering occasional shrieks of muffled laughter. I collapsed into a chair at one of the three sidewalk tables, and Rich wandered inside to poke around. Stavros instantly invited him into the kitchen, where Rich peered into pots and eventually chose kolokithakia gemista, zucchini stuffed with pork and drizzled with avoglemono, the classic Greek egg-lemon sauce. Perusing the menu, I settled on smoky grilled eggplant topped with crumbled feta cheese. The meal was heavenly, and when I felt fully "reanimated" (as the Spanish put it), I went inside to pay my compliments to the cooks. When I mentioned we were on a Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour, Stavros and Katerina promptly invited me to come back on Monday to lean how to make proper Greek moussaka. On my second visit, the kitchen looked even smaller. It had begun life as a room about ten feet square, but now, fitted out for cooking and storage, the available floorspace was half that. Stavros, whose parents bought the restaurant when he was three years old, is an old hand at working in its cramped quarters, and as the moussaka got underway, he and Katerina wove back and forth across the room, handing off tasks with the practiced ease of professional jugglers. Even having to dodge around me as I zoomed in over their shoulders for closeups didn’t throw them off their stride. Stavros spoke English, so it was he who explained each step, but it was clear that Katerina was the head chef and that she took great pride and delight in her work. The moussaka recipe was her own creation, and as she pivoted from stovetop to sink to fryer, leaping up on her little stool to see check the eggplant sizzling on the high burner, dashing over to layer potatoes in the pan, she soon dispelled my foolish assumption that making moussaka was roughly akin to whipping up a batch of lasagna. This was serious cookery, performed by a serious chef. After an hour or so, she asked Stavros to make her a cup of coffee, and with a chuckle he showed me that he was serving it to her in a cup that read, “Mrs. Always Right.” [See the full moussaka recipe here.] If you make up a batch of Katerina’s moussaka — say for a family gathering or foodie pals — try to resist the urge to cut into it the instant it comes out of the oven, as the top layer, a creamy béchamel sauce, needs to cool and set. Now, I know what you’re thinking: béchamel sauce? That doesn’t sound very Greek, does it? That's because it's French, and you can thank Nikolaos Tselementes, the Jamie Oliver of 1920s Greece, for the upgrade. Born on Sifros Island in the Aegean Sea, trained in Austria, employed by embassies and top restaurants in Europe and America, he became one of the most influential Greek cookbook writers of his own or any other era. And when he got to the moussaka recipe, he abandoned the original topping — usually a custard, sometimes nothing at all — in favor of a thick, creamy layer of béchamel oozing with continental flair. His moussaka recipe became an instant hit and has inspired chefs around the world for nearly 100 years. Between the filming, baking, and post-oven cool-down, Rich and I spent hours at Taverna Giannoula, enjoying the ebb and flow of family life. Uncle Nikos picked the kids up from school and brought them to the restaurant for lunch. Another uncle stopped by to eat. The butcher on the corner brought Katerina a spectacular piece of beef, which Rich and I were called in to admire. Katerina’s mother observed everything with a twinkling eye, and seemed delighted to view the video footage, the two of us cozily communicating, via hand signals and facial expressions, our common admiration for her daughter's wizardry in the kitchen. It made me wonder, not for the first time, what it would have been like to grow up in such close family circumstances. In my childhood, lunchtime meant Dad at the office, Mom feeding the baby with one hand and downing her own sandwich with the other, and us older kids eating off trays in Catholic school cafeterias.  I don't have a photo of any of the Catholic school cafeterias that fed me or any of my five brothers and sisters back in the day. But this Pinterest image captures the general spirit of the times. I can almost taste the Jell-o in those small bowls. As an adult, having worked in corporations, art studios, and my home office, I couldn’t imagine trying to navigate my day — every day! — under the eyes of three generations of my relatives and in-laws. Would it have made me nuts? Or perhaps added an element of love to the labor? A bit of both? I’ll never know. As I took my first, glorious forkful of Katerina’s moussaka, rich with vegetables, beef, and warm, creamy béchamel sauce, I thought about Chinese robots shipping their flash-frozen food products all over the world. It made me deeply grateful that at least in this little corner of Greece, the old ways are still honored. Food is grown on nearby farms, sold in the shop on the corner, prepared in a kitchen surrounded by people who love one another, and served with kindness and ice cold local beer. It doesn’t get better than this, I thought. The world seems to be getting faster all the time now, which makes it extra comforting to know that there is still slow food on the menu somewhere, if we just take time to look for it. In case you're just joining us, here's the scoop on Our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour Rich and I decided to set off on an open-ended, unstructured journey to sample some of the world's best comfort foods as a way to gain insight into the local culture. We started April 20 in Crete and plan to travel until September-ish. You'll find highlights, recipes, and videos in the stories below. Our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour Heraklion, Crete: It's All About the Kindness of Strangers Holy Snail Day The Best Worst Town in Greece The Marvels of Lesbos Island Greece's Island of Longevity Breaking Bread with Strangers in Athens Greek Coffee: Freddos, Frappés & Fortunetelling How did we get started? First We Moved to Seville Then Came the Railway Travel Through Eastern Europe Where are we now? After two weeks resting up in Thessaloniki, Greece, we did manage to get those elusive bus tickets we wanted and have just arrived in Skopje, North Macedonia. The next few weeks we'll be roaming around various Balkan countries, and the timing of these blog posts may become a bit more erratic. Just saying.  |
Our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour
I'm an American writer living in Seville, Spain and traveling the world with my husband, Rich. Right now we're on our Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour, exploring the world's favorite cuisine to discover more about European culture. Send me your email and I'll send you updates on the journey. Try the comfort food recipes I'm collecting. OUR CURRENT LOCATION: ZAGREB, CROATIA 
Karen McCann
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