Blood sausage and chestnuts in Zagreb

Any time of year can be lovely in Zagreb. Walking up Sljeme, the mountain on the edge of Zagreb, on a crisp autumn day, with the trees a mass of golds and browns, and still some greens, is a delight. And autumn has its special food opportunities. Krvavice (blood sausages) on Sljeme, with kiseli kupus (sauerkraut) have me salivating even before the plane touches down at Zagreb airport. Nowhere else have I enjoyed black pudding as much as here, deliciously spicy, homemade. That’s what makes the food in the Sljeme mountain huts so special. Good simple fare, sourced from local peasants, homemade, luscious.

And it’s also the time of year for chestnuts, found in abundance on Sljeme. Sunday walks punctuated with long detours to pick them by the sack full. Roasted chestnuts on sale in squares and on street corners; the cooperative effort of roasting and peeling our own at home; pureed chestnuts served with cream; cakes made of chestnuts with cream and chocolate. Gorging ourselves on chestnuts.

None of this is sophisticated fare, just simple, traditional and delicious. Zagreb is in many ways a conservative place. I hope it stays so, and that all the things that delight me so do not change. Let them open new, fancier restaurants, catering to more cosmopolitan tastes. But let’s keep the old pleasures as well.

I was sorry to see that my favourite Kod Žaca is no more, at least not in the form it used to be. A cosy little restaurant near the Archbishop’s garden, run by a couple of young boys from Slavonia, but with cuisine from Istria. Can there be two cuisines more dissimilar than Slavonian and Istrian? One old gentleman from Rijeka told how, when he first married, he wondered whether his Slavonian wife was trying to kill him with the heavy food she served. But, as my Italian friend, one of their most faithful customers, put it, the mama of the two boys at Kod Žaca had taught them well. Wonderful food. Delectable steaks. Perfectly textured gnocchi with a truffle sauce. And such an atmosphere, and such generosity. It felt like we were their guests, in their own home. A grater and a truffle were placed in front of the eater, who was left to grate his own. It was at Kod Žaca that I first tasted the delicious Istrian honey liqueur, a wonderful aperitif. And again, no messing about; the bottle and glasses were simply placed on the table, the guests left to serve themselves. I have not tasted as good anywhere else. They had their own source. The restaurant was, I think, not legal, part of the grey economy; there was no sign outside the door. That did not stop prominent politicians eating there. Now there is a sign, still called Kod Žaca, but a pizzeria.