Listen up, boys; the devil knocked on my door… and he was smokin’, baby.
So many of these posts are belated attempts to catch up on various activities which transpired during my brief hiatus. Suffice to say, cet hommage particulier est nettement tardif. Unfortunately, it takes up precious time to recount the prattleworthy details of great fun that’s been had. Let us begin at the beginning, shall we?
The very first person to respond to my cry for help was a silently lurking reader stationed in Targu Mureş, through no fault of his own. He had promised to ship a quantity of regional swill to this guinea pig in good time. A quick back and forth of electronic mail revealed he was much wittier than your average bear.
At some point, he let it be known that he had no intention of merely shipping me some goods as I had presumed. Nossir, he dropped the other shoe and insisted on verifying with his own eyes whether I was actually in Romania or not. With a snort and a grin, I slapdashedly cobbled a welcoming email to set the date.
He would stop by Braşov for a brief visit to make the hand-off before continuing on to his destination to some other small village outside outside the city and in the general direction of Bran castle, if memory serves. Still, he’d definitely have time to hoist a beer over some chit-chat.
With traffic being undesirable (possibly due to a donkey-cart related vehicular entanglement) for much of the way south, we spoke briefly about how his microbus would be arriving a bit later than scheduled and coordinated our soon-to-be-had anonymous meeting at the gara (where Braşov’s primary, but not exclusive, bus station is intelligently co-located). I should admit it was slightly unfair as I’d been reading his rich blog and thus had the chance to paw through his many photo galleries which enabled me to know what to look for while he was faced with mystery.
Being a world-weary globetrotter, he wisely opted for the casual short-n-sandals utterly appropriate for the hot summer weather we had just begun to experience in Braşov. After some pleasantries were exchanged, I carried one his two very large and overpacked plasticized-straw bags which are part of his blend-in disguise for appearing local amongst the natives and we headed off for the nearest bar terasa which was just a block away from the gara parking lot.
Bunissima was adding to the fun, so the three of us wandered around looking for an open table before settling for a stand-up “table” with a protective umbrella where we waited for someone to come serve us. The rapid-fire conversation was enjoyable enough for us to not realize a full 10 or 15 minutes had gone by with us being ignored by employees. Indignant, we decided to head indoors where there were open tables. Now, don’t bust my chops, but I think it was then that we realized, there weren’t any waiters or waitresses. Find a line and get in it. Bingo!
We exchanged secrets about what it is like to live in Romania when you’re an American; limba romana difficulties, cultural differences, how the Romanian perception of you as an American affects you the individual, local political observations, şi — da — calitatea berii romaneşte.
When it became obvious a second round of judging was in order, we decided to scrounge up some outdoor seating. Amazingly, the very first table in view was remarkably devoid of carbon-based life-forms. Finders keepers, y’all. I forced the conversation to turn toward American politics and unleashed the full focus of his rapier wit. We kept things playful and friendly while exploring common ground, experiential differences, and political philosophy theories.
Now, I had noticed off to the side that two sweaty, drunk, old men had been staring at our little group for at least five minutes before one of them began to practice-mumble engleza in anticipation of interjecting himself in our conversation. He had that wild-eyed glow of a cataracted bear who’d just been slapped and was intent on barging into our little tea party to let us know just how great Romania was.
Matt was entirely too friendly, twistedly determined to find out exactly what these belligerent fools had to offer. He turned around and started yammering with them, Bunissima ran off to grab some hot mititei cu muştar, and I was left to contemplate my navel for a minute.
Ultimately, when the second sweaty local began to slur additional fuel to his compatriot to be translated roughshod for our enlightenment, that’s when things started to get a bit loud and we were all sucked into the blackhole as neighboring tables stared on in amazement.
To sum up the drunken babble, we were emphatically informed that US policy in the Middle East was a courageous triumph enabled by the great relationship between America and Romania, of how wonderful the people of Romania were to the point of being culturally superior, about the amazing beauty of Braşov, in particular, and Transylvania, in general, and what is the secret that clearly makes Ciucaş the world’s greatest beer bar none.
After imparting us with incredible knowledge, they stumbled away into the crowd of pedestrians steadily flowing across the sidewalks. Pit stops were had and new beers ordered as the conversations turned to business development in Romania, observations of the education system, the role (or lack thereof) of university majors over length of one’s life, and exchanging assorted details on what the three of us are all doing here in this place.
While our series of jibberjabber wasn’t nearly exhausted, the venue was becoming tiresome. I decided to call up a friend and find out what he was up to. Turns out he was with another group of folks, some of whom I knew and others I did not, just ordering beers in front of the bigscreen tv at Scottish Pub (excellent food, reasonable prices, mediocre-to-bad service).
But I had already been tantalizing Matt’s imagination with promising descriptions of the world’s greatest kebab, conveniently located here in Braşov. It didn’t take much prodding for him to admit he was very much up for nabbing a bit of this heavenly grub and put my insistence to the test.
Maybe it’s emerging as a pattern for me to suggest people try it. If I think back, the trend started when I was out on the town with Bunissima one night and spotted the glowing sign from afar. After dragging her in there, she was happily satisfied. The second time was when I took Mihai, a buddy who lives in Seattle where I met him while I was living there (well before I decided to move to Romania, much to his shock). He came to visit family and stopped by in Braşov to make sure I was getting along, so I twisted his arm into trying it. Happily satisfied, he agreed it was fantastic.
Later, I dragged the Griviţei Ambassador de Gara there around 5 or 6am, after we’d been up an all-night bender. Golly, when Alex and Costi came to visit, I prostyletized them into nabbing some kebap to go and we ate it on the bus ride home, making all the other passengers jealous. I Next, Andrew. Now, Matt. Will you be next?
We hopped aboard Bus Patru heading out of the gara and going all the way to the centru, Piaţa Sfatului (our destination), Poarta Schei, and Piaţa Unirii. I took the opportunity to mention the various pickpocketing that’s been occuring on this bus as one or two criminals continuously targets tourists travelling from the train station to the city center. Although romanca, even Bunissima once had to beat back an attempted theft on #4. Of course, this led to dialogue about the apparent-lawlessness of portions of Romanian life and how each of us found some parts of it appealing in certain ways at certain times, much to our own surprise.
Our intrepid trio exited at the central park, hoisted up the heavily-laden bags and trotted across the park then down a few blocks until we reached paradise. There was a blank stare that looked almost like panic as we entered the tiny streetside restaurant because the kebab meat appeared to be all gone!
Of course, they were just restocking the spindle. I took the opportunity to familiarize Matt with the various options. This place serves hamburgers and hotdogs, for example, but I don’t recommend them — to anyone. You come here for the kebab. Most folks order the kebap chifla at 6 RON (two bucks). It is a fairly common food available throughout much of Europe as “döner kebap,” thanks to our Turkish friends.
I heartily recommend the slightly pricier shoarma (shawarma, my American friends) at 7 RON. Take some lipie (a lebanese flatbread, which you can think as being extremely similar to a pita made as thin as a tortilla) and carve some fresh cooked meat from the rotisserie spit onto it, then top that sucker with the standard condiments.
Heap on some varza (that’s cabbage, y’all, which is extremely common because with rare exception Romania is practically devoid of proper lettuce… and if you do find it once in a blue moon, there’s only one kind). Definitely ask for extra pickes because they are divine (basically, there is only one type of pickle in Romania that I’ve encountered and it’s a member of the dill pickle family). Of course, you must slather on the mysterious sos kebap, which I believe is made from tomatoes, garlic, possibly mild chili pepper, and some other goodies… though, I’m no expert on the secret ingredients and could be entirely mistaken.
Just off camera, you’ll find a creamy herb sauce which is most definitely iaurt-based despite claims that it is maioneza-based. Anyway, it’s required, so get some or you’ve wasted your money (lactose intolerant people, bring your lactase and don’t skip out on the authenticity). You’ve got some rather spicy crushed chili powder, of which I desire copious amounts that amaze the vendors. Then you’ve got the verde ardei iute, a very hot green pepper whose origin I’ve not quite figured out yet. Some people can’t handle it while others like one or possibly two. I prefer four to turn my mouth into a fire. Lastly, there’s ceapa but I’m not too big on onions, so I generally avoid it.
Want fries with that? Show me fast food that doesn’t come with french fries and I’ll show you food that’s merely fast. But don’t worry my friend, the chips (as the UK chaps tend to call them) come free with your kebab purchase. In fact, it’s automatic. Instead of putting them “on the side,” you just receive o portie mare de cartofi prajiţi dumped right in there with the rest of the ingredients.
Roll it up like a burrito and you’re good to go. Mmm mmm.
It took less than a minute before the owner-operators replaced the vittles back on the rotating cooker. Different kebab places have different meats, so you might want to find out what you’re going to be eating. I think the most common is generally the beef or beef/lamb mixture you’ll find at various doner kebab places around Europe or many Greek gyro vendors in the US. Sometimes, it’ll be pork — especially in Romania where 90% of the diet is pork based. However, neither Matt nor myself eat pork (different reasons). Fortunately, this place uses delicious chicken. This is where I admit the one real reason I stopped being vegetarian: pui.
And it’s funny how one person can notice a big, mouthwatering meatstick while the other sees a nice rack of tender breasts.
Of course, Bunissima just saw it for what it was: dinner.
Round and round it spins, while the kebap masters carve deliciousness from the bottom half of cooked meat. The owners recognized me (again, heh) and the husband had a brief conversation with Matt and Bunissima. Apparently, he’s a uighur from Uzbekistan. Small world. Matt recently spent a year in Uzbekistan (and earned the triple threat label).
Now, some folks would tell lies about kebab, but we can rely on the integrity of Matt to readily admit the food was everything I promised. Spicy to the point of tears, we munched away as the sun set until our collective bellies were quite full.
When we left, it was still raining and those impossible bags weighed us down. Er, uh… oops. I flubbed things up by actually leaving my designated carrying satchel back in the kebap kiosk. Tsk, tsk. Fortunately, Bunissima was the quick thinker who figured that out. Matt raced back to collect his things. I stuck out my bottom lip.
Under the weight of our satiated appetites and those heavy sacks (I’ve since come to believe Matt was hiding gold bars in there to fund his travels), we trudged up the streets of the centru toward the piaţa. Along the way, something very naughty happened in the darkness. Eventually, we made it into a standing room only Scottish pub filled with football fans gazing up at the FIFA game glowing from on-high.
By the time we managed to rustle up some seats near my friends and squat on our haunches, I realized everyone seemed to be rooting for Italy to win the game. Ever the malcontent, I decided to loudly cheer for Ukraine almost alone. A round of Guinness (which Dreher does not compare to on any level whatsoever, Paul) was well-received by a thirsty three.
More people I’d met before on various occassions entered the bar and joined the table. I got into a few conversations along the way, while Matt and Bunissima chatted away oblivious to the game. At some point, we had empty glasses and attempted to score a few bottles of Gösser. However, 15 minutes, 8 requests, and 3 waitstaff later, there was still no beer in front of us. Madness!
Matt saved us all when he moseyed up to the bar, quickly got the bartender’s attention, and personally supervised the halba pouring. I shudder to think of what might have happened without his quick reaction to dangerous levels of detoxification. Thanks, babe!
I thanked him by passing a religious conversion pamphlet in romaneşte, which he threw back at me. Such a brute. Perhaps he didn’t much appreciate the stunning realism our would-be saviors used to create a masterpiece of modern art to tell us all about how we’re going to burn in a very real lake of fire in pits of hell, but can be saved submitting our souls and substantial portion of money to the pedophiles at our local church.
My other friends left after the game in search of sustinance. Meanwhile, the pamphlet changed hands several times while the three of us stayed on at Scottish Pub blissfully yakking the time away. Gleefully, I made sure to take the evangelical booklet when we left so I could continue to terrorize Matt the rest of the night.
The mandate of the hour was to find a new bar! I bet you though the fun was almost over, didn’t you, gentle reader? No way. Not even close. I will, however, endeavor to keep things as short as possible in order to accommodate your ADHD. Don’t worry about the future, either; I can’t write up this lengthy of a post every time I meet someone new.
Right. New bar, new bar! I think we nearly tripped over our companions who were eating only 5 or 10 meters away. From what I could gather, that distance was about as far as they could stagger under the influence of alcohol. So, they plopped down at Pizza Da Vinci and promptly ordered beers while browsing the menu. We’d use the mobile to reconnect later in the early morning (figure that puzzle out).
Experience states that when more than one person has been drinking, it’s best to coordinate group activities. We stopped at the waterfountain in Sfatului to discuss our immediate plans. Turns out that we all sorta forgot that Matt was never supposed to be here this long. Now, it was way too late for him to find a way there plus, even if he did, it would incredibly rude to wake up the folks he was going to see at this late hour.
Now, I don’t want to make certain readers jealous, but I did the unthinkable. Here’s this poor stranded young man with no place to go late on a rainy night, so I invited him over to spend the night. Aren’t there movies with themes like that? Heh.
Miserable bloody weather. It’s starting to rain and none of us are equipped for the precipitation. We’re carrying those interminably gravid bags of his. We’ve got no beer and the streets are mostly empty. Bloody Deane’s Irish Pub is bloody closed. That’s the third time I’ve gone there to find them closed during normal hours for no apparent reason.
Then we found this hole in the wall off the main Strada Republicii. I’d seen the forgettable sign once or twice but had never been inside. In fact, I reckon don’t rightly recall the name. Ye Olde Pub? The Olde Tavern? Olde something about alcohol. It looked all kinds of closed and we darn near turned around to leave. But… that American persistance kicked in and I pushed on the door: it opened.
Quite a lovely little place. In fact, significantly larger inside than I had feared. Heck, it even had a downstairs something or other. We pulled up a table and were served by a dark haired beauty that could set your imagination afire with a mere glance. Wowza.
The place was closing in 10 minutes, so we ordered in a hurry. I had a beer. Bunissima had a long island ice tea, if I recall correctly. Matt needed a break, so I persuasively sold him on the Orangina Rouge during his suggestable state. We were having such great time with our conversation, the staff actually didn’t have the heart to close up and kick us out. Amazing. So, we had another round and kept those people after closing time.
Out came the mobile; time to find out where my friends went off to so we can catch up with them. They were at some trendy little bar back near the Scottish Pub and pizza place. Once again, they were unable to travel far and had settled for convenience. We hoofed it allllllllllll the way back in the rain, carrying those rock-filled sacks.
Note: I cleverly hid that Christian propoganda inside one of his bags.
So, we made it to a bar called The Corner where my friends were waiting. It’s directly adjacent to Scottish Pub on the Balcescu corner. As we approached, it looked awfully dark in there. I mean, it uses black lights or purple-colored lights or something, but it was darker than usual. Sure enough, the bloody door is locked and no one is around. What the… ?
I called my friends and they admitted that they hadn’t actually gone there until after I talked to them last, then forgot to call with the update, and were now down at some other place, so we should hurry up and meet them. They might have been at Tequila Bowling. I certainly don’t remember any more. Anywho, it was 3am and I’m promising to hurry to wherever they are while standing in the rain helping to carry all that damn stuff over half the planet.
Bah, I had a sudden reversal in attitude. That’s it. I’m done. I’m going home. I’d had enough. We’ll catch the next taxi. I handed the phone to Bunissima and grumpily demanded she explain to him in romaneşte that I was finished for the night and we wouldn’t be meeting them afterall. I started looking for a taxi.
I think we stopped down the street a ways from my apartment to pick up more beer from the non-stop magazin. I’m not exactly sure, but I have vague recollections about something like that. I definitely remember that we nearly ended up inside the strip club right there. Don’t ask.
My poor neighbors had to put up with some racket that night, I tell you whut. We all came home loud and laughing. I connected the iPod to the iBook, flipped on the speaker system and started blasting tunes. It was time to celebrate the end of the bag carrying stage. The only thing flowing faster than the beer was our fun conversations on what seems now like nearly every topic.
For the sake of brevity — don’t snicker, I could keep going — I’ll let you imagine we were all having a very good time, hamming it up. Take, for example, this one image captured during this 4am moment which shall remain unnamed. I won’t explain why they’re laughing. Something about a camera and nudity.
Before the sun rose and forced the Transylvania vampires back into their coffins, I remembered that Matt had never tasted the liquid death of Dracula beer. I happened to have a bottle in the refrigerator for Mondial Bere, so I raced to open it up and serve my guest.
So I needed to document the momentous occassion of his forays into Dracula beer. Matt was gracious enough to agree to my breaking some Romer!can traditions of mostly anonymous photographs (you may notice I generally keep names away from faces, to protect the innocent). However, he understood the scientifical importantation of this experimentness. Hic! Hic!
Here he is pretending to drink Dracula beer, because after my description of what it tastes like he had second thought about his immediately previous commitment to drink the stuff.
So, I razzed him. Questioning his manliness and such, basically forcing him into a corner where he pretty much had to actually drink it for real because his boldness was being documented for all the Romer!can readership. I think he might have gotten a drop on his lip during the fake sip and accidentally tasted the Dracula beer, because he began to carefully study the label in amazement of what he was about to do (or maybe he was just passing time in hopes I’d let him off the hook).
Lest you have any doubts as to the fortitude of this brave man, let me make it painfully clear to you right now. This guy is a total champ! He opened his mouth real wide, wrapped his lips around that pipe, and let the liquid rush right down his throat like a pro.
Poor Matt. Here’s a cosmopolitan sort of guy who’s currently stuck in the repressed village of Targu Mureş where he’s got to be a model citizen in his daily routine. At the risk of overstepping my bounds, what this guy really needs is a wild break down in Bucureşti, where he can kick loose and shrug off the bugaboo. If I were a god, I’d set up a chance encounter with Musculin. I’ve seen photographic evidence that stud knows how to party exactly how Dr. Romerican would prescribe for a remedy.
Poor Matt. Once I found out Matt had never even heard of Erasure, I played several albums and forced him to listen to my caterwauling. Yes, my friends, under the influence of berii, I not only had the music cranked up fairly loud, but also began singing for the pleasure (read: suffering) of my companions. Not only that, but I embarked one of my vociferous tirades extolling the many virtues of gifted Andy Bell and genius Vince Clarke at length.
And you better believe I have a lot to say on this issue. Thanks for putting up with me, Matt.
Poor Matt. I kept him up past sunrise, when he had probably been planning on going to sleep at 10pm. I think I finally crashed around 7am and left him to his own devices. Well, it wasn’t quite as cruel as all that. It seems to me I left him hooked up to a computer on broadband, armed with a racy flick, and pointed him in the direction of an entertaining blog or two.
Poor Matt. When I managed to return to consciousness after several hours, I stumbled out half-dressed and found him awake watching a great show I have on DVD. I have no idea if he had gotten a little sleep or no sleep, but he seemed alert and ready for action. Unfortunately, that meant it was time for him to get going to his real destination.
During the night, I’d told him all about the horrendous “beer” being sold by Carrefour under their Marca 1 private label. He had a target in mind for some prankish payback, so we went down a couple blocks to the nearby Carrefour store to pick up a bottle. He had a different shopping list and schedule, so we parted ways there in the store. Though I did get to surprise him once more.
For the beer competition, Matt brought me not one but two large bottles of Sovata. Would you believe it; one of them was even gift-wrapped. What a thoughtful guy! Thanks a bunch, Matt.
Interestingly, that imp did a number on me, too. When I got home, guess what I found? Oh yeah, he’d found that pamphlet in his bag when I was asleep and made sure I got it, while he escaped. Heh, you’re messin’ with the wrong guy, my friend!
You may have thought I’d throw it away since it’s been a month after you left my place. No dice, bubba.
I’ve still got it and I’m gunnin’ for ya, Matt. It’s on, now. I will make sure this puppy find its way back to you and, if you haven’t already learned, I have no limits. This time, it’s war. Heh.
“Yeah, but what’s all this talk about triple threats, man?”
Look, if you wanna know that, you gotta get to know Matt.
