The night was cold. I shifted deeper into my wool scarf and coat to block out the brisk weather. The wind made my face tingle and my pace quicker. We turned in unison down the angled side street lined with shoe stores and fluorescent lighting declaring whether something was "open" or "closed". We finally reach our destination and a reprieve from the freezing temperatures. The small store front is covered in ivy, with windows of golden colored glass distorting the ability to view the interior beyond the shadows and dancing light from a room lit only by candle. The heavy wooden door fiercely guards the warmth within. There is no sign, no indication that this is a place to approach, that it is a place of business at all. You have to know in advance that you are looking for this nondescript door otherwise you'd be hard pressed to find it. We knock with purpose.
The proprietor swings the door wide open and welcomes us in. The small dark room, lit only by tapered candles on each of the four tables that fill the space, is where we will dine tonight. We shake off our winter layers and drape them over the rack by the door. It is warm inside from the oven in the open kitchen behind the dining area. We are seated at one of the heavy wooden tables set with Christmas inspired napkins and offered a carafe of homemade wine and slightly smaller carafe of homemade rakia. The wine is deep red, slightly dry, slightly fruity, and plentiful; the number of carafes you are offered is only dependent on the number of times you ask for another. The limitless rakia is honey colored and strong, the burn necessary for digestion of the heavy winter meal you are about to be served. No menu is offered here and all of the four tables are served the same dishes that represent the whim of the chef.
The host/chef/prep cook/waiter/busser/sole employee drops off the first of many small dishes that are house determined. The saucer is covered in brightly colored painted flowers of oranges, blues, greens, and reds as a background for fresh green olives, each stuffed with a single blanched almond and resting in golden green olive oil. We drink our wine and share the olives as we toast a farewell to a friend leaving Kosovo for good.
The first course is delivered. Each plate configured haphazardly around the table, competing for surface space as the generous host serves up plate after plate of warm food to start our meal. I prick my fork into one plate to lift up thick, round slices of well-roasted eggplant seasoned with salt, pepper and olive oil cooked to perfection as indicated by the way it droops from my fork. The zucchini is artfully plated as a miniature stone henge, julienned pieces of zucchini charred to perfection standing on end in a perfect circle. Two cheese plates help fill the table. One, a warm soft feta cheese crumbled into a heap. The other, a salty, white hard cheese reminiscent of a hard feta has been pan fried so that it is warm and crusty on the outside and soft inside but not melty. Thin cracker bread helps guide all of these delectable treats into our mouths.
Within the warm cavern of stone walls, we imbibe the unlimited carafes of red wine and work our way through the tapas completely recovering and rejuvenating ourselves from the chill of the icy, Balkan wind outside. The meat course arrives just in time to mark the first hour of our time at Renaissance. A sizzling platter of beef is offered, likely a chuck cut similar to pot roast and cooked to perfection. The tough fibers made buttery soft from a good braising. A ceramic au gratin dish is gingerly placed on the table filled with a bubbling cream dish of mushrooms and chicken. We each scoop portions onto our plates having quickly forgotten the satisfaction of the starters due to the seduction of the well cooked entrees.
Our full bellies are given an antidote of rakia; a few rounds for good measure. The burning grape alcohol helps our stomachs recover from the indulgence of this hidden restaurant of traditional Albanian food. The evening is sealed with a serving of moist cake covered in a cream frosting, similar to tiramisu in texture. The food and ambiance make this place special in the world. Beyond the chevapi and burek of fast food dining in Kosovo, this is dining out at its best.
The proprietor swings the door wide open and welcomes us in. The small dark room, lit only by tapered candles on each of the four tables that fill the space, is where we will dine tonight. We shake off our winter layers and drape them over the rack by the door. It is warm inside from the oven in the open kitchen behind the dining area. We are seated at one of the heavy wooden tables set with Christmas inspired napkins and offered a carafe of homemade wine and slightly smaller carafe of homemade rakia. The wine is deep red, slightly dry, slightly fruity, and plentiful; the number of carafes you are offered is only dependent on the number of times you ask for another. The limitless rakia is honey colored and strong, the burn necessary for digestion of the heavy winter meal you are about to be served. No menu is offered here and all of the four tables are served the same dishes that represent the whim of the chef.
The host/chef/prep cook/waiter/busser/sole employee drops off the first of many small dishes that are house determined. The saucer is covered in brightly colored painted flowers of oranges, blues, greens, and reds as a background for fresh green olives, each stuffed with a single blanched almond and resting in golden green olive oil. We drink our wine and share the olives as we toast a farewell to a friend leaving Kosovo for good.
The first course is delivered. Each plate configured haphazardly around the table, competing for surface space as the generous host serves up plate after plate of warm food to start our meal. I prick my fork into one plate to lift up thick, round slices of well-roasted eggplant seasoned with salt, pepper and olive oil cooked to perfection as indicated by the way it droops from my fork. The zucchini is artfully plated as a miniature stone henge, julienned pieces of zucchini charred to perfection standing on end in a perfect circle. Two cheese plates help fill the table. One, a warm soft feta cheese crumbled into a heap. The other, a salty, white hard cheese reminiscent of a hard feta has been pan fried so that it is warm and crusty on the outside and soft inside but not melty. Thin cracker bread helps guide all of these delectable treats into our mouths.
Within the warm cavern of stone walls, we imbibe the unlimited carafes of red wine and work our way through the tapas completely recovering and rejuvenating ourselves from the chill of the icy, Balkan wind outside. The meat course arrives just in time to mark the first hour of our time at Renaissance. A sizzling platter of beef is offered, likely a chuck cut similar to pot roast and cooked to perfection. The tough fibers made buttery soft from a good braising. A ceramic au gratin dish is gingerly placed on the table filled with a bubbling cream dish of mushrooms and chicken. We each scoop portions onto our plates having quickly forgotten the satisfaction of the starters due to the seduction of the well cooked entrees.
Our full bellies are given an antidote of rakia; a few rounds for good measure. The burning grape alcohol helps our stomachs recover from the indulgence of this hidden restaurant of traditional Albanian food. The evening is sealed with a serving of moist cake covered in a cream frosting, similar to tiramisu in texture. The food and ambiance make this place special in the world. Beyond the chevapi and burek of fast food dining in Kosovo, this is dining out at its best.
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