Deta answers the phone as if she’s not answering it at her own restaurant. In her characteristically smoky voice and her thick Eastern European accent, she barks—as if being interrupted—the word “Hello.” It’s not so much a greeting as an exclamation of annoyed surprise, as if she can’t imagine why anybody would ever call her at this number.
“Any burek?” I ask her.
“When you coming in?”
I take that as a yes. I call Deta before heading over to her café because sometimes she takes off for weeks at a time, sometimes she doesn’t have anything made (and everything takes a good half-hour to bake), but most of all, to prepare her for an outsider’s arrival. Her business may technically be open to the public, but it feels more like a social club in which I don’t have membership. The dining room is always full of a group of people--they may or may not be her relatives, but if not, they’re close enough—sitting around drinking coffee and sucking on cigarettes (the smoking ban be damned). And they’re not the warmest bunch; I’ve nodded to them once or twice, only to receive vaguely aggressive and thoroughly confused stares in return.
In other words, there’s no way in hell I’d feel comfortable enough to stick around and eat. But at the same time, a group of unfriendly regulars isn’t about to keep me from Deta’s burek. The savory pastries come in the shape of an elaborate snail’s shell, the golden, flaky dough wrapping around itself into a spiral that begs to be pulled apart immediately. Inside there’s spiced beef, or spinach and cheese, or potato and onion. But it’s really the bread that matters. True, the minute Deta slides the burek into a paper bag, hot grease marks instantaneously start to form. But this is rarely, if ever, a problem. Because although I always take my burek to go, they’re out of the bag and in my lap the second I get into the car. And they never stand a chance of making it all the way home.
Deta’s Café 7555 N. Ridge Ave, Chicago, IL, 773-973-1505
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