A photo journal of dining in Central and Eastern Europe

Sauerkraut soup with sauage and potato dumplings

Two weeks of dining in Central and Eastern Europe does weird things to a girl. You start eager to eat all the meat and potato dumplings. You think you have a never ending stomach for beer, good beer that is. And then you hit day four (oh, heck, day three). The curiosity begins. Having grown up in a culture where a standard meal plan calls for as many cuisines as there are days in the week, the variations that exist between central and eastern European countries, fascinating though they may be, fail to satiate the craving for diversity. Here's a photo journal of the typical, strange and delightful foods I encountered during two weeks traveling in the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Austria, Hungary and Ukraine. Hope you're hungry.

Budapest breakfast and croissant with espresso from Cafe Gerbeaud in Budapest, Hungary

Multigrain croissant from Moods Bakery in Bratislava, Slovakia

Plain chimney cake in Prague, Czech Republic

Chocolate filled chimney cake in Prague, Czech Republic

Beers from Kolkovna in Prague, Czech Repbulic

Grapefruit and Becherovka cocktail from Kiev, Ukraine

Discovering Vermouth and discovering Spain

The guidebook said Spaniards drink sangria and fruity red wines. It's true. Or a partial truth, like coke-guzzling Americans and tea-swilling Brits. Come summer, more intriguing tipples fill Spanish glasses. Like tinto de verano, an easy-drinking wine cocktail made with lemon-lime soda and red wine (called vino tinto in Spanish). Or vermouth, drunk straight-up, maybe with a twist of lemon or spear of olives. During my trip to Spain I sipped the latter in small glass and relished its exotic flavor.

You know vermouth but likely as an ingredient, not a drink. Few Americans drink it beyond the splash that goes into their martini or Manhattan. Even in Italy, where red vermouth originated in the 18th century, it’s most frequently tossed into a Negroni or Americano. Spain defines vermouth. On tap or from a bottle, vermouth is the day-drink for when wine is too strong but beer is too dull.

Although ordering vermouth in Spain is straightforward, buying it abroad is baffling. After returning from my trip I went to the grocery store to get a bottle. They had Martini and Lillet and Punt e Mes and Pernod, which I thought was vermouth but is actually pastis. I left with a sparkling water and returned home to research.

Vermouth is a fortified wine with more alcohol than beer and wine, but less than spirits or liqueurs (about 16% ABV). It’s classified as a sweet wine, but no vermouth I’ve had tastes as a cloying as vin santo or cream sherry. Northern Italy dominates vermouth production — just think of Cocchi and Cinzano and Milano da bere — but Spain and France also produce sizeable amounts. While seasoned tasters can discern the difference between Dolin and Noilly Prat — okay, I made that up, anyone could notice the difference between dry and sweet vermouths — the newbie will notice the flavors they share: the fruity sweetness, the herbal bitterness, the slick texture. Each brand’s unique taste comes from the different herbs they use to infuse their wine. These herbs make Italy’s Cocchi tastes like Italy and France’s Lillet tastes like France.

Armed with knowledge, orange peels and ice, I returned to the grocery store to buy a sweet red Spanish vermouth. I left with Portuguese red wine. Despite its popularity within the country, Spanish vermouth remains rare abroad.

Spain produces and drinks more vermouth than their foreign presence suggests. Compared to Italy or France, the Spanish vermouth shelf appears bear: Lacuesta, Yzaguirre and Miró among other. It’s vermut de grifa — tap vermouth — that distinguishes Spain’s vermouth culture. 

Tap vermouth is simple and cheap. It’s slightly bitter but still sweet, as if a bottle of coke had half the sugar and none of the carbonation. When drunk in a skinny glass over ice, preferably with a citrus twist, it tastes of al fresco cocktail hours, kids playing soccer in squares and the relief of resting tired feet. It is simple and elegant and that’s how you feel drinking it. Even within Spain it looks understated compared to goblets of sangria or jugs of tinto. Ordering vermouth means ordering a glass of Spanish summer. 

In lieu of Waitrose, I headed to the bar. But the furrowed brows when I asked for a Cocchi Americano over ice warned me that my Euro affectation was not welcome (not, I admit, a new experience for me). I sought an analogue in Pimm’s and rosé and gin and tonic. The flavors were different, but the ordering was as easy as a sunny Spanish day.

And when I want to taste those Spanish summer? I open my mind and take a sip and find that the taste of vermouth is just as good as I remember. At least, in memory.

The Taste of Repulsion (or a meditation on fermented shark)

Hákarl. Fermented shark. Whatever the language, the Icelandic delicacy inspires distaste among the gastro-tourists. The distaste extends beyond bloggers and Trip Advisor reviews — even Anthony Bourdain, iron-stomach extraordinaire, dubs it ‘unspeakably nasty’. Travelers concur: fermented shark is not worth exporting. 

Iceland's tourist economy provides ample opportunities for those curious to sample the country’s weirdest foods without wasting an expensive meal. Supermarkets sell small tubs of hákarl, packs of dried fish and rúgbrauð, Icelandic rye bread. Only skyr, a strained cheese that resembles Greek yogurt in taste and texture, comes in large containers, speaking to Icelanders’ confidence in the product’s appeal. 

But even supermarkets packages can be too big. That's where restaurants like Cafe Loki step in. The all-day restaurant cooks Icelandic dishes for tourists streaming in from adjacent Hallgrmískirkja, a large modern-gothic church and Reykjavik's most recognizable landmark. Diners pick from open-faced sandwiches on rye bread and platters offering guidebook-marked must-tries. Perhaps the only disgust-inducing dish not available is svið, lamb head served alongside turnip and potato mash.

Fermented shark comes either as a sampler or as part of a platter. Whatever you choose, you receive a smattering of pristine white cubes marked with an Icelandic flag toothpick, a prize for ingesting the offending product.

Image via Audrey, Flickr

When my meal arrived, I started with the shark. It's served cut into sugar-cube sized pieces and only a few shades darker than one. From far away there's no aroma, but a sharp, vinegary bite develops as you bring it toward your mouth. The vinegar flavor intensifies as you chew through the toothy, jelly-like fish. But this soon succumbs to a salty odor that travels up your nose and down your throat, burning like horseradish or vodka. After swallowing it's not the flavor you remember, but rather the total combination of aroma, texture and aftertaste.

I was not disgusted. I quite liked it. I ate two pieces and would have eaten more had my dining companions not also wanted to try. Shoving the innocuous pieces into their mouths, their faces contorted -- disgust. Most people I talked to who tried it recalled the same reaction -- disgust. 

But, why? What about this innocent-looking foodstuff turns the stomach? Was my confessed enjoyment an affectation that went along with my appreciation of aquavit, dark rye bread and salty licorice? Although I'd prefer to think otherwise, I'm involved in a food culture that praises the daring but expects personal preferences to collide with cultural background. In this sense, my enjoyment wasn’t a natural reaction, but rather a culturally-informed response. Knowing the food’s social meaning, I ate it and enjoyed it to identify with contemporary foodies and foreign cultures. I have a taste for these flavors and sensations because I want to identify with the Nordic community. Whether or not food actually identifies me as I wish is irrelevant; ingesting these products allows me the self-identification I desire.

Flickr via Chris Wronski

There might be another, less personal, reason for this universal distaste. Disgust is the pre-determined reaction in front of fermented shark. Diners are conditioned to respond in this way and so they do. I have never read an article where the author doesn’t hate hákarl. Maybe Icelanders want it this way -- they eat this product, we don’t. They play a joke on unsuspecting foreigners; foreigners have a joke played on them. Perhaps together we create an environment that invents the modern meaning of an ancient product. Whether or not Icelanders eat fermented shark on a daily basis is irrelevant as it makes up part of their culture and lore that visitors don’t share. They have a taste. We don't

The conditions under which non-Icelanders eat hákarl reproduce this dynamic. From the small portion sizes to the special consumption locations, the presentation directs us away from enjoyment. We enjoy a large plate of steaming lamb, we sample fermented shark. It’s not a food, it’s a taste. It's the small canapé, the pre-dinner nibble that we want to eat but hold back from knowing that we should save room for the main meal, a meal that will undoubtedly satisfy us in a deeper way than the small pickings presented first. How can we enjoy this product when we aren't given the opportunity to? Tourist accounts of fermented shark don't recount disgust because it's the only response to this product, but because it's the natural response to the presentation.  

I liked fermented shark. Or, I think I did. Although the product has a divisive taste, texture and sensation, the cultural cues that permeate its representation prevent impartiality. If only we could do away with these markings, tasting the fermented food blindfolded in a room with offending products we enjoy (Roquefort? Kimchi? Marmite?). Then maybe we'd be able to appraise hákarl without prejudice. But until then, eating fermented shark means ingesting your place within global food culture and identifying with a pre-conditioned reaction.