Petrit Latifi
In 1935, the Dolomiten paper published a travelogue by Louis. A. Mashold who visited the Albanian village of Kolesjan where he witnessed the cheiftain Spahia, a warrior who had fought Turks and Serbs, and others playing the Lahuta.
Albanians live today as they did 200 years ago
“One winter evening in the village of Kolesjan, I was a guest of Albanian chieftains. It was certainly the most interesting and lavish feast I had ever attended; it was a hospitality like I had never experienced before. The people of Albania live today as they did 200 years ago. The Albanian mountain dweller tenaciously clings to the customs and traditions of his ancestors, and what was true centuries ago is still true there today. Unfortunately, this also applies to the food. I had to learn that.”
Cheiftain Spahia
“Like my host, the lord of the hut, Chief Spahia, and his men, I entered the large guest room, lit only by a fireplace, barefoot whose floor was spread with colorful carpets. The chief, a tall, old, gaunt warrior who had fought many battles against the Turks and the Serbs behind him, displayed in his demeanor all the dignity of his tribe and rank.”
“Naten e mire”
He received me with the Albanian greeting: “Naten e mir!” “I wish you a long life!” When we had settled down, Spahia brought me pillows, sheep and wolf skins to wrap myself in and make me sick. He was touchingly attentive. Again and again he checked whether my cigarette was still burning, and again and again he poured me Turkish tea, which he had brewed by the fireplace in large, finely decorated jugs. It was he himself, the chief, the host, who made himself the servant of his host.”
“While the Turkish coffee spreads its aromatic scent through the room, Spahia tells of the heroic deeds of his tribe. Besides me, about twelve of the bravest warriors of the village are festively gathered. They wear white trousers, gold-trimmed vests, the little skullcap on their heads, and cartridges and pistols loom from their belts. “
They sing to the Lahuta
“They sing to the Lahuta, over the Albanian guitar, old heroic songs. Then the Mahi begins. A large, A round slab with feet barely finger-high is rolled in; wooden spoons and light yellow cornbread are placed on the polished table surface. The chief hands each of us a pewter basin, and we wash our hands. The cigarettes go out. Instead, the soup pot smokes, steaming with a yellow, fatty concoction.”
“Large, golden yellow rings of old mutton fat and pre-summer butter dance in the pot. I, the guest of honor, receive the best of the best: fat, nothing but fat and more fat. Two spoonfuls of it are enough to put a European stomach on strike for a week. But my Albanian guests think I’m too shy to tuck in heartily. They are uninformed about the capabilities and impossibilities of my stomach.
And the duty of a guest compels him, with the courage of desperation, to enjoy even that which he knows will be bad for him. Thus, the guest is obligated to slurp a spoonful of soup to the health of everyone present. I have done it. Don’t ask me, my dear.
The next dish to appear, which I watched with some apprehension, is a large mutton on a roasting spit. Spahia, the chief, ceremoniously receives this mutton. The festive procedure of carving it up is appropriate, and without a knife. What is the use of strong arms and dexterous fingers? Spahia carves up that mutton with powerful, ripping grips. The pitch-black roasting fat runs between his fingers, and with ecstatic gusto, he throws me the largest and most beautiful of the legs. I am fed.
Meanwhile, the house servants have brought in thick, sour milk in a large wooden bowl, which holds about six to eight liters. Sheep’s milk, which is not only warmed, but also retains the distinctive taste for Albanians, the piquant smell of being burnt. I see this disaster coming—I recognize my powerlessness—but I arm myself with determination. It must be done.
And now, to make the feast complete, this mixture is also poured over with mutton fat and butter. And, so that the sweetness is not lost, sugared sheep’s cheese is sprinkled over it. The chief doesn’t need to wish me a good appetite anymore. I had expected something completely surprising, but now it was here
The chief and his guests take the sour sheep’s milk with wooden spoons, all from the large bowl. I, too, grow old, but not for long. I must go out. To the fresh, free pleasure. I couldn’t do otherwise. Otherwise, the insult I would have inflicted on honest Albanian hospitality would have been so great.
I am now standing in the large, open courtyard. I must come to my senses again. The house dogs are barking furiously; from outside, outside the farmstead, packs of wolves are howling. They are hungry. I can no longer say that about myself. These few spoon were full.
Desert: Kos and Pul me Uriz
“After a while, I reappear in the room. Dessert is served: “Kos” and “Pule Me Uriz,” a kind of curd strudel, which I try to enjoy. I don’t succeed. My Albanians enjoy these strudels with all the greater pleasure. Enviable people!
Another handwashing. Then an Albanian game of chance begins: many small coffee cups are placed on a large cup, and a ring is hidden under one of these cups. You are allowed two guesses. If you guess the letter on which the ring rests, you win and are cheered. If you don’t, you are laughed at and have to pay a fine. I, the stranger, always lose. But this is the only welcome opportunity for me to somewhat compensate the brave Albanians for their great hospitality.
The meal is over. One after the other, the guests rise and silently leave the room. The fire gradually dies down, and we go to bed. That is, we open the sheepfolds spread out on the hard beds, cover ourselves with warm, sheltering sheepskin rugs, and close our eyes for a refreshing sleep.
From the distance, Albanian noise reaches the windows: the barking of dogs and the barking of wolves.
Reference
Balkan Academia 