SPODNJA IDRIJA, Slovenia -- Klavdij Pirih is trying to be polite, but he has had enough of my notetaking and
questions.
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Pirih makes idrijski
zlikrofi, potato balls flavored with bacon, onions and herbs that are wrapped and cooked in a thin dough. |
"How much did you use?" I ask, so absorbed in getting down on paper every detail about his Slovene
dumplings that I haven't noticed that the chef has stopped blending together his mix of water, flour, eggs and
salt.
Pirih is a chef at the Kenda Manor hotel, a 14th-century Relais & Châteaux property in the tranquil town of
Spodna Idrija, where I stayed and took cooking and wine-tasting classes last fall. He is eager to share with me
and several other students his version of idrijski zlikrofi, potato balls flavored with bacon, onions and herbs that
are wrapped and cooked in a thin dough.
Sweet, earnest and cute, Pirih is an instinctual chef who can tell by sight, smell and touch what a dish needs.
He gently taps me on the shoulder and points to his eyes, meaning he wants me to watch him make
dumplings, not write.
When I glance down again at my notes -- Pirih hasn't handed out recipes -- the tall, muscular blond chef takes
away my pad and pen and hands me an apron. I rush off to wash my hands and on my return, he mushes
them into the dough.
My kneading is tentative. Pirih shakes his head. He jumps behind me, places his hands over mine and shows
me how to press and stretch with the heel of the hand to create the elastic dough he wants.
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Klavdij Pirih, a chef at the Kenda Manor hotel, in
Spodna Idrija, said “I don’t
measure anything. It’s about feeling.” |
The women in the class, who have been sipping Slovene wines, begin to snicker and tease. This is starting to
resemble a G-rated culinary version of the pottery scene from the movie "Ghost." Soon, we're all giggling like a
bunch of teeny-boppers crushing on The Jonas Brothers.
"I don't measure anything. It's about feeling," says Pirih, who chuckles at our silliness, but seems more
determined than ever to make us understand and appreciate a dish that is an important part of Slovenia's
cultural heritage.
When I tell someone in the U.S. that I'm spending part of a three-week European vacation in Slovenia, the
reaction is similar to the one I get telling people outside the Mid-Atlantic region that I live in Delaware. Most
stare blankly, with little or no recognition.
Low-profile Slovenia, which has been an independent country only since 1991, isn't exactly high on America's
list of favorite tourist destinations. (Quick! Name a famous Slovenian? All I could come up with was Donald
Trump's third wife, Melania Knauss.)
Barely the size of New Jersey, Slovenia has gently rolling hills, vineyards and lush valleys, some memorialized
in Ernest Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms."
Earlier this year, the former Yugoslav state -- bordered by Italy, Croatia, Austria and Hungary -- raised its
profile when it took
over the European Union presidency for six months and became the face and the voice of the 27-nation bloc of
500 million people.
From Spodna Idrija, we took side trips into Ljubljana, a Baroque gem and Slovenia's capital, and lunched at
Branko and Vasja Cotar's vineyard in the Komen village in the southwestern Kras region. There, we tasted
funky, regional wines like Vitovska, Terra Rossa and Teran, which seem to marry best with the local cuisine,
including cabbage and nettle soups, beans, potatoes, breads, ham and sausages.
Later, we spent an afternoon at the Colja Jozko farm in Sgonico, on the Slovenia border, not far from Trieste,
Italy, that's also known as an osmizza.
Owners were once allowed to sell only local wines, and other home-grown products, for a period not exceeding
eight days per year. Osmizza derives from the Slovene word osmen which means eight. Sales at farms, now
mostly seasonal, are announced by an ivy branch or wreath hanging by the front entrance. (We were Colja
Jozko's first American visitors, and owners showed us abundant kindness along with abundant amounts of
homemade meats, cheeses and wines.)
Not far from 11-room Kenda Manor hotel was the town of Idrija, known for lace-making and the second largest
mercury mine in the world. Mercury production ended in 1994, but Slovenians are still fiercely proud of their mining history, the main industry for five centuries.
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Idrijski zlikrofi is a kind of potato dumpling. The taste is somewhat similar to gnocchi, but much lighter. |
During an afternoon cooking class taught by chef Pirih and Bogdan Toncic, a Kenda Manor employee who
often served as our guide in Slovenia, the men explained that one of Idrija's most traditional local specialties is
idrijski zlikrofi. These are hand-rolled, potato-filled dumplings, actually more like a ravioli, that housewives
made to nourish their miner husbands.
The dumplings are often served with bakalca, a hearty lamb sauce. During the class, we also learned to make
struklji or rolled dumplings that can be savory or sweet.
We started the class with glasses of wine and greetings of dober dan (DOH-ber dahn), the Slovene word for
good day. (For days, I thought people were saying "Dumbledore," the name of Harry Potter's Hogwarts
headmaster.)
To make the filling for zlikrofi, Pirih explains that he first boils potatoes in water (no salt added) until tender and
forces them through a potato ricer. He then mashes the potatoes by hand until they are smooth. Finely
chopped chives and marjoram are added to the bowl, along with melted butter, grinds of pepper, minced,
smoked bacon and onions that have been caramelized in the bacon fat.
How much of each? I don't know. Pirih isn't bound to exact ingredient amounts; he simply tastes as he goes.
The potato filling is set aside as Pirih begins the dough, just a simple blend of water, flour, eggs and salt. The
kneading is most important to the dumplings, Pirih explains -- after the "Ghost" moment giggling subsides. He
adds that the dough must be allowed to rest, in a plastic wrap for at least 30 minutes.
While Pirih uses a light, soft flour in the dough, a different kind of flour, one with a much more granular texture,
is sprinkled on a flat surface when the dough is rolled into long, thin sheets with a wooden pin.
Notebook and pen back in hand, I asked Pirih and Toncic to tell me the name of the coarser flour. But we
encounter a lost-in-translation moment. Neither knows the English word, and I can't translate Slovene.
(Toncic later sends me an e-mail, explaining more about the dish, but doesn't mention the different flours. "If
you will need any further information, I am on your disposal," he writes.)
The potato mixture is then rolled into marble-size balls. We line the potato balls onto a sheet of dough -- each
one about index finger apart. Another layer of dough is carefully rolled over the top of the potato balls. Pirih and
Toncic show us how to cut and then pinch off the dough to encase each potato ball individually. The
dumplings, which now resemble individually wrapped penny candy, are given a quick finger poke to create a
dimple in the middle.
The zlikrofi will be cooked in boiling, salted water for several minutes and served with a hearty sauce, usually
lamb, though Pirih says he also sometimes uses various meats, mushrooms and other vegetables.
At dinner later in the hotel dining room, one of the courses that waiters serve us is idrijski zlikrofi. The taste is
somewhat similar to gnocchi, but much lighter. However, this zlikofri is beautifully formed and we begin to
wonder if the kitchen staff didn't perhaps toss out the humble dumplings we made earlier that day and replace
them with this better-looking batch.
Pirih and Toncic won’t say if a switcheroo occurred. But, this time, it’s their turn to laugh.
Source: http://www.delawareonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080917/LIFE/809170313/-1/breaking4 |
