Tell It to Oma By Darren Baker

Česky

The typical breakfast in the Czech Republic, for those who bother with it at all, looks quite simple. Piece of bread, some butter, cup of tea, and you're ready to go. Dinner too is often a simple affair, with maybe an extra slice of cheese or ham to liven things up. Lunch is more complicated, because in addition to some superb dishes, Czech cuisine includes a few that are downright bizarre. One afternoon you're having this delightful plate of pork chops, cabbage and dumplings, washed down with perhaps the finest beer in the world. The next you're gaping at four or five lumps of boiled flour dripping with butter, stuffed with fruit and covered in powdered sugar. Yikes!!

My first encounter with a dish of this variety occurred at a school cafeteria. The cook handed me a plate of what looked and smelled like sweet bread covered with vanilla sauce. I told her, no dessert now, thank you, just lunch. She didn't understand me, but it didn't make any difference. This stuff was lunch, and I had no choice but to go back to the table and hope there was some more soup left.

Neither the vanilla nor fruity lumps was as excruciating as a lunch I had experienced in Germany earlier. I had been invited to the home of a friend for pork chops, mashed potatoes and applesauce. Joining us were her mother and grandmother, and everything seemed normal enough until her grandmother, Oma, began stripping the fat off her pork chop, twirling it around with her fork, then chewing and swallowing it like it was a piece of meat. I tried to let it go, telling myself that this old lady had survived two world wars and probably appreciates a chunk of fat better than most people. But I was put on the spot when my friend and her mother finished off their fat in the same manner. My friend told me not to worry about my own gristle, explaining that she had only eaten hers because traditions ran strong in her family. She should've told that to Oma, who in no time asked aloud, as only a grandmother could, "Ist das Fett nicht gut?" Her stark Teutonic stare could mean only one thing: "Down with it, young man."

So, under the watchful gaze of Oma, I picked up my fork and began the twirl, slowly, in the vain hope that somebody might suddenly offer me more potatoes or applesauce to go with it. I eventually got it into my mouth and managed to fake one or two chews before gulping it down with a minimum amount of squirming. But it took a lot of white Swiss chocolate afterwards to finally get rid of the nasty aftertaste. I say a lot because Oma, not surprisingly, seemed to hang on every piece I plopped into my mouth. She looked like she was about to say out loud at any minute, "Gib him another Stuck of Fett before he eats all our chocolate!"