“I think this is the right way, yes! it’s just past that cow…”. Our friends led us through a small wooden gate with a crooked sign that read ‘cheese’ in Montengrin. We had come upon a small family farm that was perched on the side of the rugged mountain that overlooked Kotor. To get there we had hiked a few hundred stairs, wound through a dilapidated castle, and a stone fortress, and trekked along the rocky mountainside. Our destination had become clear, our friends wanted us to try the “best cheese in Montenegro” and it was found here on this tiny mountainside family farm.
The salmon sizzled, spitting hot olive oil from the striations in its flesh. The fish was so fresh, you could not smell that it was fish, rather it smelled of salt water and cold—the way a deep breathe on a frosty morning smells. The small restaurant in Split, Croatia was abuzz with activity, plates were being passed around, beers imbibed. The heavy wooden front door locked out the chilly November air and the breathe of well-fed patrons fogged the small windows, blocking the view to the street.
The jolly barman with large breasts sporting a red bikini merrily waved us in with a spatula as we nudged open the heavy wooden door to the bar. Laughter steamed the windows from the inside out on this chilly, early winter evening in Bled, Slovenia. The tiny bar was teeming with grimy, work-boot wearing men with missing teeth and large-bosomed, frolicsome women.