Where in the world could you walk into a sweet shop and find a blonde, blue-eyed girl selling Turkish delights to a family from Istanbul? Where could you see Omani tourists admiring “oriental rugs” while a Slavic shopkeeper explains their designs and the centuries-old story of his family business? And what country is filled with cafés where locals and tourists sip tiny cups of strong, dark brew all day long, and yet no one dares call it Turkish coffee?
Why, Bosnia, of course!
And those aren’t Turkish delights but traditional Bosnian sweets. The rugs are Bosnian patterns, introduced during Ottoman rule but woven into local identity. And the coffee…
“This is not Turkish coffee!” our Sarajevo guide exclaimed as we passed yet another café. Yes, it was the same “don’t call this a burek” guide from the previous post, and by now our group knew better than to challenge him. Still, he looked expectantly at us, waiting for someone to ask a follow-up question.
He stopped in front of a table with copper cezve pots and tiny porcelain cups of steaming, aromatic coffee. “Do you know why this isn’t Turkish coffee?” he prodded.
No one dared venture a guess.
“Because Turks don’t drink coffee!” he finally declared, eyes flashing with triumph. “They drink tea, all day long. We drink coffee all day, every day. That’s why it’s Bosnian coffee!”
And he wasn’t entirely wrong. We’ve been to Türkiye a few times, and it’s true - tea is king there. Walk into any neighborhood café and you’ll see men sitting for hours, smoking, chatting, and downing endless glasses of tea in tulip-shaped cups. Coffee exists, of course, but it’s nowhere near as common as it is in Bosnia, where it seems to be a national ritual.
Later, when we bought a bag of Bosnian coffee to bring home, I couldn’t help but laugh when I noticed the fine print on the back: Made in Türkiye. I have a few questions for our guide if I ever meet him again. But in truth, quibbling over labels misses the point. We had only dipped our toes into the deep waters of Bosnian self-identity, history, and politics, and coffee semantics weren’t our battle to fight.
Take ćevapi (or ćevapčići), Bosnia’s national dish: small grilled minced meat sausages served with onions, fluffy somun flatbread, and a heavenly spread of creamy kajmak. We found them everywhere, from hole-in-the-wall stalls to entire streets dedicated solely to ćevapi restaurants. Victor even tried a vegetarian version (possibly chickpeas?), and we both licked our plates clean every time. I never dared say this while in Bosnia, but now that I’m safely across the border, strip away the flatbread and kajmak, and what you’re left with is essentially a Turkish köfte kebab. That’s just my opinion, please don’t come for me.
Stuffed vegetables were another staple, and again the Ottoman influence was clear. Sarma (cabbage rolls filled with minced meat and rice), sogan dolma (stuffed onions), and japrak (grape leaves or other greens rolled around the same filling) all share their names and origins with Turkish cuisine. The Bosnian twist is that they often came with a dollop of sour cream or a side of mashed potatoes, giving the dishes a distinctly Eastern European comfort-food vibe.
And then there was bosanski lonac, a dish that actually predates the Ottomans: a slow-cooked clay pot stew of meat, potatoes, carrots, and tomatoes, served piping hot. It reminded me less of Turkish food and more of an Irish Guinness stew or a Hungarian goulash - hearty, rustic, and perfect after a long day of walking Sarajevo’s hills.
Another tradition dating back thousands of years across the Balkans and Mediterranean is janjetina sa ražnja, young lamb roasted on a spit. Driving from Konjic to Mostar, we passed through Jablanica, where the road was lined with restaurants proudly displaying entire lambs turning slowly over open flames. The spinning wooden wheels, the smell of roasting meat, and the backdrop of the emerald Neretva River framed by the Dinaric Alps made it impossible not to stop. I ordered lamb (silently praying it would arrive in a normal portion rather than an entire carcass), while Victor went for grilled fish. In the end, Victor did in fact receive an entire fish, while my lamb came as a perfectly reasonable plate with vegetables and potatoes - delicious, tender, and thankfully manageable.
For dessert, Bosnia leaned heavily on its Ottoman heritage. Baklava, with its delicate layers of phyllo, nuts, and syrup, tasted exactly as it always does - perfect everywhere, perfect here. Tufahije, a poached apple stuffed with walnuts and drenched in syrup, was just as good in Sarajevo as the first time we tried it in Istanbul. But we also stumbled on a uniquely Bosnian twist: a rolled baklava filled with walnuts, proof that even in the realm of sweets, Bosnia puts its own spin on Ottoman classics.
Every dish in Bosnia told a story, shaped by conquest, trade, or ancient tradition. Whether it was a burek hot from a sač oven, a copper pot of “Bosnian” coffee, or a plate of steaming bosanski lonac, the food was always delicious and a reminder of days long past. In the end, we learned that Bosnia takes its food (and food terminology) very seriously, and we were more than happy to keep eating until we got it right.
