I'm sitting in the pyrotechnic cafeteria Euphoria. I am happy with the weekend in the city below Stara Planina. Since I stayed there for the first time ten years ago, I try to stop by at least once a year. And this time, the walk across the Great Bridge to the market was part of the mandatory Pirot ritual. The morning is unthinkable without hot mekikas in the bakery near the market.
Serbs, Bulgarians and Macedonians claim mekike as their dish, which leads me to conclude that they belong to the supranational Shop culinary zone. In Pirot they are called - mećici. I read somewhere that at first the muslins were made seven days after the birth of a child, so that the newborn's life would be as nice and soft as - muslins. These pyrotechnic "pinches" are the size of an oblong flatbread.
At the Pirot market itself, blessed by its geographical location with an abundance of mountain dairy products, we go to the store of the Dairy School, which is celebrating its eightieth birthday this year. The Pirot cheese bought there is one of the best that Serbia can offer to the world.
First, we chat with the coppersmith at the beginning of the market about the poor quality of the tin plates that are placed on the hotplates, in order to obtain a surface for roasting the peppers. Kazandžija says that he does not make such tin pieces, but he knows that they are the best at Latifović's in Kruševac. I automatically remember the market in Kruševac, which one has to pass by if going towards Lazarica.
We talked to producer Saša Manić from the village of Krupac near Pirot at the market about the iconic “iron sausage”. Due to high demand, it has reached a price of a fantastic 43 euros per kilogram. Saša makes it only for his own needs. He believes that the price of the Pirot brand is inflated. At his counter, we buy homemade pečenica. It turns out that it was a great decision. The quality and taste of that meat can even be compared to the litter I bring from Bosnia.
I'm sitting in Euforia before leaving Pirot and with a cup of coffee I'm sorting through my market memories. Zuko Džumhur believed that the market is the soul of the city. I came to the same conclusion. I have always loved markets. From Istanbul to Lisbon, from Palermo to Hamburg, I wandered through them intoxicated by the melody of different languages, in labyrinths of tastes, colors, smells. But perhaps I remember the first market, which is no longer there, the best.
THURSDAYS IN CHILDHOOD
In the Bosnian town where I grew up, market day was Thursday. The first time I helped my mother bring vegetables from the market, the handles of the plastic cleaver cut deeply into my childish palms. But I didn't care about that. The market was only about 300 meters from our entrance in the center. I enjoyed the confusion of human voices, shouts and jokes, the crowd that was unbearable at the entrance to the market between the Lovac tavern and the two-story residential building.
In childhood, all smells are full, unfiltered by experience and habits. You see all the colors as if you were seeing them for the first time. And the taste? The palate reacts with fireworks sensations. A broken cucumber washed at the market tap and dipped in salt, a tomato that my mother gives me to bite into like an apple so that the red juice splashes onto the white skirt of the lady in front of me.
Scary and exotic characters. The hero in Turkish chakshiras, half-blind, with a bottle of beer in his hand, almost unconscious from drinking, shouts for everyone to hear - something about the partisans and the war. An unshaven Rakovac, who could not stand the chaotic market order - walked around with an empty sack and a stick with a nail sticking out of it, and stuck papers and waste, muttering something about cattle without tails. His internal compulsion – I later realized it was OCD – in a time of sloppy socialist communal services was socially useful. A bear who, they say, was kicked in the head by a horse in childhood, and remained forever in his third year of life. Pushed like that, with a dull look and a horse smile, he would wind the belt around his hand. He knew how to set a man on fire on the back with it without warning or reason. If a short-lived passer-by hit him, he would bite the back of his own hand. People feared that blood more than belts.
The rough physiognomy of the mountaineers who have polished the fruits of their daily toil for sale. Pilgrims from Serbia sitting on a crate in front of a tent wing with a pile of watermelons, slicing bacon thinly and taking long swigs of brandy from a shack. The pungent smell of plum wine would mix with the smell of crushed tomatoes, roasted chicken, the drumstick of which is being torn by the tinsmith sitting in front of his sheets. The weights on the cups clattered, the escaige clattered on the cheap plates full of the pub garden, the reddish beer bottles happily collided - a sound that celebrates life's abundance.
EUROPEAN TRACES
When we visit European cities, admiring the market squares, located mostly in front of the cathedrals, we have the deceptive feeling that neat facades, paved surfaces and tastefully placed awnings above shop windows suggestively connect us with the past. I imagine generations of those who went to the market on market day for new news and gossip, to hear who was still alive, and whose name began to be spoken in whispers. To shop, eat, drink.
In Trier, on one corner is the oldest pharmacy in Germany. On a Sunday morning like this, German tourists taste white wine and sing the Moselle wine song acapella. In Berlin, at Winterfeldplatz. Two decades ago, I lived there for a while in the nearby Bavarian quarter, so I was able to walk to the market on Saturdays. I would sit in the Italian place on the corner, order an espresso and a grappa and watch the market crowd in the square. It is the same in many other places.
Opposite the market in Ljubljana, it's nice to sit in the gardens of the small restaurant even in the middle of February. In Lisbon, the famous market hall Mercado da Dibera has turned into a gastronomic temple.
But that make-up past that is indicated by the beautiful market squares and fancy halls of European cities never existed. At least that's what historical sources say. There is, for example, a record that the German Emperor Frederick III visited the town of Reutlingen in the 15th century. He almost fell into the stinking mire on the streets leading to the center. This was followed by a ban on residents simply throwing garbage out the window onto the street. And the squares had to be cleaned at the end of each market day.
Today's Našmarkt in Vienna, the Viktualienmarkt in Munich, the Fish Market in Hamburg, the Central Market in Budapest or the colorful Sunday market in the pre-Alpine town of Vangen are, in our time, almost flawless places where I enjoyed spending time. Nothing about them reminds us of that time, many centuries ago, when old and young would gather on the sandy, muddy land under the city walls to market live or freshly slaughtered animals, wading through the heavy smell of urine, excrement and blood.
DRINKING PILGRIMAGE
Of course, in Sremska Mitrovica, I found homemade Srem sausage at the market, talked to a retired butcher who makes guinea pigs and bacon like Zvezda's jersey. I took that as a souvenir. In Sombor, I admired the Somborki peppers. In Brčanska Malta in Tuzla, I buy litter - dried sheep meat that has no equal. Once, the German writer Uve Dik went to the Zemun market with me and bought large garlands of garlic there. He managed to smuggle them across several borders, all the way to Bavaria.
At the Dolac market in Zagreb, I ate excellent sudzukics, which were nominally devoid of oriental overtones and were called - homemade sausages. Fortunately, the Sarajevo recipe was not touched. We do not know how many people from Sarajevo know the etymology of the word Markale - the most famous Sarajevo market hall (Markthalle in German) is there, as well as the market behind it.
In Cologne, I used to go to the area called Nipes. It did not differ in any way from other Cologne districts, which are towns in their own right. But it had a better market. Turks dominated it and around it. The best vegetables in town. And the best lamb stew in Turkish places around the market - a rectangular square surrounded by buildings from the era of historicism. And in the rectangle pure Orient.
It was a good preparation for Istanbul's Kapali bazaar. The infinite Orient with all the scents and flavors from the Eastern fantasies of a European. I remember the first morning in Istanbul. I wanted to go there right away, to the Grand Bazaar. Several market vendors spoke some outdated version of the Štokavian dialect. Almost everyone spoke Russian. After a few hours of walking through the largest indoor market hall in Europe, the fatigue was comparable to that of chasing a ball all day as a child.
I did not believe that the experience of the commercial anthill could be surpassed by anything. Later, I also visited the Eastern Mediterranean markets in Alanya, Cesme, Alacati, markets in Athens and Thessaloniki, Niš and Struga. All of them do not hide their embrace with the Orient. It wasn't until I arrived in Izmir, at the Kemeralti market, that I realized that the whole district is actually a bazaar from One Thousand and One Nights. In fact, it is a whole town within a town, ten Baščaršijas in one place. Fish alley, meat alley, tea alley, carpet alley. And so ad infinitum.
In Barcelona, La Boqueria market has become such a sought-after place that it is difficult to find a seat in one of the shops. With the globalization of tourism and trade, the physiognomies of the markets are also changing. But their spirit, based on generations of porters, peddlers, farmers, buyers, smugglers, informers, drunkards, remains present.
If I had to choose one market to return to, it would be the one in Palermo, Sicily. I don't even know why, staying for a few days in the capital of the largest Mediterranean island, I ran around, and only when I was leaving the city did I realize that I didn't spend enough time at the market in the center. I should have walked more often between the stalls through the whole maze of streets. To listen to that language, to inhale those smells, to sit down in a bar for a cappuccino. To let that sight intoxicate me. So that I walk through the labyrinth again without looking for a way out.
Once, waking up in Palermo, I wrote that the city was a meeting of the market and the palace, a meeting of luxury and misery. An encounter of me – a stranger – with all of that in my own depths.
I remember my market trips in metropolises and small towns, sitting in the pirotic cafeteria Euphoria.
I went among the stalls of forgotten palanquins even when there was no one there, like once in Kuršumlija. Something of the blues of the tavern owner is also present in the wind blowing old newspapers in the empty market.
If I could, I would make another round of hundreds of markets, from the eastern to the western Mediterranean, from the Adriatic to the Baltic. Now, on my way out of the city, I would like to rename this cafe Melancholia Cafe. One thing is certain - I will return to Pirot at the first opportunity. And to Palermo.
Bonus video:
