The 45 Minute Fish Paprikash

In keeping with last week’s theme of slowness…

It is Sunday afternoon on Lake Palić, and I am happily waiting 45 minutes for a fish stew, seated outdoors on a 90-degree day at a restaurant resembling a nautically-themed shack.

There is no breeze. No wifi. No one to talk to. Nothing to do.

(I am coming back to pen and paper for the first time in far too long.)

For one full week has passed back on the backpacking grind — three different towns, three sleepy trains — and I’ve managed to complete all work-related to-dos.

There is nothing left to do, but nothing.

If I were to walk into a restaurant in New York, and they were to tell me it was a 45-minute wait to eat at a casual establishment serving maximum 15 people, I would almost definitely say “thank you” and walk out. Something about those numbers don’t seem right.

But here in Palić, it is a promise of greatness. A promise from the owner himself, a most cheerful and welcoming man, who I must say reflects my experience with all of my Serbian hosts during these last two weeks.

He informs me (quite emphatically) that while his “fiš paprikaš” — a regional speciality — takes 45 minutes to prepare, this is because it is the best. If a fish paprikash does not take this amount of time to reach your table, he continues, it is not the real deal.

And while the New Yorker in me would be skeptical of such a front-facing claim, I wholeheartedly believe him. (And not just because the Google reviews concur.)

He is clearly proud and at home in his establishment — smoking inside with his young employees — and genuinely seems to want to put his best foot forward for this foreigner, of which I am the only.

I’ve been the “only” in 3/3 of my accommodations this week. In fact, I have been completely alone.

Perhaps this is the reason behind the extraordinary hospitality I have experienced in Serbia.

—

It is a wonderful thing as a traveler when a good stereotype turns out to be true.

I had previously been told that Serbians are incredibly friendly. Truth be told — and I didn’t realize this until my arrival — but I didn’t believe it. Call it ignorance, or the learned assumption of Eastern European coolness. Either way, I was wrong.

In Novi Sad…

I returned from a festival and left my boots at the hostel door beacuse they were caked in mud. When I came downstairs from my nap hours later, they were clean. Apparently the owner/sole proprietor of the place did the honor as he was cleaning anyways.

The next day, he insisted on driving me on his scooter to the train station.

In Sombor…

I stayed at a guest house run by a woman who spoke little English, and her uncle, who spoke none. When I extended my stay one extra night, I paid in cash. 10 minutes post-transaction, she — Yelena is her name — rushes back into my room saying that she had overcharged me by 240 RSD (the equivalent of $2) and promptly handed me cash back.

When I told her to please keep it, she literally ran away. “No no no no no…” Door slams. (I left the money on the table when I checked out.)

The following day, I entered the kitchen to find Yelena and her uncle sitting on either side of a large tub of Neapolitan ice cream. She offered me a scoop, which I politely declined as I had just eaten and also had a beer open outside. 10 minutes later, as I sat working on my cute little balcony, she appears with a large mug of ice cream and the proclamation, not a question: “Ice cream with your beer.”

Wise woman.

10 minutes after that, a knock at my door. Yelena enters with an armful of snacks. Chips, chocolate cookies, nuts, and another beer.

“For you.”

”Why?”

“Because this beer is our heritage.”

Drops everything on my bed. Runs away.

In Subotica…

I stayed at one of the quirkiest hostels of my life. Cupboard-sized rooms inside of the bus station. (Lovely courtyard. Very clean and convenient. No need for alarm.)

When I arrived, the owner immediately offered to make me a Turkish coffee. I told him thanks, but no thanks, in need of a shower ASAP. Post-shower, I was met with the same offer. While I had intended to head to a cafe to work, this seemed a scenario of politeness, so I accepted.

In the ensuing conversation-over-coffee with the owner and his brother, I learned that “Serbians don’t like Americans.” Their words.

Oh? I had no idea.

But no. It’s not that. It’s that they don’t like America, due mostly in part to US involvement in the 1999 NATO bombings of the Kosovo War. (Whether fair or not, I don’t know if it is for me to say. I’m not Serbian.)

Still, all this time… these offers of coffee and sweets and clean shoes… and supposedly they don’t like me?

This, I do not believe.

I don’t know if it is because, as I mentioned, I’ve been the sole guest and very likely the only American visitor in X amount of time. Or possibly, because Serbs are known to have a less-than-great reputation throughout the Balkans (not my words) and perhaps there’s something to prove…

But I’ve never felt more welcome.

—

Before I am finished writing all of the above, I am interrupted by our jovial restaurant-owner holding a placemat and utensils.

”Two minutes,” he says.

That was the fastest 45 minutes of my life.

Two minutes later, without delay, a cauldron appears in front of me. Then, a bowl of noodles, a basket of bread, and finally, a dish of chili paste.

As I fish my phone out of my bag to take a picture, I notice the time.

It has been exactly 45 minutes since I ordered.

And sure enough, this meal is indeed the best. I’ve never had anything like it.

Not because the fish is undeniably fresh, the broth a perfectly peppery spice, the portion large enough for 3 and the cost just short of 10 USD.

But because the owner insisted I move into the shade to eat my meal.

And it is, after all, a Sunday afternoon in mid-July in Serbia.