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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Since he’d thrown back nearly a fifth of whiskey at that point, I mentally prepared for the crazy son of a bitch to die of blood loss right in front of us. It would be a month before an ambulance arrived. Throwing him into a boat and motoring him across the Pelječac canal to the hospital on Korčula seemed like the thing to do, but I sensed Nikola wouldn’t be amenable to a hospital visit. The sailors of Dalmatia are as tough as they come, Kućište is a town of sailors, and this wild ass is practically their king. A veritable Croatian Popeye is he.

One of the Croatian girls from New Zealand cradled him, held bar towel to wound and spooned soft Kiwi into his ear. When the bleeding stopped and he regained consciousness, Nikola downed six pints of water, returned his ball cap to its proper place and got back on the stool. Within ten minutes he ordered another Jack Daniels. Another ten minutes, he was kissing the girl. And then they left together, for ice cream, I assume.

I next saw Nikola a couple of days later and asked him how his head was feeling.

“You worry on your own fucking head if you wanna keep it,” said he.

For the next dinner, I’m taking advantage of the sardines and mackerel I’ve been seeing around again lately. These oily fish are prized on the Dalmatian coast for both their flavor and health benefits, and you should eat more of them. Leave the salmon and halibut alone for a change, and go for the silver. I always tell people about the omega-3 rush they should expect to feel shortly after eating mackerel or sardines, and some Dalmatians even say that you shouldn’t eat these fish after 9 pm if you want to get to sleep at a decent hour. Or, DO eat them after 9pm if you’ll be needing your “strength” for the night…

In any case, if you’ve been to any of the fresh seafood outlets in Portland in recent weeks, you may have noticed gigantic fresh sardines on offer. They are whole, with the head on, perfect for grilling. I remember the last time I grilled sardines in Dalmatia with my dear friend and sous chef, Gule, in his backyard kitchen. Many a Dalmatian will tell you that the sardine is their favorite fish, and once you’ve had good, fresh ones, grilled to perfection, it’s easy to understand why. America loves chicken wings as a bar snack. Throughout the Mediterranean, the sardine is practically the chicken wing’s equivalent (though, I’d say superior).

My first encounter with Dalmatian zucchini fritters occurred on the Pelješac peninsula in southern Croatia, where they are known as uštipci od tikvice. These exquisite little nuggets of vegetalia are pretty straightforward, down-home little numbers, so I’d be shocked if they did not exist in some form in the culinary lexicon of a few other cultures (They actually remind me of some of the whimsical concoctions my Grandma Mickey used to prepare).

My lesson in preparing these came on a sweltering afternoon in the tiny village of Kućište, a place of grand stone mansions still owned and inhabited by the descendants of old Dubrovnik sea captains. The respected village patriarch, Mr. Matias Glavaš, was my teacher. The rendition of zucchini fritters that he prepared for me that day while the stuffy Jugo winds blew in from the south could come from nowhere other than coastal Croatia, as his recipe calls for a splash of rogačica in the batter just prior to frying. This rare, bittersweet brandy steeped with carob pods is enjoyed as a cordial in the south, but in its stronger, more concentrated form it’s used as a medicinal. Unfortunately, I don’t have any rogačica to include in the batter (or share), but I know you’ll love these fritters. Just about everyone does.

For the main course, we’ll enjoy gregada of mackerel. Gregada is widely considered the oldest Dalmatian fish preparation, originating on the sunny, southern island of Hvar, probably with the island’s earliest Greek colonists. Fresh fish is cut into large steaks, then poached in white wine with potatoes, garlic and bay leaf. Served with plenty of broth for sopping up with bread, gregada is pure and simple comfort food for the seafood lover.

For dessert, we’ll have smokvenjak, a cake made from dried figs and raisins, almonds, lemon peel, aromatic herbs and a little brandy. Smokvenjak is said to have originated on the isle of Vis in Dalmatia. When the figs are harvested in late summer, they’re left to dry in the open air, to be used throughout the year. The traditional preparation of smokvenjak takes this a step further: Figs are ground with the raisins, almonds and other ingredients to a fine paste, formed into a simple round cake, wrapped in a fig leaf and then left to bake in the sun on rooftops for as long as a few weeks. The resulting delicacy is a delicious, nutrient dense, high energy treat that’s enjoyed with brandy, or even just eaten as a snack between meals. If, from this, you’ve deduced that even desserts in Dalmatia can be healthy, you’d be correct.

Other than these, I think the rest of the menu is fairly self-explanatory. For the meat, cheese and olive plate, I’d like to use actual Dalmatian pršut, the dry ham cured in sea water, smoked, and then dried in the winter Bura winds. With FDA standards as they are, the real thing can only be had in America if you know someone who’s recently smuggled a whole pršut in their suitcase. To that end, we’ll probably have Italian prosciutto of Parma, a suitable substitute. As always, I bake the bread fresh that day.

Assuming you’ll want to have wine or beer with dinner, the bring-your-own policy currently still applies to these such beverages. I would suggest a dry white wine to accompany this meal.

I hope you can make it, and as always, I look forward to cooking for you! Hop on over to the menu page to place your reservations or, heck, I’ll save you the trip and put the buttons right here.

One Seat – $50

Two Seats – $90

Rakija (RAH-kee-yah) is the catch-all term for any kind of spirit distilled from fruit in Croatia, and it pretty much translates to ‘brandy’. Just as there’s apple brandy, plum brandy, berry brandy and so on, varieties distilled from different source materials take more specific names. Here are a few:

šljivovica (SHLEE-vo-vee-tsa) – plum brandy

lozica (LO-zee-tsa) – grape brandy

kruškovača (KROOSH-ko-va-tcha) – pear brandy

rogačica (roh-GAHTCH-ee-tsa) – grape brandy infused with carob pods

In Dalmatia, the king of all rakijas is travarica (TRA-va-ree-tsa), a sophisticated spirit acclaimed as a superb digestive aid and tonic. It is quite simply an infusion of grape brandy and a variety of herbs, and there are as many recipes for travarica as there are people producing it. Some contain as few as 10 herbs, while others can contain 20 or more. Travarica often contains rosemary, chamomile, lavender, rose hips, matgrass, juniper, thyme, currants, mint or sage, but the list of possible additions is practically endless.

Pure grape brandy isn’t widely available in the US, but if you have access to good grappa (Italian grape pomace brandy), making your own travarica is not a complicated undertaking at all, All you need to do is insert the whole, edible herbs, flowers and dried berries of your choosing into a 750 mL bottle, fill the bottle with brandy and allow to infuse for at least a month. Of course, the longer you allow the brandy to take up the essential oils and aromatic components of the plant material, the stronger and more complex the flavor will be.