Elizabeth Kalman

Althea and I–exhausted by a 3 hour trudge for photography class–decided upon a restaurant for dinner this evening based on the sign for Coke and the red facade. It did smell good, and the enthusiastic waiter spoke some English.

“What do you recommend?” I asked the waiter, waiving my hand at the menu.

“Well, Madame, what do you like?” he said.

“Pork,” I said, with authority.

His face lit up. He stabbed the menu with one finger. “Madame, if it’s pork you want, then I suggest the Klackle. It is, I think, Czech specialty. Traditional food. It is wonderful, this klackle, served with mustard and bread. All good Czechs eat their klackle.”

“Great,” I said. “Bring me the klackle.”

He brought drinks, and Althea studied the menu.

“I hope I like this klackle,” I said.

“You mean ‘knuckle?'” she asked.

Yes, knuckle was what I ordered. I have to add here that in the past week I had summarily dismissed countless Czech restaurants because they listed knuckle as their specialty and in my opinion, that was just gross.

But, I was tired and hungry and the waiter had sold me on the klackle. Presently, he returned with some that looked like a combination of a pig’s ear and a leg of lamb, served on a wooden board, with a pool of mustard and a glob of something white and suspicious that turned out to be horseradish.

Klackle was really, in all honesty, just barbeque, except for one small detail. It was served with the pigs skin. And hair. Or bristles? Whatever pigs grow, my klackle was coated in plenty of it.

I did the best I could.

The waiter cleared the board and smiled, once again murdering his English.

“You have to pay, Madame?”