Jan. 7, 2005
Bryndzove halusky is nothing to sneeze at

Six months ago, if you'd said, "Bryndzove halusky," we'd have replied, "Gesundheit!" But now, having tasted it, we can tell you it's nothing to sneeze at. We encountered it recently while visiting Slovak friends we'd met two years ago when they were touring the U.S. We'd showed them something of Michigan's food, wine and landscape, and now they were returning the favor.

Bryndzove halusky is a sort of Slovak national dish, and we asked our friends to introduce us to it at a restaurant in Bratislava as we set off on a week-long cook's tour of their country. The recipe calls for potato dumplings -- halusky -- covered with a melted sheep cheese called bryndza, and topped with fried bacon pieces. It sounded heavy, but we were astonished by how light it was when the restaurant interpreted it with fluffy potato gnocchi, and immensely flavorful bacon and molten cheese.

The restaurant, in the heart of Bratislava's charming Old City, was the sort of culinary showcase where commissars once might have entertained. It is now much in favor among nascent capitalists, but we found a vestige of the past in a server who didn't seem to grasp the capitalist concept of "customer." Even though bryndzove halusky was on the menu, he staunchly resisted our request and tried to steer us to what he considered fancier fare. Once we won the debate, however, the kitchen proved itself quite up to the task.

Before our bryndzove halusky, we survived another regional culinary custom: straight shots of potent schnapps at the outset of the meal, usually either Becherovka, an herbal Czech aperitif, or a juniper brandy called borovicka. The server set out a row of jiggers and poured a round, then waited while we threw it back with a hearty "Na zdravie!" to good health. He then poured seconds for the willing, brought wine for the rest, and left us to ponder the menu and sample a lovely first-course platter of assorted meats, terrines, pates, cheeses, breads and spreads.

We discovered, as the week went by, that Slovaks don't consider any evening meal complete unless it starts with a belt of borovicka and ends with some slivovica -- the plum brandy we know as slivovitz.

Half a century of Communism certainly didn't impair the Slovaks' appreciation of food, however, and in between these opening and closing rituals, we enjoyed a week's worth of spectacular meals that made us deliriously happy to be in Slovakia.

In Valaska, Oxana and Daniel served us tender medallions of elk venison on thin slices of soft potato dumpling, topped with cinnamon-laced cream sauce and cranberry compote. One evening at Elena and Gustav's home in the High Tatra mountains, we ended a long day of hiking with golden, saucer-sized potato pancakes folded like crepes around savory chicken satay.

In their own home in Nove Zamky, our friends Peter and Ivana treated us to deliciously golden sautéed chicken breast and crisp potato croquettes with a light cream sauce, preceded by a bright salad of tender greens sprinkled with lemon juice and pepper. They followed their Becherovka with a fine, chilled Slovakian Riesling.

In Bystra, we stayed with a family friend, Hannah, who prepared hearty breakfasts for us with fresh fruit, several cheeses, paper-thin sausage slices, and warm, freshly baked breads. Then came eggs -- scrambled one day and the next deviled with yogurt, butter and mustard. She sent us off with gifts she'd made from ingredients foraged in the mountains -- blueberry and cranberry preserves and pickled wild mushrooms.

We went one evening to a koliba, the folk restaurant in-the-round of Slovakia's mountains, where whole chickens and pork shanks roast on spits over a massive, central fire pit and patrons at tables around the perimeter enjoy the barbecued fare with icy local beer and wine. In summer, everyone sits outside on long benches at picnic-style tables under a pavilion. Like so much about Slovakia, the rustic, natural pine koliba architecture made us Michiganders feel right at home.

Even there we were met on arrival by a round of borovicka, and we consider ourselves fortunate not to have been offered the hot winter drink called hriato, which is made with brandy, bacon grease and caramel. We'll stick with bryndzove halusky.

So if you're up to some kitchen adventure in the New Year, round up a pound and a half of potatoes, two eggs, a cup of whole-wheat flour, four strips of bacon, and half a pound of bryndza (if you can't find that, use kasseri or feta). Rinse the cheese with a little water and crumble it into a bowl. Chop the bacon in half-inch bits, fry them in a little butter, and reserve them warm with some of the fat. Peel and grate the potato and mix with the eggs, flour, and salt to taste, to make a soft dough you can roll flat on a damp board (add a little water if needed). Cut spoon-sized dumplings and toss them into rapidly boiling, salted water. When they float, remove and drain them and, while still hot, toss with the cheese. (If you want, you can melt the cheese over low flame in a saucepan and pour over the plated dumplings.) Serve on a platter topped with the bacon.

Bon appetit (or, as a Slovak might say, dobrú chut.)