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If you ever meet someone from North Macedonia and find yourself short of conversation, then one word will get things going nicely. That word is ajvar. Pronounce it “Ivor”, as in The Engine – not quite right but it’ll do. Depending on who you ask, ajvar is a condiment, spread, sauce or relish. It’s made – also depending on who you ask – with red peppers and aubergine. You can eat it with meat, cheese, fish, vegetables, on toast or, using a large spoon, straight from the jar.
I was accompanying a 13-year-old called Ilijana as she played the British chess grandmaster Nigel Short. This was on the waterfront in Split, Croatia. Long story. All you need to know is that my contribution to the contest was zero. All I could do was try to bond with her somehow, by finding some area of common ground. So I said the magic word: ajvar! This was the conversational equivalent of a chess move – something with a knight perhaps? – which she didn’t see coming. It worked a treat. Suddenly she was all smiles, telling me how her grandma’s ajvar was the best in the world.
Ajvar is a Balkan thing, but it is especially common in North Macedonia due, I assume, to an abundance of red peppers there, ripening nicely even as we spoke. Ilijana was one of a couple of dozen young players taking on Mr Short. As he made his way around the other boards I quizzed her about ratios of peppers to aubergines, the right oil to use, the cooking process and so on. She seemed happier discussing this than trying to answer my daft questions about the rudiments of chess tactics. My dad used to say that in chess you need to be thinking five moves ahead, whereas he was always five moves behind. Same. But on matters concerning ajvar, I was now right up to speed.
By the time I got back from Croatia, I was champing at the bit to make some of my own. My junior chess friend suggested 5kg of peppers was about right for a batch. Further research made it clear that only pointy peppers would do. The bloke in the world foods shop in Swansea registered no surprise, or indeed interest, at the quantity I was after. With a kilo of aubergines added to the box, I was in business.
First came the charcoal grilling of the vegetables. My neighbours have one of those fancy Egg barbecues which they very kindly got going for me. Aware of the fire risk, I was relieved the rain was steady. It took me about two hours to blacken all the skins. I found the first 10 minutes of the process quite enjoyable. The last hour and 50 minutes, less so. My fingers were singed and all the tong-wielding had my right arm begging for mercy. Those Macedonian nans must be made of girders.
Then everything had to be skinned, which took longer than I might have hoped. Then drained overnight. Then chopped up, and cooked down, while slowly adding sunflower oil and salt and stirring, stirring, stirring for three hours or more. During this period, as the molten lava spat blobs of fire at me, my feelings for ajvar went from strong love to something approximating dislike. The longer you cook something, the less you end up wanting to eat it. I cooled it and put it in sterilised jars, marvelling at how a box of peppers I could barely carry had ended up filling only four jars. Exhausted, I went to bed, but all I could see on the inside of my eyelids was a cauldron of seething red stuff.
Day three, without relish, I tried my relish. It was quite good, but food and drink from your travels never tastes quite the same at home. I hope to rediscover my love for ajvar soon. I’ve a fair amount to get through.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
