Fortress (part two)

“We could go in here for a drink.” Dolores suggests as we get to a pub. Isn’t it me who’s supposed to ask that?

It’s not very big. And rather reminds me of a Czech pub. You enter into a taproom with a bar counter at one end. Off to the side is a room acting more as a restaurant, with the tables set for dining.

We sit in the taproom. There are just two other customers. A bloke a bit older than me who chain smokes while staring at his pint. And a bloke a few years younger than me eating and alternately drinking from a pint of Lager and a glass of cola. Neither looks like they have much in the way of commitments today.

As they just have the one draught beer, Lav Svetlo, our choice is quickly made.

“Dva piva, mate.” I sort of say. While waving my hands around in the international sign for “big”.

Looking at a fridge full of Carlsberg and Tuborg I ponder: “Is Lav is owned by Carlsberg?”

“I don’t really care.” Dolores is clearly captivated by this topic.

“I’m guessing that they are.”

“Do you fancy getting samosas on the way back?”

“Lav isn’t exactly the best name for a beer in English. Though it’s very unlikely it would ever be marketed there.”

“We could have them for our tea.”

We/re always having such deep, meaningful conversations, Dolores and me.

“Do you want me to help you with your beer?”

Is there a more humiliating question I could be asked?

“Yes. Take most of it” 

I’m having trouble getting through my beer. It must be the heat. Did I mention that it’s effing hot?

The beer is a bit sour, too. That’s my excuse. Tastes like the “bad pint” that makes you vomit at the end of the evening. Or in bed. Or as soon as you get up. Either for a piss or in the morning. Or, worse yet, after the first coffee at work.

It’s a bit weird sitting inside with fag smoke. Nostalgic, but in a bad way. Memories of awful times trapped in smoke-filled rooms.

Other than the Carlsberg-packed fridge, lots of old photos form the main decoration. I assume of Belgrade. One has the statue of the bloke on a horse pointing. That must be here, at least.

We only have the one. No more than a half for me, really.

Wondering why Dolores asked about samosas earlier? It’s because on the way out we passed a hole-in-the-wall North Indian street food place, called Biryani Central. Who doesn’t like a samosa?

I can remember exactly when I got into them. It was when I was living on Brudenell Road in Leeds. Around the back was a little Asian shop that sold them. Often still pretty warm, so they must have been cooking them on the premises.

Dolores has a good chat with the bloke behind the counter while our samosas get cooked.

I’m really happy to be back in the cool air of our room. Where Dolores tucks into her two samosas. Then a rice pudding she bought herself. There’s our budget out of the window.

The samosas look really good. A pity I don’t feel hungry.

Dolores asks the woman on reception about the best way to get to the airport. The bus 72 is rather slow. And is incredibly difficult to buy a physical ticket for. Everything seems to be done through an app. And local taxi drivers are very unreliable.

“I’ll drive you to the airport for 2,500 dinars.” The woman says. Which is about the official taxi fare. If we can find a driver who doesn’t cheat us. Dolores is relieved.

As I’m feeling a bit crap still, I hunker down in the hotel with the aircon while Dolores goes to the Ethnographic Museum.

Watching English-language films subtitled is fun. When the sound isn’t quite loud enough to catch everything. But you can’t turn it up, because the remote controls are weird. It gets me reading the Serbian subtitles as well. And understanding it much better. I think.

Before departing, Dolores says: “Leave some of the red wine for me.” Which I take to mean, “You can have most of the red wine.” How many bollocks I still have at bedtime will show if my interpretation is correct.

I eat about two thirds of a samosa. It is dead good. Damn my lack of appetite.

“I was the only one in there.” Dolores says on her return. “Except for the staff. And the painters. A shame, because it’s really interesting. “

She doesn’t seem too displeased with the couple of inches of red wine I’ve left her.

After a quick visit to the supermarket, Dolores returns with sandwiches. And a couple of bottles of beer. That’s my tea.

I don’t get through all the beers. And only half my sandwich. The rest will do for breakfast.

“Do you want to go out for a drink?”

“You know me, Dolores.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Not feeling like going very far, we return to Gradska Pivnica Terazije on the main drag. It’s not too pricey and you get to see the city stream by.

For me, it’s Zaječarsko tamno again. And the pale version from the same brewery for Dolores. We just sit and soak in the scene while slowly sipping.

I notice that many people are drinking Kronenbourg White. Slightly odd to see here. Though I suppose it is a big international brand.

No food, this time. We’ve already had our tea. And we only have the one beer. Before walking back through the pulsatingly striated streets.

We don’t stay up too late. Even though we won’t be having get up at stupid o’clock, only around eight.

One, two. That seems to be a full set of bollocks. Time to sleep.



Restoran Brankovina
Uzun Mirkova 7,
Beograd.


Gradska Pivnica Terazije
Terazije 28,
Beograd 11000.
https://www.gpterazije.rs