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Veggie's delight: Smažený sýr |
In a country enamoured with pork,
smažený sýr (literally, fried cheese) is a rare and radical departure. Even the most fiercely
carnivorous of eateries (and in the Cezch Rep they come fierce enough
to make you worry for your own hide) boast, in their bezmasova
jídla (food sans
meat) sections, a smažený
sýr special for
vegetarians to glut themselves on. Bear in mind, however, that the
bezmasova jídla section
usually contains just two to three entries, and that even its name
suggests a pitiable lack of completion, a food stuff defined solely by
the absence of meat rather than any positive characteristics
of its own.
It
would be fair to say that smažený sýr is
a dish that lacks independently enticing features. In a way, the
rough Czech categorisation (lumping it in with gnocchi and omelettes)
has a ring of truth: it is a peculiarly anonymous food. Its
appearance on a menu is less a surprise than a relief - at least, the
meat marauded veggie sighs (ever plaintive, of course), there's this.
Amid the deathly hacking noises that float out of the average Czech
kitchen, such obviously lifeless, artificial bulk is weirdly
comforting. Two yellow-brown (I hesitate to say golden) slabs are
plunked unceremoniously before the ambitious herbivore. On closer
inspection said slabs reveal themselves as two family-sized bricks of
Czech Eidam (note,
please, the misspelling: here is something even blander than actual
Edam, a mere impersonation of that more familiar disappointment),
coated in breadcrumb emulsion and thrown at a deep fat fryer. Crack
its brittle shell and a pale plastic ooze bubbles forth. This molten
treacle, a sort of culinary ectoplasm (the residue of something that
might once have been food), springs from its cocoon with surprising
vigour. Here is the secret (I hypothesise) of its success: the ooze
and its cracked shell provide the only hint of contrast to
proceedings.
My
favourite smažený sýr is
served (lucky me) just downstairs at the local pub. So local is the
pub, in fact, that I can smell it from my window on a warm day
(decades of frying oil lifted on the spring breeze!). Despite bearing
the excellent, 'ideologically correct' moniker Restaurace
Pokrok (Restaurant
Progress), this dimly illuminated little shack is perhaps consciously unremarkable. You might be given
to wonder what, precisely, progress meant to mid-70s Czechoslovakian
publicans, and thanks to the unaltered decor of Pokrok, you
can now find out. Progress was apparently commensurate with foliage,
or more specifically with a dense collection of indoor plants. This
chimes with so many attempts to turn Prague's suburbs into overgrown
garden cities. Even the innards of the local watering hole are
swollen with dark green leaves, actual vinery winding its way
around glossily varnished woodwork. Outside the walls are an
innocuous peach. A strange vessel for the hopes of socialist future,
but not without a certain cosy charm.
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Promotional photo of Pokrok |
Siobhan
and I arrive one Saturday afternoon, me still locked in combat with a
titanic hangover. On entering we're struck - if that's the word for
turning to one another, noses wrinkled - by the heavy, sultry air.
Entering Pokrok is a
bit like sinking into a tepid, oily bath, ringlets of pollution
slopping about on the water's surface. It leaves a film of grease on
your skin long after you've left. One advantage to all that plant
life, however, is that privacy comes easy. The quiet motion of
cigarettes being lifted to mouths and pulled on; the distant murmur
of drinkers; the brittle clinking of glass; all of this is easily
concealed. One thing Pokrok has
perfected - ironically, given its name - is utter predictability.
Socialist progress always meant, after all, that things should remain
indefinitely the same. The daily menu only changes when something
runs out. They always sell the same two watery soups. A third of the
bar menu is taken up with cigarettes. Another with chocolate bars.
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Pokrok interior, foliage visible at rear |
Our
waiter is a harried looking man of indeterminate age. Two weeks ago
he was naively fresh on the job. Sometime before today's visit,
however, a profound evolutionary leap has been made. In adapting to
the exhausting working conditions - he's the only person on the job
throughout our entire visit - his face has assumed the expressive
composure of sheet metal. As he takes our orders he refuses even to
make eye contact, although - rather sweetly, I think - he finishes
our sentences for us. With grim predictability (not disliked here, of
course) I order the cheese slabs with chips and...
'Tartarka?'
he says, assuming (accurately) that I want a separate accompaniment
of Tartar sauce.
Siobhan
opts for smažený řízek (that
is, a pork schnitzel). Both our meals amount to the kind of thing we
might feel either a little queasy or slightly embarrassed about
ordering were we in Britain, which itself is hardly a gastronomic
bastion. What must Italians think when they come to Prague, which
they do in considerable numbers? Do they gaze in wonder at the very
fact that people's hearts aren't everywhere giving out at the dinner
table?
I
should admit here that I'm no longer a proper vegetarian (Poland beat
that affectation out of me). Today I'm just an unnecessarily fussy
eater. I'll eat sausages, but never pork. Minced beef, but never
steak. I realise this is not only irrational but quite annoying,
especially if you have to eat with me a lot. My only justification is
the life-long vegetarian's dread of gristle, and of toughness and
chewiness more generally. Siobhan's schnitzel arrives like a
malformed boulder, all jagged protrusions and and rocky outcrops.
Scorched a light brown and utterly parched, it vaguely resembles
Australia from space. The only sign of vegetation on either landmass
is a wilted sprinkling of some anonymous leaf. Somehow the melted
rubber of my fried cheese has fewer reminders of its disturbing
animal progeny. Its texture resembles nothing natural. Chewing this
glutinous, cud-like morsel I am infinitely reassured. My rebellious,
booze-addled stomach revolts at the sight of the schnitzel. I'll
stick with the plastic.
By the
time we've finished my hangover is cured. The trade-off is a severe
bout of indigestion. As we stand up I feel my diaphragm coil like a
spring. As a keen observer of my own digestive activity, I can
sometimes appear a bit of a hypochondriac. But this time - 200g of
melted cheese gently solidifying inside of me - I have reason to
complain. I walk the hundred metres home with my arm on Siobhan's
shoulders, hunched over and huffing heavily.
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