In Old Town, I watch people at an outdoor patio eating something interesting, something I’ve never seen before.
It looks like sausages and onions inside a large pita dripping with oils, some plates with added yoghurt.
I have no local currency and ask the server if she will take a card.
She is very pretty, with enhanced lips, manicured fingernails, and hair that smells like flowers. She is also very terse. Yes, she will take a card. Sit over there, she demands, pointing.
I look at the menu tucked under the salt shaker and see that it is written only in Bosnian.
When the server arrives, she pulls the menu from my hand. “No menu. We only have meatballs and bread. You want one?”
Surprised by her rudeness, I am also not sure if she’s asking me if I want only a single meatball.
She clarifies. “You want one portion?”
Yes, one portion please, and do you sell beer?
“No beer! Coca Cola!”
Okay then.
When she returns with my food and drink, I ask her if she wants me to pay her right away.
“No! Later!”
I dig into my meal hesitantly. I’m not sure of the right procedure, but when I look around, I see that everyone has their own style.
Some tear off a piece of bread and take a bite, followed by a bite of sausage, and others wrap pieces of bread around the sausages and eat them like miniature hot dogs.
The food is delicious but filling, and soon I am stuffed, sweating as I take the last bite.
Later, an older gentleman takes away the dirty plate. He asks for cash for the bill. I tell him that the server said I could pay with a card.
“No card! Cash only!”
I stand and tell him I’ll check inside the restaurant, where indeed I am allowed to pay with a card.
