Three Tales of Two Cities

Three stories of food adventures in the stone towns of Berat and Gjirokaster in inland Albania.

German Baker

Albania has some nice bakeries. As a country situated at the crossroads of eastern Europe, Greece and Italy, Albania has essentially taken the greatest hits from each place and morphed them into a unique cuisine that reaps the benefits of each area's bakery and patry culture. In Berat the smell of the local bakery wafted down the street and drew me in.

Staring at the display case filled with crisp pastries, I made my decision and was ready to order. It’s worth noting that English is relatively well-spoken in Albania, especially in towns that get a lot of tourists, such as Berat. But I still feel rude when going straight into my mother tongue in a foreign country so, when I was ready to order, I started as I often do with: “Do you speak English?” The response from the baker, “No. Deutsche.” She spoke German. We were in a small town in the middle of Albania. We were far from Germany. I hadn’t heard German for a month, let alone spoke it. “Ahhh...,” I began, realising I had no choice. “Ein Burek mit Fleisch. Bitte.” The pastry was packed and we exchanged a “danke shön” as I exited.

Having talked, in English, to so many people I have met in my travels I felt humbled to finally know what it was like to be forced to speak another language just to get something to eat.

Minor Service

I decided to begin my second evening in Berat with a glass of wine next to the Osum river, running through the centre of town. On the other side of the white stone Gorica bridge I could see a local restaurant/bar that seemed more down to earth than the ‘Good Vibes’ tourist bar on my side of the river. I crossed the bridge and approached the entrance of the venue.

The restaurant was a relatively large place with a main building in the centre and a sweeping terrace that surrounded the indoor area. Tables were set along the terrace overlooking the river and the maroon, terracotta tiled buildings that spilled down the mountain to the river’s edge. I passed a child standing out the front of the restaurant and headed toward the indoor section to ask for a table. (In this area of the world you can just take a free table but I always like to be sure.) When I reached the door the owners inside looked surprised. Not surprised that I was asking for a table but surprised that I had come to them and not the maitre d’ that I had passed on the way. It turns out that the child I passed, of no more than ten years old, was in fact running the service operation of the establishment.

The child walked me to a table. I thought of making small talk along the way but I wasn’t sure if ‘Ben 10’ was still popular or if they got it in Albania. He sat me at a table and helped me access the wifi so I could scan the QR code menu. He spoke perfect English as he instructed me, reminding me of how inadequate my language skills were compared to someone who wasn’t alive when Psy released ‘Gangnam Style.’ Feeling more linguistically lacklustre than ever, I scrolled the menu looking for some wine. Bars and restaurants like this usually had some home made wine but I couldn’t find any.

I summoned the decade-old attendant and asked if any wine was available. “Red or white?” He responded, with the confidence of a juvenile sommelier cast in ‘Bugsy Malone’. I asked for the white which he soon delivered to the table. I had heard of creepy men getting alcohol for underaged children but I hadn’t thought it would happen the other way around. Nevertheless, with my table sorted the waiter made his way around the terrace, taking orders, clearing tables, straightening chairs and setting down ashtrays, ensuring everything would be in order before school started the next day.

Try the Chicken

The rain pummelled me the afternoon I arrived in Gjirokaster. Like a pendulum swinging between seasons, we had experienced both sunshine and rain on the ride from Berat. We left Berat sweating in the heat of the day and were packed into a minivan with some travellers forced to sit on plastic stools in the aisle (the driver was eager to get everyone to Gjirokaster). The rain had come suddenly and spat on us through the open-roof emergency exit door that had been left open in lieu of air conditioning. The pattern of sun and then rain repeated itself a few times on the three hour journey until we reached Gjirokaster where it was well and truly raining. I put on my raincoat and made my way up the hill to my hostel.

I arrived drenched, showered off and headed out for something to eat. It was late and I was tired. The internet wasn’t working at my hostel and, to be honest, I couldn’t be bothered researching a place to eat. “After all,” I thought, “it’s Albania. The food is always good.” I wandered around in the rain for a while but quickly decided on a place to eat. I knew it was overpriced. I knew it was touristy. But then again so was everything in the small area I was staying in. I didn’t want to go down and up the hill again to the less-touristy area. As I entered, the waiter talked to me in English without me saying a word of it. I was definitely in a touristy place.

The menu manifested as a mixture of Greek, Italian and Albanian food. I was very hungry. I’d get the moussaka. It was more expensive than it would’ve been down the road but I just wanted to eat something. I’d hardly eaten lunch. “I don’t have moussaka anymore,” the waiter lamented, “but you should try this one.” He pointed to a chicken dish and explained it was traditional and cooked in cream or cheese or something. I can’t really remember. I was too tired and hungry to think. “Sure, that sounds great.”

Minutes passed. No chicken came out. Not even any bread. Most places in Albania serve bread with the meal. Not this one. The attempt at chicken finally arrived. It was called Chicken Tiganja. A quick Google claims that this is a Greek dish of lemony chicken. This is not what I received. Instead, I got a couple of small, overcooked, dry chunks of chicken breast in a cream sauce with shaved yellow cheese and pepper on top. Worse of all, it was small. A drizzle of balsamic glaze on the top half of the plate filled the space that should have had food on it. For the price I was paying I could have bought up half of a local bakery and instead I was shovelling dry, cream-covered bullets of chicken meat into my mouth like a pelican at the zoo. I was not happy. I had been ripped off. I had waited a long time in an empty restaurant, the food was bad and I was still hungry. I was in a country where food came out quickly, was always tasty and was always filling. I was unhappy. “How did you like my recommendation?” The waiter asked. Sticking to my guns, I responded, “It was excellent.”