Clockwise from left: Furniture at Normann Copenhagen, Mary chocolate store in Brussels and silk from Antico Setificio Fiorentino in Florence.
For
the Travel section’s Oct. 19 issue on Europe, writers and editors
selected special items to profile from a dozen cities. Below, explore
everything from chocolate in Brussels to silk in Florence to design in
Copenhagen.
Berlin: Street Art
Despite
relentless hypergentrification, Berlin remains a bastion of street art.
Elaborate murals still decorate firewalls; images by sprayers and
stencilers pop up everywhere else. But how can the visiting aficionado
take street art home? The answer is easy, if counterintuitive: get off
the streets. The number of galleries selling urban art keeps growing: Neurotitan,
a sprawling space in a scruffy complex in the central district of
Berlin-Mitte, has shown urban art since 1996; newer on the scene is Urban Spree, a high-energy gallery in a postindustrial complex near the Spree River, which also hosts art events. So does Open Walls Gallery
in Stattbad Wedding, a defunct swimming pool repurposed as a nightclub
and cultural center in the blue-collar district of Wedding.
“I
wanted to do something that fits the city’s cultures and subcultures,”
said the Paris native Guillaume Trotin, who founded Open Walls with
Elodie Bellanger, in 2012, after running pop-up art projects in Miami,
Paris and other cities. Mr. Trotin now exhibits urban artists like Alias
and Vermibus in a sleek indoor space.
Treasure
hunters can also go straight to the source — the artists themselves.
Jim Avignon’s panels on the Berlin Wall’s East Side Gallery are
legendary, but he also paints eye-popping graphic works in his Kreuzberg
studio, sometimes selling them in person or on his website, jimavignon.com
(an exuberant solo show is on view at Neurotitan until Oct. 25). Packed
with cartoonish characters and clever visual commentaries on Berlin’s
gentrification, his acrylic-on-paper panels are affordable (starting at
about 100 euros).
Working in a former metal fixtures factory, the duo who call themselves 44Flavours
create geometric wall pieces, murals and sculptures incorporating found
materials. “We’re interested in anything that tells stories, so we go
outside and collect stuff,” said Julio Rölle, who collaborates with his
business partner, Sebastian Bagge, on not only art but also designs for
shirts and snowboards.
Arguably the most polished urban art can be found at Circle Culture,
which has grown into a multivenue enterprise. The newest, largest space
opened on Potsdamer Strasse, Berlin’s main gallery strip, last
November. Showing artists like the Brooklyn-based muralist Maya Hayuk or
XOOOOX (whose haunting stencil figures still lurk on Berlin streets),
the owner Johann Haehling von Lanzenauer sees the lines between artistic
subdefinitions blurring. “The term ‘street art’ is done, over,” said
Mr. von Lanzenauer, pointing at Stefan Strumbel’s neon-kitsch cuckoo
clocks and prints on the gallery’s walls. “I call this contemporary art.
Street is just a medium.” KIMBERLY BRADLEY
Brussels: Chocolate
Nearly
half the chocolate consumed in the world is savored in Europe, and
Belgium — with per-capita consumption of 14.99 pounds a year —certainly
devours its fair share. While Brussels, the country’s capital, is home
to hundreds of chocolatiers, what makes a visit imperative, at least
from a chocophile’s perspective, is the rich heritage of artisanal
chocolate-makers.
And none epitomizes the nation’s devotion to craft and quality more than Mary.
Mary Delluc established her business in 1919 on the Rue Royale, the
route the king took to the Royal Palace each day. In 1942 she achieved
her goal of becoming the chocolate purveyor to the royal family, an
honor that was bestowed on the brand three more times, most recently in
2013. While Mary has retained a presence on Rue Royale for 95 years, it
has changed address three times, the most recent (Rue Royale 73)
undergoing an overhaul in 2010.
“We
went back to the roots of Mary,” the managing director, Olivier
Borgerhoff, said, noting the return to the original white-and-gold color
scheme and prominence of the oblong logo. As for the chocolate, it
might as well be the 20th century. “We don’t change the types of
chocolates often,” Mr. Borgerhoff said. “We try to improve the choices
we have.” That means sourcing top-quality ingredients and eschewing
preservatives and unnatural additives of the dozens of caramel,
marzipan, mousse, ganache and cream-filled bonbons that are stacked in
neat rows down a long central counter, along with glass bowls of
hand-rolled truffles, flaked with almonds and dusted in powdered sugar. A
250-gram box is 17 euros ($21).
Another chocolatier, Debailleul,
is decidedly more whimsical. The small chain, established in 1983 by
Marc Debailleul, produces bonbons and ballotins, or boxes, that are so
refined and beautiful, it’s almost — almost — a shame to indulge. The
options are limited: traditional pralines and creamy ganaches, many
hand-painted with cupids, the letter “D” or other flourishes, and
vanilla, coffee and caramel-flavored truffles. Visit the factory store
(Rue de Ganshoren 27-39). It will be as if you’ve discovered secret
treasures of the chocolate capital. AMY M. THOMAS
Budapest: Paprika
The
job of preparing Hungarian paprika was once considered too dangerous
for mothers to do. The peppers grown in Szeged — one of the country’s
two primary paprika-producing regions — were so spicy that a woman who
touched her children upon returning from work risked burning them, so
only the elderly and unmarried were allowed the delicate task of
separating the membrane from the flesh. But by the early 20th century,
sweeter varieties and a machine that extracted the veins turned paprika
into an equal opportunity employer and a common feature of all Hungarian
cuisine. “Goulash, porkolt, the cold cheese spread called korozott that
all Hungarians eat on bread at least once a month,” said the
Budapest-based food journalist Dorottya Czuk. “All of our basic dishes
have it.”
So
omnipresent is paprika that you can get it at any Budapest supermarket,
but the chains offer no guarantee of quality or origin. “It might be
from Spain or, worse, China,” Ms. Czuk said. “I can tell you that nine
Hungarians out of 10 would not want to eat paprika grown in Spain.” Look
instead for tins, like those from Molnar or Hodi, that are produced
locally.
The Central, or Great, Market Hall
is a good place to start. Built at the end of the 19th century its
soaring brick, iron and tile exterior alone is worth visiting. But three
stories of stalls inside hold their own delights, paprika chief among
them. On Fridays and Saturdays, farmers sell their homemade spice in
transparent plastic bags. “That’s good,” Ms. Czuk said, “because you can
see how red it is. You want a really vibrant color.”
Aroma
is also important: Fresh paprika should smell sweet and a little funky,
like hay in a stable. And there are different categorizations:
kulonleges, or “special quality,” is the mildest and sweetest;
eros is the spiciest. But taste is the most important guarantor. Paprika
is cheap enough (100 grams of even the highest quality spice cost
around $2) that you can buy some, try it and feel that you haven’t
wasted much money if you don’t like it.
At Tasting Table
it’s possible to forgo that step. The brand-new shop, at Brody Sandor
utca 9, in the cellar of a 19th-century palace, features Hungarian wines
and local specialty foods. It offers tastings of all its products,
including Molnar and Hodi paprikas. “We spread goose fat from the foie
gras we serve on bread, and sprinkle the paprika on that, said Gabor
Banfalvi, a co-owner. “Because paprika needs fat to come to life.” LISA ABEND
Copenhagen: Design
“Friendly, playful and colorful.” That’s how Poul Madsen, a founder of Normann Copenhagen,
sums up his company’s kitchenware, decorative objects, furniture and
lighting, which have found enthusiastic clients everywhere, from Danish
reality TV series to the restaurant of the Museum of Modern Art in New
York.
Anyone
strolling through the white neo-industrial showrooms of the brand’s
Copenhagen flagship store could hardly disagree. The space pops with
radiant hues cast by richly striped Tint Throw Blankets (749 Danish
krone or $130 at 5.75 krone to the dollar), purple Kontour Vases (149
krone) shaped like flower petals, Brick Cushions (549 krone) in
Mondrian-esque fabric, and many more items developed in partnership with
scores of designers of nearly 20 nationalities.
But
Normann creations are more than eye candy. Usefulness lurks within the
clean lines of even the most pedestrian items like the sculptural Ballo
toilet brush (399 krone). A thin stem (the handle) tapers gently into a
plump hollow bulb (the base). If jostled, the rounded base wobbles
without overturning.
Cognac
Glasses (299 krone) are asymmetrical stemless vessels that lean at a
slight angle and swivel gently to stir the spirit and release its aroma.
As
befits a former movie theater, the store endeavors to engage its
audience. The events calendar is filled with fashion shows, art
exhibitions and talks. Every night staff members redesign the
street-facing display windows.
But
perhaps most appealing is the whimsy that suffuses the store. Salt and
pepper shakers from the Friends line (249 krone) resemble fat,
half-naked, mustachioed cartoon characters. Gazing at a Swell Sofa
(21,999 krone), you would swear that the plump, puffy couch had been
folded by a balloon-twister. SETH SHERWOOD
Florence: Silk
Down a quiet lane in the San Frediano district of Florence, beyond an iron gate and leafy courtyard, is Antico Setificio Fiorentino,
the sole remaining artisan silk workshop in the city. Since moving to
this location (Via Lorenzo Bartolini 4) in 1786, the small factory has
maintained uninterrupted production, despite wars and floods. The art of
silk-making in Florence flourished in the Renaissance, when noble
families amassed fortunes and fame by producing exquisite silks. That
tradition endures at Antico Setificio Fiorentino, where silks are woven
by hand on antique looms using Renaissance patterns.
During
a recent tour, the designer Maurizio Bonas rattled off the illustrious
names of historic Florentine clans — Corsini, Pucci, Strozzi — whose
signature patterns are still being produced. “When you go inside many
historical houses in Italy, it’s Antico Setificio that did them,” said
Mr. Bonas, who noted that the factory’s silks also adorn rooms in the
Vatican, the Palazzo Vecchio and the Tribuna degli Uffizi in Florence,
and even in the Kremlin in Moscow.
“To
make these kinds of fabric, we cannot use the modern machines,” Mr.
Bonas said, pulling out a roll of sumptuous blue embroidered silk velvet
made with 350,000 stitches per meter. One worker who was weaving a
cream-colored damask from a design named for the Renaissance painter
Pinturicchio could be expected to complete only 80 to 100 centimeters of
the fabric per day. And because the small factory employs only 20
artisans, production is predictably limited — and costly. In the
adjoining showroom, walls are lined with bolts of silk, from plush
velvets and intricate damasks to diaphanous taffetas, 110 to 1,360 euros
(about $135 to $1,670) per meter. Decorative pillows are adorned with
hand-woven trims. And, on a table, a basket is filled with sachets made
of Ermisino, a shimmering silk taffeta that dates back 500 years. Inside
each is potpourri from Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria
Novella, a 400-year-old pharmacy that has partnered with Antico
Setificio for, as Mr. Bonas said, “only 250 years.”
A more recent partnership with the Stefano Ricci
luxury men’s wear label, which acquired Antico Setificio in 2010, means
the designer’s nearby store now stocks wearable wares made with Antico
Setificio’s fine silk. INGRID K. WILLIAMS
Istanbul: Scent
Don’t
visit Lokum Istanbul if you have a cold. Functioning olfactory passages
and taste buds are essential for appreciating the exotic scents and
sweets stacked in glass cases and on black lacquer shelves around this
boutique on the European side of the city, which sits astride two
continents. (A second location is in London; lokumistanbul.com has information on both).
A
feast for the nose awaits in Lokum’s signature colognes (25 Turkish
lira, or about $11.30 at 2.20 lira to the dollar), which were developed
by the owner, Zeynep Keyman, from classic Turkish essences like rose,
fig, tea and mimosa. Perfumes and incense sticks are in the works.
Lokum
transforms some of those same ingredients (rose, fig) and others
(lemon, pistachio, walnut) into its own lokum — better known in the West
as Turkish delight — the soft gelatin cubes that have been synonymous
with Istanbul for centuries (from 20 lira per box). Or try the store’s
akide sekeri (18 to 55 lira), a hard candy in flavors like rose, fig,
bergamot and cinnamon.
The
eyes also get a dose of exotic stimuli. Inspired by “the mystic side of
the East and the luxury of the West,” as Ms. Keyman puts it, a glass
dome diffuses sunlight into the shop, much as in traditional Turkish
baths. And most of the products come in boxes embossed with illustrated
Ottoman-era scenes — mosques, pashas, pavilions — that Ms. Keyman and a
Paris-based design firm derived from centuries-old toile de Jouy prints.
Even
the brain finds stimulation at Lokum. The pages of “Lokum” (25 lira),
an illustrated book commissioned by Ms. Keyman, recount the history and
mythology of the celebrated sweet, which was invented in Istanbul in the
late 18th century by a confectioner named Bekir Affendi, whose shop
churns out lokum and other candies to this day. The tome is probably
best read by the glow of a rose-scented Lokum candle in a silver
fez-shaped holder (185 lira). SETH SHERWOOD
Lisbon: Tiles
Is
there a bluer country than Portugal? The blue sky and Atlantic Ocean
embrace the land. The blue moods of Fado, the melancholy folk music,
form the national soundtrack. And all across Portugal, the typically
blue designs of azulejos — ceramic tiles — are spread across
churches, monasteries, castles, palaces, university halls, parks, train
stations, hotel lobbies and apartment facades. The result is an
embellished land of Christian saints, biblical episodes, Portuguese
kings, historical glories, pastoral idylls, aristocrats at leisure,
landscapes, seascapes, floral designs and, above all, geometric motifs.
Thousands of specimens, from the 15th century to the 1930s, fill Solar
a nearly 60-year-old Lisbon tile specialist and antique dealer. (Solar
Antique Tiles, a newer showroom in New York City, is run by a family
member.)
Stacks
of tiles and hanging panels embody historical styles such as
Hispano-Moorish, Renaissance, Baroque, neo-Classical, Art Nouveau and
Art Deco. Blue and white are the star colors, though yellow, green,
brown and other hues sometimes play supporting roles.
Simple,
small individual decorative tiles start at 20 euros ($24) for
18th-century varieties and 8 euros for 19th-century examples. Be
prepared to pay 50 euros or more for 17th-century tiles and at least 100
euros for those from the 16th century.
One
marquee name in stock is Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro, a celebrated
19th-century illustrator and ceramist whose work has been collected by
the British Museum. A dazzling neo-Moorish geometric pattern explodes in
a kaleidoscope of blue, white, emerald and caramel shapes across four
tiles (90 euros a tile).
Collectors
might consider rarities like an 18th-century 56-tile panel, originally
in an aristocratic lady’s dressing room, depicting a trompe l’oeil
mirror in which a noblewoman can be seen gazing into a looking glass
held by her attendant. The cost is 9,300 euros. Palace not included. SETH SHERWOOD
London: Hats
“Americans are not always sure what to do with hats,” said Rachel Trevor-Morgan, who was seated in the second-floor showroom of her millinery
at 18 Crown Passage. This tiny lane is one of the oldest pedestrian
streets in central London, complete with gas lamps — a suitable setting
for one of the oldest industries in England.
Ms.
Trevor-Morgan was surrounded by hats of all shapes (wide-brimmed,
pillbox, beret, fascinators), in materials like silk taffeta, wool
houndstooth, velour felt, straw and lace. Embellishments included
peacock or spiky feathers, silk flowers or sheer veils, bows or curls.
“The
point is to feel beautiful, not silly,” said Ms. Trevor-Morgan, who has
designed some 65 hats for Queen Elizabeth over the last decade and
creates bespoke hats for all occasions. She recommends clients make a
one-hour appointment and bring along the outfit for a particular event
so she can match the color. (Prices generally are 200 to 2,000 pounds,
or about $313 to $3,135, at $1.57 to the pound.)
Just
below her store is Lock & Company, which claims to be the oldest
hat shop in the world. Established in 1676 and famous for topping the
heads of Adm. Lord Nelson and Winston Churchill, it can be perused by
men and women alike looking for everything from rain hats (£79) to a
fedora (roughly £200) to a faux fur hat (on average, £200).
The designer Edwina Ibbotson,
whose latest royal client is Pippa Middleton, says she can tell if a
hat is right for a woman when she sees “that sparkle in her eye.”
Some celebrities are gravitating to the milliner Jess Collett,
whose shop in the heart of the trendy Notting Hill area she likens to a
“candy store.” Her clients include Thandie Newton and Kate Hudson, as
well as the royal sisters Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice. Her hats have
a playful, theatrical feel, from a red feather Mohawk to a swirling
constellation of flowers.
“I
want everyone to want to wear a hat,” Ms. Collett said. “It
automatically makes you more interesting.” Or, as London’s arguably most
fashionable hat maker, Philip Treacy, put it: “A hat can completely
change the personality of the wearer. I like to make hats that make the
heart beat faster.” JENNIFER CONLIN
Madrid: Guitars
Crossing
the threshold of one of Madrid’s storied guitar makers’ workshops can
feel like stepping into the past. Curly wood shavings, from the palest
pine to ebony, cascade to the floor as artisans hone a few humble planks
into acoustic works of art. It’s painstaking work — all done by hand —
with classical guitar models and the methods of making them changing
little over the last century. The monthly production of even the most
seasoned craftsmen typically maxes out at two instruments per month.
The
finished products will someday go out the door, gleaming with varnish
and polished metal fittings, to seduce audiences from stages around the
globe. But here in Madrid, the tiny workrooms and the simple tools — as
well as the last names of the artisans employing them — have often not
changed in generations.
My
first encounter with luthiers, or guitarreros (guitar makers), took
place deep in the heart of Madrid’s historic center, where I went
looking for one workshop and found several.
The door is usually open at Mariano Conde’s shop (Calle Amnistía 1; marianoconde.com),
a tiny two-level workshop near the Teatro Realm where Mr. Conde, his
son — also named Mariano — and two other craftsmen move between molds,
saws, planes and files. Prices are 2,800 euros ($3,500) for a standard
flamenco guitar to 18,000 euros ($23,000) for his finest classical
concert guitar.
Mr.
Conde is a third-generation guitar maker from the fabled (and now
defunct) house of Hermanos Conde, and his brother Felipe also continues
the family legacy at his own shop nearby (Calle Arrieta 4; felipeconde.es).
A 10-minute walk away, on the other side of Plaza Mayor, is another
cluster of luthiers, including José Ramírez (Calle de la Paz 8; guitarrasramirez.com), Pedro de Miguel (Calle Amor de Dios 13; guitarraspedrodemiguel.com) and Juan Álvarez (Calle San Pedro 7; guitarrasjuanalvarez.com).
A
guitar’s colorful mix of woods is less an aesthetic choice than a
science. Each element of the instrument’s anatomy has specific physical
and acoustic demands, and its maker knows which woods can accomplish
each function. It’s fascinating to consider that the materials for
today’s instruments may have been purchased by the artisans’ fathers 30
or 40 years ago, just as the German spruce and Canadian cedar today’s
guitarreros acquire will sit drying for decades until it’s suitable to
be turned into guitars by their children or grandchildren. ANDREW FERREN
Paris: Umbrellas
“Can
you picture how drop-dead gorgeous this city is in the rain?” So muses
the American tourist Gil Pender, played by Owen Wilson, in Woody Allen’s
“Midnight in Paris.”
When you’re ready to find out, stop at Parasolerie Heurtault (85, avenue Daumesnil; parasolerieheurtault.com), a haven of handmade, high-end umbrellas in myriad materials and styles made by the craftsman Michel Heurtault.
After
a career making costumes for films, theatrical productions, historical
balls and French fashion houses, Mr. Heurtault in 2008 opened his
atelier-boutique to devote himself to the devices that had fascinated
him since youth. “By 8 years old,” Mr. Heurtalt said, “I could take them
apart fully and put them back together again.”
Using
both modern and centuries-old machines and tools, he and an assistant
construct the shop’s wares. Fine and rare woods form the shafts. Handles
range from sewn leather to engraved silver to carved wood inlaid with
horn or jewels. Linen, cotton or silk — all treated to be impermeable to
water and ultraviolet rays — are cut and sewn into the canopies, which
might be adorned with lace, ribbon, embroidery or even ostrich feathers.
To
tap your inner Audrey, the Hepburn model (520 euros, about $640) is
made from striped black and white fabric with black lace trim. The slim,
straight beechwood stem and handle allow for easy twirling. The Dorléac
(490 euros) is named for the actress Françoise Dorléac (sister of
Catherine Deneuve) and sports a red sequin web under its black silk
canopy. For protection from the elements (and paparazzi), the VIP (690
euros) features a deep bell-shaped canopy. The men’s version of the VIP,
called Prosper (490 euros), incorporates black or gray silk, a maple
shaft, and an inlaid horn handle.
The
shop even sells the Rolls-Royce of umbrellas — literally. Invited by
Rolls to create an umbrella inspired by the car’s interior, Mr.
Heurtault produced one with a curved ebony-wood shaft, a handle of white
stingray leather, thin ribs sheathed in white silk, and a large black
silk canopy. All for just 8,000 euros. SETH SHERWOOD
Prague: Toys
There’s
no shortage of souvenir shops in Prague, especially in touristic Old
Town, but most of what these shops offer — Russian-style nesting dolls,
reproduction Soviet tank commander hats, knockoff Barcelona football
jerseys — has no connection to Czech culture or traditions. But as the
father of two Czech-American children, I have often been impressed with
the Czech Republic’s traditional children’s toys, and frequently
recommend them as authentic souvenirs.
One of the best outlets for traditional toys, or hracky, is the five-year-old Retro Hracky shop (Nuselska 90; retro-hracky.cz).
Owned by Rene Zelnicek, a builder of professional models for architects
and property developers, the shop is an easy trip on public
transportation from the city center out to the decidedly nontouristic
residential neighborhood of Michle. After a direct ride on the No. 11
tram line from the Muzeum stop at the top of Wenceslas Square, you’ll
spot the giant Hracky sign on the side of a faded modernist building,
right when you get off 12 minutes later at the Pod Jezerkou stop.
The
inside seems less like a toy store and more like a toy closet: a single
small room overstuffed with beautiful, long-haired Hamiro dolls (around
300 Czech koruna, or about $14 at 21.7 koruna to the dollar) and boxes
of Merkur metal construction sets (400 to 2,500 koruna), whose designs
seem little changed since their first appearance in 1920. Inside one
display case is an impressively realistic layout of Merkur’s O-scale
model trains, on top of which are unusual stuffed animals, like the
three-foot-high giraffe (750 koruna) and packs of simple wooden toys
with wheels and pull strings. Everything seems quirky and fun, and often
remarkably affordable.
More
important, almost everything has a real connection to the Czech lands.
When you start playing with the old-fashioned wind-up metal toys from
the Czech company Kovap, you will probably fall in love with the tiny
version of the country’s classic Zetor tractor, complete with working
forward and reverse gears (720 koruna), as well as optional attachable
hay wagons, cisterns, seeders and tillers. In terms of entertainment,
such historic toys probably don’t have much on Candy Crush Saga. But
unlike most modern playthings, these toys don’t seem as if they could
have been made anywhere else in the world. EVAN RAIL
Sarajevo: Coffee Sets
To
know Sarajevo, you must understand the importance of coffee. Making
traditional kafa (coffee) — introduced here soon after the Ottoman
Empire conquered the Kingdom of Bosnia in 1463 — is a process. Grounds
are roasted in a dzezva (JEHZ-vah) before adding boiling water. When the
froth foams to the top, the rich brew is poured into a small,
handleless china cup known as a fildzan (FILL-john), which sits in a
copper sheath, or zarf. The world grinds to a halt. Cigarettes are lit.
Conversations take hushed tones.
The
ritual that is Bosanska (Bosnian) kafa is lost on many tourists as they
navigate the beehive of trinket-peddling hawkers in the cobblestone
alleys of Bascarsija, the Ottoman Quarter. But a trained ear can make
out craftsmen coaxing copper into vessels used for preparing and
drinking Sarajevo’s beloved beverage.
On
Kazandziluk (or coppersmith’s) Street, across from Sebilj, find the
wooden fountain in Bascarsija’s main square. Midway down the narrow
flagstone avenue, Muhamed Husejnovic sits in his shop, Kazandzijska
Radnja (Kazandziluk 18), hammer-pinging coffee sets (around 50 Bosnian
convertible marks, or KM, $34 at 1.46 KM to the dollar), as Bosnians
have done for 500 years.
“This
work is not respected like it once was,” said Mr. Husejnovic, whose
family business goes back more than 200 years. “For every 100 cheap
coffee sets sold in Bascarsija, I sell one.”
Walk
north, across the square, to another tiny atelier, Manufaktura (Kovaci
28), where the owner and coppersmith Abdulah Hadzic treats visitors to
impromptu master classes, explaining how he turns his dzezvas (30 to 80
KM) into functional art. Some are filled with molten lead so Mr. Hadzic
can hammer dimples and floral swirls onto their exteriors without
compromising their shapes. He removes the lead and sanitizes the dzezva
before applying a stove-ready tin lining. For others, he’ll apply a coat
of tin outside and in, and engrave through to the underlayer of copper
in geometric patterns. “There is no end to this work,” said Mr. Hadzic
as he chiseled away.
Purchase
in hand, make your way to Cajdzinica Dzirlo (Kovaci 16;
387-61-159-965), a cafe that serves kafa (3 KM) the old way, in
individual-size dzezvas. Then, on a terrace overlooking Bascarsija, fill
your fildzan, and heed the words of Diana Dzirlo, the cafe’s owner: “A
coffee must take at least half an hour just to sit and enjoy.” ALEX CREVAR
