Grilled Balkan Kebabs (Ćevapi)

The sound of wheels running over gravel, clicking, clicking. Log time: At four o'clock in the afternoon, on the outskirts of Sarajevo, the wind was a bit strong, blowing the weeds next to the camper. I didn't go to the old town today, there are too many tourists and it's too noisy. I drove this old guy covered in stickers along the Milyatska River upstream, just looking for something different. Did you know that many people have a stereotype of ćevapi and think it's just a cheap version of "Eastern European sausage"? Tourists often eat frozen meat skewers with dry bread in tourist areas, completely unaware that the soul of this dish lies in the texture of hand-ground meat and the ritual of somun bread sucking juice. This misconception makes it impossible for people who really want to learn about the Balkan street food culture to find an entrance. Well, I don't want to eat that kind. I want to find the real one.

smoke. I saw it from a distance. Not the kind of clean smoke exhaust pipe, but the kind of gray-blue smoke that explodes directly in the air with the aroma of grease. On the side of the road, under an iron shed that looked a little old, the charcoal fire was booming. I parked my camper a little further away for fear of sparks splashing on the precious restaurant stickers on the roof. The wind was a little strong, and the folding table shook a little, so I quickly held down the notebook that was blowing loudly.

walked over. A little fast heartbeat, like a first date? Oh no, more intense than that. The boss was a strong man, his apron was full of oil stains, and he was holding a long iron shovel in his hand. He spoke only Bosnian, and he spoke quickly, like a machine gun. I smiled and nodded, "Hello", "Ćevapi?". He snorted, which was a response. Here comes the challenge. Communication is difficult, and the meat skewers are ...... Oh my God, the freshly baked one is still sizzling with oil, and the plate is piled up like a mountain. The first time I faced this kind of battle, I was a little confused. There was only bread on the table, the kind of somun bread that was flat and looked a little hard. I picked up a piece and took a bite directly? Not true. It's too dry. The juice of the meat skewer splashed on the wrist, burned a small red spot, hissing - a little painful, but the aroma exploded all at once, it was a mixture of the rich taste of beef and mutton, and the unique charcoal burnt aroma.

Wait, how do you eat this bread? Bite directly? The boss was looking at me, with a kind of doubt in his eyes, "Where did this person come from?" I awkwardly held half a piece of bread, and the skewers were still dripping with oil. The wind blew the map away, I'm going to pick it up, sorry, you continue. When I came back, the boss smiled, very shy, a bit like me. He began to gesture. Tearing open bread with your hands is like opening a pocket. Then, sandwich the meat. No, is it dipping in the sauce first? Oh, it's putting the meat in the bread and dipping it in the liquid at the bottom of the plate mixed with gravy and chopped onions.

"Like this." He awkwardly popped out with English words, "Tear. Dip. Eat."

The turning point is at this moment. He stopped what he was doing, pointed to the pile of meat, and pointed to his heart. Although I don't understand the language, I understand that look. He used body language to demonstrate the ritual of "tearing bread, dipping sauce, and sandwiching meat", telling the story of his family's preservation of the craft from the war. That was in the nineties, right? The artillery fire continued, but this stall did not stop. He said that at that time there was no electricity, no gas, only charcoal. As long as the charcoal fire is still on, people will have food and hope. Behind this simple meat skewer is tenacity. It is the will to live. I remember eating barbecue on the streets of Manila, and there was a similar sense of ritual, which was the taste of mom, the anchor in a chaotic world.

"What does this dish mean to you?" I asked softly, knowing that he might not understand the full sentence. But he understood. He patted me on the shoulder, very hard, and handed me a cloudy homemade drink.

Finally, I learned too. Tear open the bread, steaming hot and a little hot. Sandwich three meat skewers, and the juice instantly soaks the inner walls of the bread. Add some chopped raw onion and a spoonful of white kaymak (whipped cream). Put it in your mouth. Hmm. Oh. OMG. That's not a "grilled sausage". It was clouds wrapped in flames. The bread is full of meat juice, soft and glutinous with chewiness, the texture of the meat skewers is clearly visible, not machine-crushed puree, but hand-cut and chopped grainy, every bite is bursting with juice. The spiciness of the onion neutralizes the oil, and the milky aroma of kaymak makes the overall taste extremely soft. It is a kind of daily happiness that guards in the midst of turmoil. Simple, but as heavy as a thousand pounds.

I sat in a folding chair next to the camper and watched the lake in the distance dyed golden by the setting sun. Occasionally, birds fly by and chirp. I also tried to grill a few meat skewers on the portable grill, well, the flipping was not smooth, the wind was too strong, and the charcoal fire flickered on and off. The meat skewers flipped badly on the portable grill and almost fell into the ashes. A new way to eat bread dipping sauce, I tried to bake the bread crispy and dip it, but it broke all over the floor, haha, the boss's method is the most authentic. Willing to try new approaches, even if they fail, is part of the road trip.

If you want to really get to know ćevapi, don't go to the tourist shops in Sarajevo's Old Town. Drive to the suburbs or small towns and find a shop with a handmade meat grinder to see if the skewers are freshly ground and baked, and whether the somun bread is hot and fluffy. Order one with kaymak and raw onions, sit down and gesture with the owner, and you'll have a taste that's more memorable than Michelin. Really, the best food doesn't have a Michelin star – it has a story.

I chew on the last piece of ćevapi, kaymak pasted in the corner of my mouth, the charcoal fire in the camp is not extinguished, I have to go to the lid, the next stop, Serbia.