pBy definition, exploration means looking for the new, but inevitably you try to identify common ground. Sarajevo is different. It's unlike anything you've seen before. Relatively close to Bucharest and yet different. It has neither the colors and verve of Mediterranean cities, nor the coldness and scratchiness of Western clouds, nor the bookstores and clubs of Belgrade, nor even the size of Bucharest. Both Vienna and Istanbul are too far, although the influences are visible from where the big kite throws the heavy mace on either side of the border, marked symbolically in the pavement: "Sarajevo meeting of cultures" with a hardened compass pointing east and the West.
From place to place the minarets pierce the sky, and people wake up from their sleep, stop the long discussions at the countless Bosnian cafes and listen to the call of the muezzin. Of course, the Muslims. Majorities. The cats are fat, gentle and talkative like all over the East. Very talkative. Pigeons are naughty like everywhere else.
In Sarajevo, except for some buildings, the old center and the food, the "tourist attractions" cannot be called that. There is tragedy tourism in Sarajevo. Belvedere means the perfect spot for snipers. It's good to look down and avoid the pieces of pavement that seem to be painted with abstract roses. The red is from blood, and people died there. Museums are dedicated to contemporary wars. It's true that I was too young and back then I cared more about turbo surprises. The facades of the houses and blocks have a dramatic design: they still retain bullet marks. At 40 years old, I'm learning history and I hope, quoting Cristian Iohan Ștefănescu, my roommate, sarmale and rakija, that maybe the Balkans will be the cauldron of sarmale of Europe, not the powder keg.
Almost everything here is foreign to me. Not even the mountains with their hundreds of tunnels and bridges, nor the coffee, nor the price of cigarettes. I am writing this text from Mostar, in northern Herzegovina. Here it seems to be even more different. I've gotten used to taking off my shoes at the door, and believe me I don't recommend it to any host, especially since it happens after dozens of hours of wearing shoes and many kilometers traveled. Even the macramé on the TV in the accommodation looks like something from another movie.
So nothing had prepared me for this story. Miran Karic is a young chef from Sarajevo. Rockstar here. TV star with hundreds of filmed episodes, chef for the special events of the Italian Embassy, called to cook for Sting and his guests. One of the most acclaimed local chefs. Jovial, confident and kind. We talked for about two hours between two filmings. He provided us with a wealth of culinary information. He recommended us restaurants, made phone calls, we exchanged emails, sent us to local producers and people of interest, including from neighboring countries. I thank him very much for his kindness and I will come back with the transcript of the interview.
Well, Miran told me about one of those moments that stick in your brain like a corkscrew: he was a child, dressed all in white, ready to be taken to town. His sister's cry of warning was seconds late. The disaster had already occurred. A lusty baby and an 'oxheart' tomato (yes, he mentioned the variety). Different "roses" painted on the white t-shirt and pants.
He searched for that taste for many years. I found it at a producer somewhere "in the middle of nowhere" many years later. He returned there the following year, but it was not the same. Well, two strangers talking about the taste of tomatoes from our childhood makes the distances compact, the borders blur and the differences don't seem so great.
Miran is a modern Muslim, and the cuisine is above tradition. He's tattooed, cooks pork and drinks alcohol. I left him a bottle of wine offered by Corks Cozy Bar (the old center of Bucharest) and the promise that I will return.
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