“The harsh, pungent ink is the least desirable part of the squid. As Venetian cooks have shown, it’s only the mellow, velvety, warm-tasting ink of cuttlefish—seppie—that is suitable for pasta sauce, risotto, and other black dishes.”
—Marcella Hazan, Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking (1992)
If the Super Bowl can deploy Roman numerals with the maximum of embarrassing pretentiousness, then so can I, and as such, Euro XLVI (since the first one in the year MCMLXXXV) has successfully concluded.
Euro XLVI was a warm late autumn week spent in the Croatian port city of Split, and speaking as the owner of a rapidly deteriorating arthritic left hip scheduled to be replaced in early December, allow me to observe that using a cane while hobbling through a hilly European city with ubiquitous stairs, cobblestones and marble surfaces in the central area wasn’t the easiest of assignments undertaken during my Euro Roman Numeral career.
But pain, while annoying, is an acceptable tradeoff for not being in Europe at all.
Split is perched on the Adriatic coast of Croatia as part of the region known thoughout history as Dalmatia. As a nation, Croatian independence helped trigger the Yugoslav Civil War of the 1990s, and now, three decades, Croatia is a European Union member state.
Split’s primary attraction is its venerable city center, which has evolved directly from the handy template of a 7.5-acre walled palace complex built 1,700 years ago by the Roman emperor Diocletian, presumably as a “modest” retirement villa for a man of his stature.
Today it’s car-free oasis of marble streets and buildings from Diocletian’s time as well as every era since, as structures have been added to the Roman superstructure and subtracted from it, creating a unique, helter-skelter architectural mélange.
In short, Diocletian’s digs are an example of municipal adaptive reuse on steroids.
From a Split tourist’s point of view, a simple budgetary rule applies. Purchases inside Diocletian’s walls are more expensive than those outside it, often modestly so, but on occasion rising to the level of extortionate; a draft beer in Split shouldn’t cost 8 Euros, ever. A good rule of thumb is to follow the lead of the locals. They’ll patronize cafes in the palace vicinity, just not the ones overpriced for visitors.
Similarly, the further one travels from Diocletian’s former domicile, the fewer fellow tourists will be encountered. If you want to see how ordinary folks live in a place like Split, get the city’s transit app, buy a one-day bus pass for 8 Euros, and head out into the suburbs. Have a coffee on a terrace from a thriving vendor that serves the occupants of those brutalist housing blocks from the 1960s, and don’t be sheepish, because Split is safer than most American cities of a similar size (160,000) and the people are friendly.
Our room was up six flights of wide stairs in a 20th-century building immediately opposite the Silver Gate into the palace area. In the old days, this would have been called a “pension,” or perhaps a “guesthouse,” usually with breakfast included. Over time families would acquire the apartments on a single floor and convert them into lodgings for visitors, often with shared bathroom facilities; these lowered the overall price and were fine once you became accustomed to them, but most have been retrofitted with private bathrooms during contemporary times.
As importantly, Split’s downtown city market stalls were situated below our window, which faced the sea (my Ohio Valley allergic reactions disappeared overnight). The market area extended around the corner, filled with sellers of food and drink, but also of textiles, electronics, and about anything else capable of being arranged atop a table or inside a kiosk.
Our pension (La Porta, managed by the inimitable Toni and his wife) cooperates for breakfast with an eatery inside the palace walls, roughly a three-minute walk. Luxor as a café dates to a 1941 refurbishment of a Diocletian-era component, apparently a small temple, the contours of which are outlined in colored flooring stones.
There was nothing wrong about the Luxor’s breakfast options, except that they’d obviously been devised with tourists in mind, down to the OJ and strips of American-style bacon – and need I remind readers that traveling thousands of miles to be offered a reprise of Bob Evans is not the object of the exercise. We were down in Split, not on the farm.
It proved far more entertaining to pull up morning seats outside on the patio of a tiny diner-sized café serving the market (lovely morning temperatures were in the 50s, Fahrenheit). There we enjoyed the best espresso in the immediate vicinity, noshed on poppy seed pastries from the bakery next door, and watched the floor show – which in the Balkans is still comprised of “Old Men Drinking Their Breakfast and Filling Ashtrays.”
I first experienced this spectacle in 1987 while exploring Yugoslavia. Beer is the choice for many, but observers will note that drinking water (always offered alongside espresso) goes into the taller glasses, while the clear liquid in the shorter tumblers is booze, specifically in Croatia, rakija.
Espresso was fine for me, thank you. And as for those pastries, Croatia is a wonderful place that doesn’t spare the butter.
Given my compromised physical status, it wasn’t possible to live up to my own usual standards of aimless roaming while in Split. But having not visited the city previously, at least we enjoyed a useful overview. Seaside walks offered views of the closest islands, hundreds more of which lie between Dalmatia and Italy. It may surprise readers to learn that further south near Dubrovnik there is an indigenous Croatian citrus industry.
Between the western side of the palace and Marjan Park there is a restaurant district of sorts that we patronized several times (see below). We understood that November marks the beginning of the slow season in Split in terms of visitors, and while some attractions were closed, and others starting their expected wintertime reduced-service dormancy, it was actually quite glorious to share Split’s public realm with its own residents, not ones from Seattle or Sweden.
Six days on the ground isn’t enough time to draw detailed conclusions about any aspect of local life, much less the culinary scene. Europe in general increasingly mirrors a world awash with food and drink brands, and while I was thankful to not see a Starbucks in Split, the Diocletian district has its share of build-your-own-burger bars and craft this-or-that eateries, likely boasting free-range poutine and organic cicada wings, washed down with Croatian IPA.
Color me disinterested. Local dryish white wine suits me fine, and Croatian golden lager beers have retained vestiges of the rough-and-ready character I recall from the 1980s, in spite of their inevitable internationalization.
Hip Hops: A consideration of beer in Croatia, as opposed to Yugoslavia
Following are three Croatian dishes of a more traditional shading, which after all is the reason to travel in the first place. Given a history of Venetian presence along Croatia’s coast, it will not be surprising to acknowledge Italian culinary influences. But the Balkans fascinate because of the many examples of cultural crossover.
Pašticada (Dalmatian Beef Stew) (at Bite It Quick)
Pašticada (pronounced: Pashtitsada) is by far the best known and most traditional dish that reminds you of Dalmatia. It is interesting that not only every city has its own version or the method of preparation, but the recipes vary from household to household.
Upon arrival, it is my custom to ask hotel personnel for a recommendation for the first day’s meal. In Split, our incredibly helpful liaison Toni was ready with directions to Tavern Buffet Fife (fee-feh, not Andy’s deputy Barney). He commanded me to order the Pašticada with gnocchi, and it was brilliant (good thing I suspend my “eat less meat” doctrine when traveling).
Pašticada sauce is hard to describe. Marinating difficult cuts of beef and simmering them long and slow is hardly unusual; I believe the use of prunes and the Marsala-like local wine called prošek contribute to a sweet and sour character. It’s addictive.
As might be imagined, there are a great many seafood restaurants. The ones by the water near the promenade are dearer; a few blocks away, at least you’re not paying for the view. Our choice was Konoba Fetivi, where we were served a mixed selection of regional fish (and I had my Black Risotto, explained below).
In terms of localism, fish stew should have been the choice. Ironically, because I’ve been cooking it at home, it fell off the radar in Split.
Hvarska Gregada (at Total Croatia)
Have you ever tried gregada? This humble fish stew was most likely brought to the region by Greek settlers circa 380 BCE, as gregada is said to be the oldest way of preparing fish in Dalmatia, though potatoes were introduced considerably later.
Gregada was long known as a staple among Dalmatian fishermen, and even though it is mostly associated with Hvar and other central Dalmatian islands, this traditional Croatian dish is nowadays prepared all along the Adriatic coast. This recipe is really a no-brainer; all you need is some fresh white fish, a couple of potatoes and a few other ingredients.
Cuttlefish belong to the class Cephalopoda (also including squid, octopuses, and nautiluses).
Croatian Black Risotto Recipe (Crni Rižot) at Chasing the Donkey
This black, almost-scary looking dish can be found all over Croatia, but it traditionally comes from the coastal areas of Croatia. In my opinion, nobody prepares crni rižot better than your typical Dalmatian Konoba – a small family-run restaurant or in my mother-in-law’s kitchen. My mother-in-law makes this risotto so black. So fishy, with huge chunks of cuttlefish, way more than is needed.
The cover photo shows me in the process of polishing off a platter of crni rižot. Close your eyes and you’d never know it was black.
At this juncture, it no longer matters to me whether pizza is Italian, or a concept influenced by the Italian-American diaspora, or something originating in Finland. But this much is true: I haven’t had a bad pie in the Mediterranean vicinity, perhaps ever. In Split, we opted for the wood-fired Pizzeria Galija, and highly recommend it.
As a final note, burek is a Balkan street food staple.
It’s a flaky filo pastry with savory fillings (meat, potato, cheese), upon which I subsisted in 1987 in addition to pljeskavica (a sort of burger) and ćevapčići (grilled minced meat, more like a sausage).
Pictured here are three varieties of burek, which I purchased at a kiosk and brought back to the room for a light meal. They were better than the grease-laden paper sacks might suggest.
Euro XLVII next February will bring us back to the region, though further south: Skopje and Ohrid in North Macedonia, and Tirana, capital of Albania. Until then, keep in mind this Croatian proverb: “Žlica je za stepliti dušu, pirun je za tilo” — a bucket (of soup) warms up the heart, a fork strengthens the body).
“Edibles & Potables” is Food & Dining Magazine’s Sunday slot for news and views that range beyond our customary metropolitan Louisville coverage area, as intended to be food (and drink) for thought.
Previously:
Edibles & Potables: “When pubs and restaurants close, our culture is a casualty”
