While looking for a smoke-free restaurant in Belgrade, I found something more.
A turkey in an astronaut helmet greets me as I enter a vaguely baroque building shaped like a wedge of cheese. Its tail feathers spell out Palasmarsa in Cyrillic. Above the sign is the word Ćurka, “Turkey” in Serbian.
Inside there are no tables, just a counter with a few stools by the front window. The walls are covered by cosmonaut turkey themed street art. Gloria Estefan is blaring on cheap speakers. Smoking is not allowed inside – a rarity in Belgrade despite the decade old no smoking indoors law.
The restaurant has all the makings of a quirky hipster popup. Instead of ironically bearded men behind the counter with man buns wrapped in hair nets, there’s a frail elderly couple. They look like they’ve forgotten how to smile – or haven’t done so since Tito was in power.
Locals are milling around. I’m not sure if they’re waiting to order. One of the customers asks if I speak Serbian. I say no while holding up an English menu. She’s relieved. She’s a regular who wants to help out, because the owners don’t speak a word of English.
“This restaurant has the best sandwich in Belgrade. They cook everything, even the bread.” she says before exiting with her take out order. High praise in a county where people aren’t prone to hyperbole and tend to keep to themselves.
I approach the front counter. The couple behind it are on guard – perhaps because I’m a foreigner, or they are hesitant to speak a language other than their own. I also seem like a picky customer given my “yuppie chic” clothing style.
The couple don’t speak much English besides “yes” and “no”, “Russian or English?” Google Translate does a lot of the work. I gesture and point a lot while ordering their signature sandwich. The English description simply says it has turkey, mushrooms, onion, and kajmak.
Their kitchen is wide open for all to see. There’s no sous vide or other cutting edge cooking implements – just a grill with a gas canister visible underneath and a few stacked ovens and trays full of onions, bell peppers, cartons of eggs, and piles of mushrooms.
I see no bread on the counter. While I’m wondering if it’s in a back room, the man puts a ball of dough in the oven. Then he starts chopping the ingredients. He slides raw turkey on the grill. He grills the vegetables with the meat then puts it all in a pot with stock and seasoning. He doesn’t measure with Pyrex glasses, he does it by feel.
The process takes a while for a fast food place. The aroma of stewed meat and vegetables is intoxicating. The man takes the bread out of the oven and cuts it in half, forming a shallow bowl. He pours the stewed ingredients into the bread bowl. When it’s ready, he brings it to the counter where I’m sitting.
I take a bite. It’s the best parts of a stew and sandwich. The flavors are deep and rich but fresh at the same time. I need the fork and knife he brought me. It’s warming me up on the cold and dreary fall day. I devour it in silence. Customers come and go. Time stops. There’s nothing but the sandwich. I feel like I’m in outer space with the cosmonaut turkeys on the wall.
When I bring up the tray, he asks me where I’m from. I hesitate to answer. Our two countries have a rocky relationship. I’ve walked by buildings gutted by bombs dropped by NATO in the 90s, left to show the world.
Back home, our recent election was heated. Half the country is in a state of shock over the results. Even though I’ve lived abroad for two decades, I’m concerned about the people there. The future doesn’t look good. I’m also a little embarrassed by the ordeal. I consider telling him I’m from Canada. No one hates that place. But he made such a good sandwich, he deserves the truth. I tell him the USA.
Instead of throwing me out in a rage, he perks up. He motions for me to follow him and guides me to a wall with a framed black and white copy of a newspaper clipping. It’s faded. I try to read the words, but it’s in Serbian. I make out a picture of a virulent young man in a chef’s hat and apron proudly standing behind a full spread of Serbian dishes. It’s the old man. He tells me he cooked for Bush when he visited Serbia. I’m impressed.
“This must have been around 2000.” I say thinking of George W Bush.
“No, 1984.” he says using his fingers to count out the year. He cooked for the then Vice President, George H.W. Bush. The first one. He’s proud of preparing a feast fit for a president. Suddenly, everything seems like it’s going to be OK.
We go back to the counter. The lady lifts the foil off a tray revealing rolls of phyllo dough covered in powdered sugar. She tells me it’s pumpkin pie through Google Translate. I’m stuffed from the sandwich, but tomorrow is another day. I ask for half. They don’t understand. I make a cutting motion. They say sure. They cut one roll in half and wrap up both halves in foil. So I buy a whole roll. It’s three dollars. And I believe that anything they make will be life-altering.
As I’m ready to leave, the man tells me to invite the incoming president with a beckoning hand wave.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes.” he says with a mischievous smirk.
“Sure, I’ll give him a call.” I say making a phone gesture with my hand. We laugh.
“How was the sandwich?” he asks me finally.
“It’s perfect.” The old couple smiles. They’re 20 years old again.
