Sipping The World: Tirana (English)

  

    There I was, passing out with half a beer in some cheap bar in Taksim at five in the morning, when the esteemed Ahmet Rasim suddenly graced my dream. I thought, "Well, shit, here we go again," my tongue froze, and just as I was about to deliver a solid testimony, with beer foam clinging to my mustache, in my excitement, these words spilled out: "Cheers to you, Ahmet!" (As someone who has been detained, received bans, and been wanted before, let me tip my hat and offer a slight bow in full respect to Article 216 of Law No. 5237.) So, this is what the powers want. I quickly packed my bag, bought my tickets during a class break, and set off. Albania isn’t that far anyway—a country essentially an illegitimate child, conceived by a Turkish woman and an Italian man. After a short flight, the mystery of time did its thing—I arrived in the country at the exact same hour I had left. First stop: a liquor store. Grabbed a beer—Korça! A bunch of Italians, their greasy fingers and well-groomed mustaches, were staring at me. I leaned back against the opera house in the square, waiting for him. The bastard was late, acting like he was something special. A guy, towering at least two meters, flicked his cigarette to the ground and stared at me. I sipped my Korça, wondering—why don’t we make dark beer? Brewing light beer is like being Black in Paris. The guy was swaying, obviously prepared for something. "Leka," I said. "Yes," he replied. No accent. That surprised me. "Come with me," he said. Whoa, hold on—Bismillah, I just got here! Before I could protest, he practically dragged me toward the nearby bar. Hemingway. Oh, how pretentious. But I felt lucky. A beautiful woman outside was taking orders, swift and graceful. I quickly followed the rhythm and slid inside, taking a seat at the bar. I was excited but silent. A quick round of Papa Doble! He handed me a cigarette and said, "Talk." I regretted not tying my tie, it has flowers and bees that she likes.

    Hemingway Fan Bar

First and foremost, I came here to taste things—I’m a bar wanderer, mumbling something or other. My drink arrives—Papa Doble! Ah, how I’d love to be in a historic building in Beyoğlu, charmingly telling stories to guests about Cuba, diabetes, and whatever else, while listening to that lady recount tales of her own. We lean over the table, the guy downs his drink in two sips. I’m the guest—I keep up. He doesn’t let me explore the place, though it’s quite a sweet little bar. As he dragged me toward the square, I kept replaying the scene like a picture stuck in my head. I hum to myself, "I lowered the grape basket to the flat, I begged and pleaded to bring it to words." "Shut up," he snaps. Damn, bastard—I’m a guest, just one rank below God, one above a slave. But since politeness is something I inherited from my mother, I keep my mouth shut. Instead, I say, "Come on, let’s go back to that bar, it’s cold outside. Let’s have another drink." It took some effort, ey yaman bey yaman, but I convinced him, and we headed back. After all, I had told the Albanian bartender—who barely speaks a word of any language—that I’d return. No point in lying to a man. So back we went. I glanced at the piano—damn, wouldn’t it be perfect if someone just sat down and played right now? Then he started up again: "My father, he’s practically from your part of the world; he went to Galatasaray High School." I smirked under my mustache. He went on, and soon a Dark 'n' Stormy landed in front of me. Now, if there’s one thing I excel at as a bartender, it’s pretending to listen. I could doze off even if Odysseus himself were recounting his entire journey. Kings, princes, grand tales—Ah, I thought, good stuff. Two streets over, there’s a massive relief sculpture of a worker. Something must have happened there, but no need for a history lesson. He pulled out a photo of his father. "He was a king of a man," I said. "Then this Death in the Afternoon is in his honor!" The giant man-child beamed like a kid, downing the whole coupe in one go. "You’re gonna wear me out. You stay here—I’ll be back." I gave a playful wink to the beautiful waitress and slipped out of the bar.

    In the middle of the road, I thought, "A train should pass through here." A homeless man was drinking rakia. I sat next to him. Alcohol is the most universal language—without exchanging a single word, I sat down. He handed me his rakia in a plastic bottle, and I took a long swig. I offered him a cigarette, and we sat there in silence, watching people pass by. "Sokol," he said. I told him my name. Afterward, I stopped by a street kiosk for a beer. If alcohol is a person’s first language, gambling must be the second. I walked into the first casino I saw and sat down at a slot machine. Called the waiter over right away and ordered a glass of cognac. Then another, then a third. The inspector didn’t like me, so I ordered a beer and moved to the bar instead. Lit a cigarette—not that I smoke, but I figured it would add tone and realism to the story I was about to tell. I had cigarettes on me, but asking the waiter for one made it all the more dramatic. Eventually, I walked out with the exact 10 euros I had initially put in, grinning like I had just pulled off a grand heist. I thought I had tricked the place, strutting out like a victorious general—meanwhile, the house had probably pocketed a thousand times what I had just won in mere minutes from the other tables. Then, a wave of melancholy hit. I quickly made my way back to Leka. I told him I wanted to fall in love again. He pretended not to understand. Maybe his 150-kilo body was too drunk to care, and I didn’t feel like pressing the issue. I paid the bill, scribbled "Tomorrow, 3 PM, Skanderbeg Square" on a scrap of paper, and slid it between his massive arms before walking out. The waitress was leaning against a barrel, watching the night. I made sure she didn’t see me leave.

    Nouvelle Vague

    Despite all the alcohol, I woke up feeling sharp as a rifle, which instantly put me in a good mood. I got there at 2:00 PM, and by 2:30, he showed up, his face sour. I reached out to pat him on the back, and we set off together. I told him, "This place feels both like home and far away at the same time. I don’t feel like a stranger, but I don’t belong either." He gave me a tired look, whistling an Arabic tune as I fell into step behind him, then said, "I’m going to introduce you to someone." We walked to a livelier part of the city. The moment they saw each other, they embraced—Mario, Leka! We sat at the bar in Nouvelle Vague. They talked, but I was too alert—so awake that I couldn’t even properly listen to a conversation. I quickly ordered a cocktail called Black Sabah, based on Turkish coffee distillate, and it lifted my spirits. Leka started explaining—apparently, old men here drink espresso and rakia for breakfast. I promised myself I’d try it. As the cocktail, beautifully crafted, unfolded in layers, we exchanged thoughts on the industry—Istanbul is this, Tirana is that. At one point, I blurted out, "Tirana is just a village to me!" I had no idea why I said it with such emphasis. The guy was busy tending to customers, so he didn’t hear me. I quickly corrected myself—"Tirana is beautiful, really beautiful." I admired his energy, the way he talked to everyone around him, but my own enthusiasm was starting to fade. I threw in a few little lies to keep the conversation lively, which must have worked because he poured whiskey into tiny glasses for us to down together. But I felt I had talked enough. "One drink per bar policy, dear," I said, ready to settle the bill and leave. But then, he struck me with my own weapon—shaking my hand, he said, "See you tomorrow." Damn, I would’ve done the exact same thing. I took a deep breath as I walked out, then headed to the bar he had suggested.

      KONI

At Koni, the bar had a simple yet creative menu. As I wondered how they managed to serve these drinks, they started explaining their laboratory setup. Then, my eyes locked onto a particular cocktail—one I had talked about countless times before, always saying we should make something with mezcal and carrot. And here it was, exactly that cocktail. I ordered it immediately, chewing on the carrot garnish while excitedly rambling to the bartender. I had heard that if I mentioned Mario’s name, they might offer me something on the house, but I came empty-handed. I downed the cocktail quickly—small place, but they were doing great work. As I browsed the menu, all I could think about was how many ideas I had, how much I wanted to do. First of all, I wanted to know how much time the menu creator spent on Instagram because I could swear I had seen most of these cocktails before. Simple service, but this was officially the most expensive cocktail I had had in Albania so far. 

Leaving Koni, I headed back to Nouvelle, where I was welcomed warmly. Barbie wasn’t the kind of cocktail I would usually go for, but I had watched a video about how it was made, so I was curious. Coconut oil is sacred to me—it’s sweet, has a great texture, and is incredibly versatile. The bartender nailed it, blending it with Prosecco cordial and soda, making a beautifully carbonated drink. I love fizzy cocktails—they make me feel alive. He asked for my feedback. Of course, I said. These guys had built one of the world’s best bars in a city of just a million people, while Istanbul had nothing like such a award. That thought ate away at me as I walked home, with no choice but to take the long way back since it was so late. Leka had long since retreated to his palace.

 

   Restorant Bar Balliu

 I didn’t want to spend my last night at the airport. It was a small city, not exactly brimming with transportation options. I spotted a café, a small restaurant serving light meals, about a kilometer and a half past the airport, surrounded only by auto repair shops. I ordered a Fernet Branca, and the kid pouring it couldn’t have been more than thirteen. He spoke English well, so I encouraged him with some kind words before settling into the café, looking for something to pass the time. Ended up watching a dull French movie, the kind without a single trace of adventure. Meanwhile, outside, a storm was picking up. The kid told me I could sit as long as I wanted under the semi-covered patio, so I zipped up my jacket, put on "Rain When I Die", and prepared for the rainy walk ahead. I wasn’t too keen on it—dogs are my mortal enemies. The dark, unlit road would take about twenty minutes to walk. Inside the café, only one other person remained—an old Albanian man who didn’t speak a word of English. He jingled his keys at me. People like me. They find me strange—maybe it’s the mustache, maybe it’s my brown skin. I got in the car. No need for headphones now. I simply nodded and smiled. Then came a "Çav", an outrageously overpriced airport coffee, paid like a tax for loitering.

Albania isn’t exactly the world’s best place for cocktails—most places stick to classics, with drinks averaging 7-9 euros, but I wasn’t here to try those. I didn’t go to many bars; my goal was to observe what people drink. Otherwise, who cares? The world is full of bars, and believe me, they all look the same. A few people had carved out little oases for themselves, but otherwise, you could find old men in cafés sipping rakia and beer at dawn anywhere. Even when I was rushing to catch a bus to Durrës, I saw old men already on their morning beers in the tea houses.

In Durrës, to be honest, I decided to repeat the experience—went into a café in the morning and ordered rakia and coffee. The first sip made my whole face scrunch up. I ended up dumping in a little sugar, knocking it back in one go, and chasing it with the coffee.

By evening, I was sitting by the sea, sharing beers with a Brazilian scale vendor. I told him about my dreams, about this very piece of writing. I doubt he understood much with his broken English, but he nodded along. And I liked that rhythm.

2025, March