A First Experience of Serbia

The sun beat down on the car as we crunched our way up the rutted dirt road that led to the house. The car protested wildly at being forced over and through the cavernous potholes that scarred the track. The old man squinted through the dusty windshield, punctuating every shuddering lurch with a whispered “bastid”.

Her father. I had been brought to Serbia to meet him. He had picked us up an hour earlier and was taking us to his house in a village north of the city.

The house was a cottage settled in a small patch of land. A crumbling but functional well sat by the east wall of the property. A bright red pump, newly added, thudding loudly, brought running water to the house. Our visit had been highly anticipated.

The old man pulled the car to a stop by an ancient tractor. My girlfriend was ushered from the car and into the house by smiling relatives whilst the old man slowly walked me in. “Ronie” he mis-pronounced my name, “now we eat”.

The cottage was dark and beautiful. Small cabinets displayed faded family photos and fancy crockery. A table was laid and set for 20 people. A feast had been prepared in our honour. Roasted chickens sat alongside slabs of pork, fresh chillies in bowls beside vibrantly colourful salads. Savoury pies and pastries jostled for space with bottles of wine and beer. Cabbage was everywhere, as is traditional in Serbian cuisine. It was pickled in ‘Russian Salad’, mixed in vinegar-based coleslaw, and it enveloped stewed pork mince in the delicious sarma. And around all this 18 smiling, expectant faces.

We sat and ate. Grandmothers and aunts took turns to fill my plate with Serbian dishes to try. I happily obliged. I learned that a pig and many chickens had been slaughtered in honour of our arrival. Samples of the meat had been taken to a local pharmacist who tested that they were safe to eat. Each dish was introduced, in broken English, by the patriarch, with a shouted toast over thimbles of the plum brandy, rakija. This welcome, this meal, was our hosts sharing themselves, sharing Serbia.

The old man tossed me a large, fresh chilli. “Paprika, paprika” he said, trying to teach me the language fruit by fruit. It was fiery, sweet and delicious. He pulled a tomato from a bowl and spoke in Serbian.

“He is saying the tomatoes came from the garden this morning” my girlfriend explained.

His tough, calloused hand held the freshly picked tomato as gently as it would a newborn. “Ronie,” he said “this is ‘paradise’”.
And he was right.