Plums for Mojca

This is a recipe born out of haste, but nevertheless adored by my friend Mojca. It’s best to use the small variety of plums for this dish that are available in the Central Market. They’re sweeter and more bite-sized than the Mercator variety. Mojca tells me these little plums are known as “bosanke,” which also happens to mean Bosnian women.

Ingredients:

For the plums:

½ kilo of small plums

¼ stick of butter

¼ to ½ cup of breadcrumbs

½ teaspoon of cinnamon

2-3 tablespoons of fruit liquor

For the sauce:

500 g of mascarpone cheese

1 to 2 eggs

¼ to 1/3 cup of sugar

2-3 tablespoons of fruit liquor

First prepare the sauce:

1) Separate the yolks and the whites of the egg. The number of eggs you use depends on how you want the texture of the cream to be. For a fluid sauce, use two eggs; for a more compact cream, use one egg. For the cream seen in the photographs, I have used only one egg.

2) Mix together the mascarpone cheese with the egg yolk(s). When it is thoroughly mixed, it will become a smooth cream with an off-white color.

3) Add in the sugar and mix until dissolved. I’ve left the sugar measurement a bit vague because you will require at least ¼ cup of sugar, and maybe more if you want it sweeter. I personally like it a little less sweet since I want the buttery flavor of the cheese to stand out and contrast the sweetness and tartness of the plumps.

4) Mix in the fruit liquor. I happen to have pear liquor (with a pear in the bottle!) at home, so I use that.

5) Beat the egg whites to a stiff and then fold them into the mascarpone mixture. Be careful not to stir too much!

6) Allow the cream to set in the fridge for about an hour.

Then the plums:

1) Wash plumps and cut each along its cleft. Remove the seed and separate the two halves.

2) In a wide saucepan, heat up the half of the butter on a medium low heat. When the butter begins to brown, it will give off a nutty smell. At that point, add in the cinnamon and let it fry undisturbed for about half a minute.

3) Then toss in the plums and stir them around, coating each in some cinnamon brown butter.

4) Allow the plums to cook for about seven to ten minutes. The very ripe plums should disintegrate into a sauce. If you see that the pan is a bit dry, add in about ¼ cup of water. This will encourage some of the riper plums to boil and fall apart, thus creating a sauce.

5) Set the plums aside in a dish. Some of the sauce will inevitably stick to the sides of the pan, but you can deglaze it with 2-3 tablespoons of the fruit liquor. Once you have scraped off as much as possible, add it to the plum mixture.

6) In the same pan, heat up the remaining butter on a medium low flame. When the butter has browned, toss in the breadcrumbs. Whether you use ¼ or ½ a cup of breadcrumbs depends on how much liquid the plums have released. While the breadcrumbs should soak up most of the liquid, the end result should still be very moist.

7) Allow the breadcrumbs to fry in butter for about three to four minutes. Stir regularly so that they do not burn.

8) Mix in the breadcrumbs with the plums, and set uncovered in the fridge to cool for about an hour.

9) There are two ways to serve this dish. If the mascarpone cream is thick, spoon it over the plum mixture after the plums have cooled for about half an hour. Dust the top with finely ground cinnamon. Then allow the two to set in the fridge for another half hour. The end result will be like a parfait that you can scoop out and serve. If the cream is thin, mix the two together only when serving. Pour out a ladleful of cream over a scoop of the plums, and finish off with a sprinkle of finely ground cinnamon.

Grüß Gott, Vienna!

As the train rolled past villages nestled in the bosom of evergreen hills, I couldn’t shake off a feeling of excitement. Vienna! Broad, shaded avenues and storefronts with glistening, beveled glass windows. Cafes with gold-frame Beidermeier mirrors and layered chocolate cakes sitting daintily atop crystal stands.

Vienna was what Ljubljana aspired to, throughout the centuries that Slovenia fell under Austro-Hungarian rule. The chandelier-fringed Café Europa along Slovenska Cesta or the white Art Nouveau Grand Hotel Union bear traces of a long-ago era when this provincial city emulated the culture and aesthetic of the imperial seat.

Though Ljubljana today stands as a capital in its own right, a lively city of nearly three hundred thousand, I still turn my eyes dreamily towards Vienna. For me, Vienna holds that big city promise of grandeur and action. As the three-bogy train chugged through the base of the Alps, I could relate to a turn-of-the-century Slovene’s anxiousness to reach what must have been the center of his universe.

Morning in Vienna was a regal affair. I drew open the heavy curtains to watch the empty street slowly illuminate in the rosy rays of the day’s first light. The buildings on either side stood white and tidy, like wedding cakes awaiting pick-up atop a bakery counter.

My husband Uros and I walked down the street to Café Central, housed inside what looked like a lonely turret from a medieval castle. We seated ourselves in booth besides the window, where a small placard shared a brief biography of novelist and frequent customer Stefan Zweig. Nearby us stood a rack of local newspapers, each fastened to a rapier-like wooden rod. Despite the tourist-friendly menu written in multiple languages, Café Central draws in mostly locals, who stop by for coffee, Kaiser rolls and the headlines en route to work.

We opted for the Viennese Breakfast, the centerpiece of which was a soft-boiled egg, balanced atop a flared ceramic dish that mimicked a baroness’s ball gown. With the back of his spoon, Uros cracked the top of the shell, and carefully peeled off the fragments. Then he plunged his spoon into the center of the egg, shaking up the warm and yolky interior.

“And to drink?” asked the waiter.

“Mélange,” Uros ordered.

“I’ll have the same,” I repeated.

Though the name is exotically French, the mélange turned out to be an unexciting incarnation of a cappuccino. The brioche, yet another French intruder in my Viennese breakfast, was one of the best croissants I’ve ever eaten: flaky and buttery, without leaving an oily film along my palette.

With our bellies full, we marched towards Hofburg, the imperial city of the Hapsburgs that stands in the dead center of Vienna. We passed by the Imperial Stables, outside of which tourists had gathered to see two Lipizzaner horses cross the road. One of the first things that Uros taught me about Slovenia was that these pristine-white stallions of Austrian fame actually hail from the town of Lipica across the border.

We entered the Hofburg from Michaelerplatz, where fountains graced with Nereids and mermen battling sea-monsters flank the main gate. As we strolled past the Royal Green House (home to a delightful eatery, Palmenhaus, that we have yet to try), perched above the gardens like a jewel box atop a velvet cushion, and toured the Schatzkammer where ancient crowns reveal the inspiration for the shape of the Kaiser Roll, I felt as though I had gained access to a forbidden city. Empress Maria Theresa, clad in silks, ermine and lace, must have stepped lightly over where I now stood. A sturdy wrought iron gate, boasting the crest of the Hapsburg while protecting their gold-trimmed buildings and manicured lawns, reminded me of where I was. I was at the center of a once-formidable empire, and from this vantage point, I could watch the world outside.

I jostled Uros. “From the plains of Pannonia to the palace of Vienna. Your great-great-grandparents would be in awe.”

He laughed, and we left the glorious Hofburg for a common man’s lunch at the Schweizerhaus, a bustling beer-garden on the outskirts of the Prater Park. Just about every table had ordered the house-specialty: a grilled rear-knuckle of pork, sold by weight. Our waiter swiftly carved out the bone, leaving us to tackle the knuckle with mustard, freshly-grated horseradish and a bowl of cumin-studded coleslaw. And so our Frankish feast began. The meat was moist and tender, and the fatty, crispy pork skin melted in my mouth. The mustard, horseradish and coleslaw formed a trinity of sweet, sour and spicy to liven the meat.

“Save room for dinner!” Uros warned me.

We had made an early reservation at Vestibül, a brasserie in the Bergtheater. This was my chance to wear my faux-diamond necklace, and dine in amidst triumphal arches, marble columns, and flamboyant potted palms. Uros’ entrée selection of catfish cooked in a stock of carrot, parsnip, and Pannonian saffron, served with a bed of cress was equally memorable. The broth was mild, with all the flavors united harmoniously. I later learnt that Vestibül has a reputation for dishes that incorporate saffron.

Sunday morning was as glorious as Saturday morning; golden light filtered in between the buildings to admire its shimmering reflection in windows. Uros and I started the day at the classic Café Bräunerhof (Stalburggasse 2, First District), with eier im glas, two shelled soft-boiled eggs served in a drinking glass. We ordered Kaiser rolls, and the waiter, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt, brought us a basket filled with rolls and brioches. We would be charged by however much we ate, a system that certainly tempts self-control. The café stocks English-language newspapers, and I soon lost myself in the fine print, sipping on a mélange that had long grown cold.

It was a brisk morning in a city quelled by Sunday. The tourists made their usual rounds, while the locals buried themselves in café newspapers or headed off to church dressed in neatly ironed clothes. We stopped for another coffee at the Kleines Café, a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with green wooden tables set up besides the fountain in Franziskanerplats. Just as I was about to lose faith in Julius Meinl and the Viennese coffee tradition, came an outstanding mélange. We drank slowly, watching the crowds pour out of the gray Franciscan church: boys chatting to girls who had kept their hair open, old couples with their arms interlocked chatting with young couples with their arms similarly interlocked, toddlers bundled in sweaters running about, with their mothers fretting that they may trip over the cobblestones.

When the crowd dispersed, we too left and made our way over to Österreicher in Mak, a contemporary restaurant housed in the Museum of Applied Arts. The menu is seasonal, serving classical Viennese dishes as well as modern twists on old favorites.

“Weinerschnitzel,” Uros said as he scanned the menu. “Can’t leave Vienna without trying that.”

I selected the breast of muscovy duck with honey-thyme cabbage and hazelnut dumplings. Uros enjoyed his weinerschnitzel, and since I do not eat beef, I poked at the tasty sides of cold potato salad, lamb’s cabbage and lingonberry jam. My slices of duck were moist and tender, though the cabbage and the drizzle were a bit salty. What intrigued me the most however, were the hazelnut dumplings, boiled and coated in butter, served with a few fried gooseberries. We skipped dessert, though the nuss schmarren, a mashed pancake mound that arrived on the table besides us, looked like a sweet and buttery heaven.

Back home within six hours, Vienna seemed like a dream, of nutty dumplings and sprawling fountains, of the stately buildings and saffron broths. As I walk through the center of Ljubljana, I at times crave Vienna, perhaps as much as much as these streets do.

Sunday Lunch in Murska Sobota

Out of Ljubljana, there is a road heading east to Budapest. Today this road is a six-lane highway, smooth tarmac with eager white lane-dividers. But once this was an unassuming dirt road, trampled over by the Ostrogoths, the Avars, the Lombards, and other avid tribes from the steppes of Central Asia, intent on settling in Europe. Even the Romans traversed this route, though in the opposite direction from their nomadic precursors, during their conquest of the plains of Pannonia.

The road east cuts through cornfields that stretch out undisturbed towards the horizon. Atop each cornstalk sits a cluster of tassels, which when viewed from a distance, creates a purple haze, like the smoke from a sorcerer’s brew, floating over the field. Poplar trees that dot the road are the only vertical challenge to this otherwise flat and unvaried landscape. As Uros and I head along this ancient route, our thoughts are not filled with the legacy of the Ostrogoths, the Avars, the Lombards, or even the Romans, but with a far more mundane matter: what we are going to have for lunch. We go to Murska Sobota, a quiet city of thirty thousand in the heart of these Pannonian flatlands, to visit his maternal and paternal grandparents, who share their love through three-course meals.

Babi Sida and Dedi Mirko live in a two-story house of a wooden and concrete frame, topped with a sloping roof. Their house sits in the center of the city, along a road that sees few cars and few pedestrians. Behind their house, stretches a large garden that shares a boundary with the grounds of a Renaissance castle that once belonged to a feudal Hungarian lord.

Babi Sida is a passionate gardener and tends to her flowers with great affection. A sprawling rosebush climbs along one side of the house, while on the other side, stand short but productive rhododendron plants. In wide pots on the balcony outside of her bedroom, Sida rears tall stalks of hibiscuses, which bloom into regal yellow, orange, and pink flowers.

Dedi Mirko tends to the fruits in the garden, the pear, plum, apricot, and peach trees that yield enough for jams and compotes to last throughout the winter. On our recent visit, the boughs of the apple and pear trees were laden with fruit, while only a few ripe peaches remained for picking.

The garden is the source of the vegetables that find their way into the kitchen. Luscious, fist-sized tomatoes, belonging to the “cow’s heart” variety, appear at dinnertime, cut in slices set on a ceramic plate. My husband eats them with a sprinkling of salt, but I prefer eating their juicy, fruit-like flesh plain. Sweet, pale-yellow paprika joins the tomato as another raw accompaniment to slices of the region’s Prekmurje ham and braided milk bread that form the crux of the day’s final meal.

Dinners are simple in an effort to counterbalance the extravagance of lunch. The first course is always a soup, followed by a heavy meat dish, and finished off with something sweet: a small square of cake, a helping of baked rice pudding, or maybe a scoop of chestnut puree, served with fresh whipped cream. And to cleanse the palette and aid digestion, or what I perceive as indigestion, a cup of Turkish coffee.

For Sunday lunch, Sida had prepared an elaborate baked roll: under a thin shell of phyllo dough, layers of Swiss chard, gouda cheese, grated carrot, sautéed mushrooms encased a chunk of pork loin. What an unusual but beautiful and tasty combination! When the roll came out of the oven, the vegetables were warm, the cheese had melted, and the pastry was moist yet flaky. Each slice of the baked log is colorful and geometrically balanced. When I asked Sida what it is called, she shrugged her shoulders. “A baked roll with vegetables and meat, I suppose,” she said. Though this may be her invention drawn from over fifty years of cooking experience, its colors and emphasis on patterns strikes me as something from the Middle Ages, a dish that perhaps may have been served to the Hungarian lord of the neighboring castle.

Dessert was yet another phyllo dough ingenuity; the flaky layers sheltered a moist walnut and chocolate cake. We eat the this course on the verandah, in between jokes and sips of sweet, hot Turkish coffee.