Can you say pljeskavica? I kind of can't, which may be why I don't visit this Bosnian cafe as often as I would like to — which is kind of a lot, considering they also have wonderful spinach bureks; enormous Slav-tinged meze platters of salami, cheese and cured beef; hot, freshly baked rounds of Bosnian bread; feta roasted with herbs in tinfoil, like a goopy, salty grilled cheese sandwich without the bread; and the ground-meat capsules called cevapi, grilled crisp over charcoal.
Aroma is kind of sleepy in the afternoon, which I like, alcohol-free, which I don't, and even when it's not summer, the shopska salad — chopped tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, onions, etc. — isn't bad. But that pljeskavica, more or less like an enormous Balkan-spiced hamburger spun out into two dimensions instead of three? Hell, you can just point. And get a Turkish coffee for the road.