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veered unexpectedly. Stepping off the main street, away from the run-of-the-mill
bistros, we walked into a
tiny, intricately curved alleys. Buildings loomed up
on either either side as if to deny passage to anything wider than a bicycle.
Some banging noises, a brief shout, and a unrecognizable but mouth-watering
scent from a doorway drew us. The cobbled streets and the aroma from the tiny
kitchen made us think: slaughterhouse.
A sign hung over the smoking entrance, advertising a family-run
restaurant. Since our previous attempt at dinner failed so tragically, my
companion and I decided to sample the authentic Romanian treats which certainly
sat beyond that opening.
"The cobbled streets
and the aroma
from the tiny kitchen
made us think:
slaughterhouse"
At the entrance were two open doorways. One apparently led to the kitchen,
filled with vats, hanging meats, and an enormous woman yelling at a young boy.
The other divulged a petite but cozy room with four tables. Two tables were
taken up by men obviously just off from work. In front of them lay the
scattered remains of a gigantic meal.
We knew that this place was going to surprise us.
Surprise us, it did. We had barely sat down when two steaming plates of
food were placed before us. The young boy from the kitchen asked us in
clipped Romanian if we wanted beer. We nodded in affirmation.
The plates were of common pottery, but what was on them was ambrosia.
They were laughing and smoking strong cigarettes.
The slabs of meat were delicately
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