Bistro Luka

Konoba Kids

Very few people in America are aware of how to dress when visiting a Dalmatian konoba for fine food and wine. Since LUKA dinners are all about sharing the konoba tradition in America, I suppose I should give some pointers. Please consult the photograph above for an holistic understanding of what’s expected from you sartorially at a LUKA dinner. These young Dalmatians were happy to demonstrate proper dress code and ordering etiquette for me at Konoba Posejdon in Sumpetar, on the Split riviera.

Posted in photos | No Comments »

Nuns and Fishes

A trio of nuns in full habit look over the offerings at the central fish market in Split.

Posted in photos | No Comments »

On the Paper Trail in Zagreb

It feels like a lifetime since I last peered up at the gallant bronze of Duke Josip Jelačić on the lively central square in Zagreb that bears his name. Jelačićev Trg is the pulsing heart of Croatia’s capital city and a bustling trolley stop flanked by old cafes where meetings of every sort take place. It is also the island whence soon I shall cannonball into a boiling sea of good old fashioned Balkan bureaucracy. My concern is that I may never again see dry land.

I’ve returned to Croatia to helm the kitchen of a new hotel and restaurant in a 16th century tower on the Dalmatian coast, to sneak in research and photography for my cookbook, and to live here indefinitely. While finishing touches are applied to the renovations on the tower, I am darting around Zagreb, establishing my culinary services firm. Ownership of this company affords me permission to reside and work for myself legally in Croatia. The hotel contracts with my firm for kitchen development and management, and I get to cook here without fear of jail time. We settled on a five-year agreement that is the subject of much cautious optimism in my office.

I anticipate that the choreography of company establishment will comprise a grueling danse macabre and leave a long trail of paper, ink, blood, soul and money scattered throughout the city. I was only half-joking with the hotel’s director, Aleksandra, when I mentioned that we could save a lot of time and paper if she would but marry me into the Croatian economy and be my loving wife for all time. If she was amused by this, she concealed it well.

Dark, gray matters on the horizon there may be, but I am quite fond of the old center of Zagreb. I always find solace in the florid charm of her well pruned parks and squares, guarded over in stately elegance by Austro-Hungarian edifices and ornamented by the jewel of human lineage that is the Slavic feminine principle. I’ll take what comforts I may. When the unsavory proceedings of business are complete here, I leave for the coast.

Posted in excerpts, photos | No Comments »

Pršut: Dry Smoked Ham

Of all the exquisite artisan food produced in Dalmatia, there is none as widely loved that resonates in the hearts and souls of the people like pršut (PURR-shoot). If you’re at all familiar with the prosciutto of Italy and jamon of Spain, you’ll almost know what to expect from pršut. True Dalmatian pršut begins with a fresh pork leg that’s cured in pure Adriatic seawater, then pressed between large stones to remove the brine. Next the ham is smoked and hung outside to dry in the blasting Bura winds over winter. Pršut is typically then aged for anywhere from one to three years in dark cellars or attics, where its flavors mellow and mature.

This dry ham is a distinctive experience in flavor, texture and aroma not found elsewhere, an unmatchable product of Dalmatia’s specific climate and ecosystem. Though passable, commercially produced pršut is available for purchase in supermarkets and butcher shops in Dalmatia, many families make and prefer their own. Once you’ve tasted true Dalmatian pršut, homemade with the time and love it requires, you’ll understand why.

Posted in gastronomy, photos | No Comments »

In The Death Seat

We left Orebić, and the inevitable breakdown of our association took place in the car at high speeds on the winding highway. I have been of the conviction that I would die in his company numerous times in the last week, the majority in the car. Between narrowly avoiding head-on collisions and scarcely getting the best of hairpin turns on high coastal mountain roads, the hours spent in this car have been time aplenty for reckoning with the impermanence of life. But it appears that everyone drives like maniacs in Croatia, and fatalities on the road are common. A few days ago, while Franziska and I buzzed around Trogir and the surrounding villages on a scooter I rented, Ivo took Aneta to photograph sponge divers on the island of Krapanj. When they returned Aneta looked a bit pale. Later she told us they’d seen two badly mangled bodies about fifty meters from a smashed up car and scooter. I sensed the cosmos folding in on itself, trying to tell me something in code.

Yesterday the girls started whistling random melodies together in the back seat. It was a simple, chaotic little concert, and a perfect understatement of the pure madness and loathing in this vehicle. From the death seat I could see Ivo’s knuckles whitening and face reddening while the speedometer impersonated the second hand of a watch. Silent rage darkened his face with frothing blood, skin and tissue billowing to engulf facial features and eyeglasses like a lava swell from a sulfurous pit. I became concerned that his head might explode, leaving us without a driver, then added a third improvisation to the deformed whistle symphony. The air stewed and thickened, and I half expected the stench of burning flesh to take up residence between us.

We were surrounded by Heaven on Earth. The topography whispered that we had left the planet and entered a paradise realm. To look upon the heartrending glory of the Dalmatian coast is to look directly into the eye of God, and we were four people who might very well dismantle each other if we didn’t die in a fiery wreck. We saw Paradise from within a dark, windowed corner of Hell on wheels.

Posted in excerpts, photos | No Comments »