Banitsa in Bulgaria

Hard faced locals, the woman wrapped in long coats with quantities of fir around the hems that, would invoke more than a queer look in Western Europe. Younger men, shaven headed, wearing leather jackets unzipped to reveal only a T-shirt covered, beer enhanced physic, all pass me by as, I walk over to the kiosk. They take the edge of the soot coloured, salt grimed road, partly to avoid the icy slipperiness of the pavements but principally, as I stood unsteadily on a wobbly slab, because the pavements in Yambol are so shocking.

Yambol, like most Bulgarian towns, is just beginning to find itself post political reforms, post Communism, post World and Balkan wars. Its inhabitants are beginning to find their voice and, Asian companies their cheaper European labour. On the eastern edge of the settlement a European Union funded road, seemingly fires lorries, past the newly planted vine yards, muddy fields and verges strewn with plastic bags. Lorries shooting out from the economically vibrant Turkey and heading at the heart of Central Europe. Positioned to the South East of Bulgaria, Yambol is only 100 km from the Turkish boarded and by following this road 350 km from Istanbul.

Breakfast had arrived. The middle-aged lady slammed a pastry wrapped up in a thin pale red plastic bag on the counter of the kiosk. Her lack of customer care born out of ignorance fostered, by the Communist world she originated from. Handing over the Lev in payment, I was met by a face that imbued her generations distrust of the new world. I met her gaze and her eyes offered up the suggestion that she had reached a point of both physical and emotional exhaustion. So I gave her the cheeriest 'Blagodaria' I could muster.

I teased out the golden looking pastry. My big Bulgarian breakfast adventure had began. The smell soaked into my olfactory receptors signalling pleasure. The roof of my mouth registered the excitingly sharp golden outer layer as, it gave way to a doughier interior. Local old ladies bustled around me, purchasing bread. Then joy, deep beneath the layers of filo pastry, a seam of yellow white Bulgarian feta cheese.

Banitsa, which is what I was now deriving so much pleasure from, is not only eaten at breakfast but is very popular Christmas Eve. At these times of festival most Bulgarian families make a banitsa and then hide coins in them. Some place little squares of paper on the slices of banitsa. Then hand them out to relatives and friends. On each of these pieces of paper are written words of good luck or prophecy for the pastry consumers year ahead.

Taking note of the disorganised scrum forming at the bus stand. I wandered over to see if this newly arrived vehicle was, the mini bus that was to take me to the Black Sea town of Bourgas. Presenting me with my next big and, in February, very cold, Bulgarian adventure.