The underground wine cellar was empty. Not that anyone needed to hear our conversation. In 2021, every corner of the world echoed the same complaint: 2020 was the worst year ever.
“Yes, I want to hear your story but, sorry. I need to go outside and make this call. I had plans for later with…someone.”
That’s The German. She claims to not be a typical German, yet always is able to plan her time for a friend, a colleague, a date, etc. And when we met in Zagreb the day after I returned from Ljubljana, I couldn’t have been happier to see her. It had been a long year.
“We can meet for lunch, then go to this Bornstein Wine Cellar you told me about. After that, I have a date.”
“Sure, yeah. Today I made an exception for all of this craft beer since I know you prefer those fine wines. And Croatia has some great ones. In fact, my time in Rijeka and Krk Island was pretty much just white wines.”
“Oh, you have changed during the pandemic. You’re becoming a more well-rounded alcoholic. But you’re still the same. There was a girl on Krk Island, I’m sure.”
She knows me well.
Old Friends In New Bars: Bornstein Cellar And AMBASADA Bar
I put all my planning into where I’m going to drink, but very little into where I’m going to eat. Usually, I follow my nose until I find a good place. If I put some effort into it, I search Google Maps for ‘Best Restaurants in Blahblahblah City.”
“We’re meeting at DOMA? It’s good. I’ve already eaten there, but it’s good for lunch. See you at 2PM.”
DOMA is small. There were four tables with seats for two customers in front: all occupied. I stepped inside and was instantly at the register. The attendant (and waitress) said I could wait inside with my mask on until a table was free. Not wanting to be a bum, I ordered juice. I sipped it. Very. Slowly. After 15 minutes, while sticking my head outside for the third time, I saw that one of the tables was unoccupied. Covered in dishes, but unoccupied.
Half a block down the street, a couple was excitedly talking to each other in French. They were pointing at the same empty table.
A small battle ensued as I grabbed my juice and took casual but extremely long strides from the door to the table. I squatted on the seat right in front of the couple. They stood in front of me, daggers shooting from their eyes. I pulled out my phone to check a series of non-existent messages which I hadn’t received. The couple silently waited by me for a few moments, but I continued to stare at my important non-messages. Finally, the couple left, grumbling in their language. Too bad. Finders’ keepers.
The German arrived, 15 minutes late. She apologized; I told her I couldn’t care less. After the past year and half in isolation, she was the first of my European friends who I had seen in person (not on a tiny mobile screen.) In the past two months traveling, I had already met many people through craft beer. Yet this was first time I was meeting a genuine friend. It was first conversation that summer that didn’t begin with, “What beer are you drinking?”
German gave me a big hug, then, with a concerned expression on her face, placed the back of her hand on my forehead.
“Raleigh, are you OK?”
“What do you mean? I’m really happy to see you again after almost two years.”
“No no, but you’re drinking juice right now? Where’s your beer?”
Dry German humor.
“Oh, umm. I guess it’s too early. After lunch we’ll go straight to the wine tasting place I told you about. Then on to the beer; there’s lots in Zagreb.”
We ordered lunch. DOMA serves its food like Spanish tapas. Although the portions are small, there’s plenty to choose from (all local) and the descriptions are lengthy, so you have no doubt what you are ordering. I ordered a pesto sandwich; she ordered a plate of national cheeses. Then we talked: work, love, travel (or rather lack of travel) and life in The Balkans.
Bornstein Wine Cellar Tasting
After lunch, we went to Bornstein Wine Cellar, which was only a few blocks from my apartment. Surprisingly, it was completely empty on a Saturday afternoon. The cool underground cellar was a welcome retreat from the July heat that beat down outside.
The menu had several samplers. You could choose different selections of wines that represented different regions of Croatia: Slavonia, Dalmatia, Istria, Zagreb…
“You’re the wine enthusiast, German. You choose something. I loved the white Malvazija and Zlahtina on Krk Island, but, you know, there wasn’t much else to have.”
She chose a sampler from Northern Croatia, Slavonia, where I had just been for the Nova Runda beer festival two weeks ago.
Right after we ordered, German excused herself to take a call. She stayed outside for a long time. When she returned, I could tell, despite her stoic facial expression, that she was pissed off.
“I’ll be joining you for beers tonight after all. Even though he knew about this for a month, he couldn’t find time to fix his car. So he can’t make it to Zagreb.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed.
“You’re so mysterious… Ok, fine. Tell me. Is he from Serbia?”
“No. But he’s…Balkan.”
“Nevermind him. You have wine now.”
Our attempt to plan the rest of the day was a big failure.
We attempted to walk to Zagreb’s Goblet Beershop from the center. I had known they were open until 8pm, but they were closed earlier on Saturday. Later, I found out that, since it was summer, most Zagrebians are out of town on holiday, and many businesses close earlier. Or they close completely while their staff is away.
During summer, most Zagrebians are out of town on holiday, and many businesses close earlier or close completely.
We considered X Bar for a beer, but it was late – almost dinnertime. Hunger governed our decision. The beer could wait until later. We had passed a ramshackle building by an intersection which looked like the ideal place for some good Balkan cevapi sausage. We walked to the restaurant. A man was standing in front of the door, looking gruff. He gave a swift downward chop with his hand and shook his head brusquely. We took this as a sign they were closed. Well, try again.
Hidden Cevapi Restaurants
German found another cevapi place on her phone. It was nearby, and we hoped they weren’t closed. The restaurant sat in an unmaintained park in the middle of a complex of old apartments, looking as if it had grown out of the grass just that day. As the tour books say, it was a “hidden gem.”
The older waitress, a matronly woman – the owner – didn’t know English. We had to order in Serbo-Croatian, which is a good sign. We went with their standard order of 10 cevapi with lepinja bread and kajmak cheese. For drinks we had regular beer and a shot of rakija (schnapps.) The lady scrawled our order in pencil on a piece of paper, looked at us, then apologized. Izvinite. She couldn’t serve rakija here.
A few minutes later, our beers arrived. On the tray were also two shots of rakija. The woman placed the bottles of beer on the table, then quickly slid the rakija shots behind them, out of sight of the other patrons in the restaurant. She winked slyly, then placed a finger on her lips to indicate that this was our little secret. She explained that it was loza (a kind of rakija) and she was happily surprised that some foreigners had asked for it.
I grinned at German, “Well, our Serbian still isn’t great. But actually, we got this rakija because it’s not great.”
We toasted with our rakijas, then hid them behind the beer bottles again. The cevapi arrived soon, steaming hot. It was incredible. Just as delicious as the cevapi that I had at the beer tasting at X Bar the previous month. I considered that since the restaurant was close to X Bar, it could be the same restaurant.
Student Prices At Student Bars
After dinner, we walked to X Bar. The bartender laughed when she saw me.
“You keep saying you’re going to leave Croatia.”
“I was in Slovenia. I promise, one more week and I’m gone.”
“That’s what my boyfriend said before. That was six years ago.”
“Well, he’s got a good reason to stay here…wherever he came from.”
“Iran. Imagine.”
Today, it’s easy to imagine living here.
Later that night, we meet expats doing just that. One was an American friend of mine. We had met the first time I visited Croatia ten years before. At that time, he was in medical school in Zagreb. In those ten years, he had gotten married, started a doctor’s residency in a town, Koprivnica, and then gotten divorced.
Time passes fast.
German and I met him and his friends at a dive bar named Krivi Put. Among his friends were another American, a girl from China, a Russian, and several Croats. All were either graduate students or recently graduated.
Krvi Put had a large outdoor beer garden surrounded by trees. Graffiti, stickers and posters of local bands, political groups, protest events and more covered the walls and tables of the courtyard. None of the beer was craft. Liters of wine were served with liters of mineral water to mix (a drink known as gemest.) The national shot, palikovac, was abundant.
Everything was cheap. This is a student bar.
COVID restrictions still forced bars to close at midnight. After the pub did last call, our group went to a kiosk, bought several bottles of craft beer (from Pivovara Medvedgrad,) then hung out on some benches in a nearby park. We blasted music from our phones, danced and toasted until the early hours.
Nights like these always linger in my memory the longest.
AMBASADA Craft Beer Bar
I spent the following Sunday at Zagreb’s newest craft beer bar, AMBASADA. By word of mouth amongst the Croatian beer geeks, I’d heard of this place which had just opened in May. AMBASADA does have Croatian craft beer. However, it’s really a mecca for classic Belgian ales, and in particular, the sour beers which Belgium is known for. Besides that, I went there since it’s one of the few beer places open on Sundays.
The shop is not in the center, but if you arrive in Zagreb by train or bus, it can easily be your first stop. It’s only 200 meters, or a five-minute walk from the stations on Kneza Branimira Street. The store front blends in with the apartment building it’s located in, so look for a green and white Volkswagen “Brew Bus” sitting out front, and a mishmash of wooden pallet furniture. There are three taps available, with more expected to open soon.
Most of Zagreb’s beer geeks were there; it was practically the same crowd I knew at the Nova Runda brewery festival. Many of the regulars from Goblet Beershop and Cajt Pub had migrated here. Since Zagreb is a small city, the craft beer bars share the same clientle. The shops have entered “gentleman agreements,” where they agree to import and distribute different beers to keep any one place from capitalizing on profits. Typically, though, everyone ends the night at Valhalla since they close the latest.
Yet AMBASADA was the brand-new place, so it occupied the spotlight during this post-COVID summer.
On tap they had an unusual Belgium beer, Rullquin, from Gueuzerie Tilquin. It looked and tasted like a dark chocolatey stout. But it had aged funky overtones like a Belgium sour, and the light complexion of wine. After a night of consuming wine and beer together, it was fine way to bring these two libations together. AMBASADA had already won me over on the first trip.
For a guide to the best craft beer bars in Zagreb click: here
