Personal touch: The Ballad of the Burger: A Zagreb Love Story (and Warning)

 There was a time, not so long ago, when the hamburger in Zagreb was a simple, unassuming creature. It was the culinary equivalent of a one-night stand: cheap, quick, and not something you’d talk about the next day with any kind of reverence. It was the food of necessity, the humble hero of late-night cravings and empty wallets. It was what you ate when you were too broke for a proper meal, a fleeting, forgettable moment of greasy satisfaction. But then something shifted. The pendulum swung.

The Great American Infiltration 

Like a Trojan horse with a sesame seed bun, the American burger culture waltzed into Zagreb. It wasn’t just a food item; it was a psychological operation. Suddenly, a dish once known for its honest, no-frills existence was elevated to a pedestal of prestige. "Wannabe" chefs, with stars in their eyes and a craving for something foreign and new, began to deconstruct, rebuild, and overcomplicate what was, at its core, just meat and bread. They added exotic sauces, artisanal buns, and a backstory that would make a Hollywood scriptwriter blush. This wasn't just a burger; it was an experience.

This gastronomic grandiosity, this pathological need to sensationalize, is a tragicomic spectacle. It's the culinary equivalent of a teenager wearing a fake Rolex to a formal event. The simple, soulful traditions of Croatian cuisine—the sun-kissed fish of the Adriatic, the hearty stews of the interior, the rich heritage of Italian and Austro-Hungarian influences—were pushed aside in favor of a foreign novelty. We, a nation with a deep, conscious culinary identity, collectively decided to trade in our beautiful, complex narrative for a simple, pre-packaged American one. It's a sad, subtle form of cultural self-sabotage.

The Pendulum's Perilous Swing 

The result of this cultural overcorrection is a sort of gastronomic amnesia. We've forgotten that the most beautiful meals are often the simplest. We’ve been conditioned to believe that a meal isn't worth its salt unless it comes with a hefty price tag and a side of imported pretension. The price of a hamburger menu in Zagreb today rivals that of a nourishing, traditional "marenda" (a mid-day snack or lunch). This isn't just a matter of price; it's a matter of values. We're choosing instant gratification over lasting nourishment, empty calories over cultural substance.

This phenomenon isn't new. It’s part of a broader, more complex story of post-communist societies grappling with new freedoms and an influx of Western influences. It's the "get rich quick" mentality applied to food. We saw something shiny and new and, without the benefit of a slow cultural transition, we embraced it with a primitive, almost childlike fervor. This isn't just about food; it's about our collective identity. It’s a tragic tale of kitsch, of substituting genuine culture with flashy, hollow imitations.

A Path to Culinary Consciousness 

Ultimately, the choice is ours. We can continue to ride this collective wave of ignorance, or we can step off the pendulum. We can remember that a hamburger, while a delightful treat for a social occasion, is a guest in our culinary home, not the master. It is a convenience, not a cornerstone. True culinary liberation isn't about rejecting the new; it’s about understanding it. It’s about recognizing that a hamburger, with all its modern adornments, is still essentially fast food—nutritionally poor and not a foundation for a healthy life.

So, the next time you're faced with the choice, pause. Consider the rich, vibrant tapestry of Croatian cuisine. Remember the simple, nourishing flavors that have sustained generations. Let the hamburger be an occasional pleasure, a brief, celebratory indulgence. But for the love of all that is delicious and healthy, let us not allow it to replace the true soul of our gastronomy. Let us choose consciousness over convenience, tradition over trend, and a healthy, simple meal over an overblown, overpriced patty. After all, isn't that what we truly crave? A meal with a story, a meal that feels like home.

The Ballad of the Burger, Part II: From the Front to Zanzibar

Some fought for freedom, but I fought so that we could know and be able to live in it. After all, that was one of the most important reasons—for our country, our language, and our culture to stand on their own two feet again, proud and true. Democracy was a promise that we would be able to embrace the world, but on our own terms. To be open, but not to forget who we are. And for that reason, my friend, my heart aches when I see Zanzibar.

Yes, that’s right, Zanzibar.

It’s not about the hamburger. It didn’t bother me when the hamburger, as a symbol of that freedom and Western choice, started to spread throughout Zagreb. That's fine. After all, I fought for that too—for us to have a choice, to have the freedom to choose both a hamburger and a traditional marenda, and for it to be up to each of us to decide. That’s what freedom is. But what happens when freedom becomes a fashion? And when fashion becomes a travesty?

Zanzibar: An Absurdity in Three Acts

I understand a burger. I’ve eaten my share of them, both good and bad. I appreciate quality meat and a good sauce. But what is Zanzibar? What does an island in the Indian Ocean have to do with a patty in a bun in Zagreb’s Trešnjevka neighborhood? Nothing at all. And that’s what bothers me.

This is not the adoption of another culture; it's its reckless theft and distortion. It's like a child who saw something colorful in a shop window and then randomly throws it on, not understanding the context, the story, or the meaning. It is kitsch. We live in a country of rich history and deep tradition, in a city that is a mix of Austro-Hungarian and Mediterranean influences, and we slap a label from Tanzania on a hamburger? That isn't patriotism, nor is it cosmopolitanism. I feel it's a lack of respect.

Who are we if we don't know where we are?

That hamburger restaurant could be called "U Hrvata" (At the Croats'), or "Branitelj" (Defender), or "Pljeskavica" (a type of Balkan patty). But it doesn't have to be called that. It could be "Kod Štefa" (At Štef's), "Zeleni grič" (Green Ridge), "Kraljevec," or anything else. All of these names make sense because they respect the place they exist in. But "Zanzibar" respects nothing. It's just a flash, a delusion, a cheap trick to grab attention with a name rather than with quality. As if the very exaggeration of the hamburger itself isn't enough, without any cultural connection to us, there's also a place called Zanzibar. So the owner has killed everything that has even the slightest connection to Croatia. "Do you know where you live, man? Do you know your neighborhood, the people who come to your place? Do you know even a little about the history of the city, the country? Who are you, whose are you? Do you have anything in your head besides your own name to identify you?" 

Did we fight for our children to grow up in a world where everything, including identity, is traded for a bit of sensationalism? The hamburger has become a symbol. Not just of fast food, but of our collective wandering. Instead of being proud of our own and importing what enriches us, we import empty backdrops and meaningless names. And in that meaninglessness, my dear friends, we all get lost. The problem isn't so much what we eat; the problem is who we are. And if we don't know who we are, then it doesn't matter what we eat or where we live. A stray dog lives to survive without identity or purpose.