Five little letters to say I love you. No, not adore, but prsut. I love prsut! Yes, I will admit it, my name is Mark Thomas and I am a prsut addict. Just the look of it drives me crazy. It probably drives my arteries crazy as well, but no pain no gain. The deep red colour, the salty aroma and the taste, oh my mouth is watering just writing this sentence. In a sandwich, with bread and cheese, in a salad or even just on its own, prsut is a gift from the Gods.
If I were ever to leave these lands then the one food I would miss, no miss is too small a word, is the Dalmatian delicacy. And it has to be Dalmatian. I have tried Spanish and Italian but they don’t have the strength or the intense flavour of prsut dried in that biting bura.
I don’t really have a sweet tooth. I’d quite happily skip the dessert in a restaurant to replay the starter. Recently I ordered a cake for a special occasion. “Would you like a fruit cake, chocolate or maybe Nutella?” the cake maker asked. “Do you make a prsut and cheese flavoured one,” I answered with a grin. They didn’t, unfortunately.
“Am I dreaming or can I smell prsut,” I whispered to my wife as we were almost falling asleep. Maybe it was a prsut inspired dream, and probably not the first, but the delicious aroma of smoked meat was filling our bedroom. Strange, but true. I got up, curious. The more I moved away from the bedroom the less the smoky smell faded. And as I got back to the bedroom my wife was already in REM. Trying to sleep with the mouth-watering prsut aroma was challenging. I even got up and made myself a cheese sandwich (I didn’t have any prsut in the fridge).
A few days passed and the aroma had long since disappeared. But then. “Oh, something smells nice,” I said to my neighbour as we bumped into each other in our gardens. “I’m pretty sure it isn’t coming from my kitchen,” I added with a smile as the smoked meat scent wafted over us. She jiggled and added “Unless an oil covered tea towel has caught fire on my stove it isn’t coming from my kitchen either.”
The Zupa prsut mystery continued. I found myself eating more and more just to fight the hunger pangs that this prsut perfume was giving me. And while we are on the subject of perfume, why do Chanel and Christian Dior waste time creating fruity smelling products when surely the most attractive smell for men would be the aroma of prsut. Chanel No.6 = prsut! A sure winner. Again nothing for a few days. No wafts of dried meat. But as sure as the sun sets in the west the aroma came back.
I had noticed a pattern. Like Poirot I was starting to detect evidence. Every time that my nostrils were filled with prsut the bura was blowing. My culprit must be somewhere south of my location.
A few months previous I had heard the neighbours behind me banging around as if they were constructing something. A large wall divides our homes and therefore observing what they were building was impossible. And after a few days it stopped anyway, so I guessed it was probably just a minor alteration.
So I waited. I waited patiently for the next bura. It came. And so did the prsut. Following my nose, like a bloodhound on the trail of its prey, I darted around for the source of my hunger torture. Jumping onto a small wall I peered on tiptoes over the back wall. I was a prsut voyeur. Was that smoke? And what is that tower? A very gentle wisp of smoke was slowly raising from the top of the tower. As I was peeping I heard “Need some smoked meat for your goulash neighbour,” and a beaming smile across my neighbour’s face. Prsut Poirot had solved the mystery.
The construction work I had heard was indeed a meat smoker and drier. “We have sausages, budola and prsut, you can try them when we’ve finished,” he added still grinning. I felt like I had tasted them all already with just their tempting aroma wafting over my back wall. My dream had come true. I was living in prsut heaven. It’s time to invest in trousers with a more generous waist line. Long live prsut!