Southeastern Europe might not seem like a hotbed of chile paste production, but if you think about it, it makes sense: the Ottomans trotted chiles out like currency pretty much everywhere they went. Thanks to them, we have Hungarian paprika in the north, and muhammara in the south, and to the east, we have salty, nose-clearing adjika.
Here’s what you do: go to your friendly neighborhood Russian market (Good Neighbor, Overseas Taste, Azove, Russian Elegance and Roman Russian Market all carry some brand or other), and grab whatever strikes your fancy. It’ll set you back just a couple bucks. It can be a thick and dry paste, or a looser, fresher salsa, depending on its origin. Brands made in Russia and Ukraine tend to be milder, whereas Bulgarian brands can pack a decent punch. If you can find a Georgian import, by all means, snag it.
Dip your pinky in and taste. You’ll notice the flavor is unusual, somewhat more complex than Latino or Asian chile pastes. Like a sambal, it’s garlicky and salty (the name translates to “red salt”), but it also contains unexpected spices like savory, coriander, dill seed, and…do you detect blue fenugreek?
In its native Samegrelo it’s sometimes served with fresh melon, but using it doesn’t require an academic’s knowledge of Caucasian or Balkan cuisine. Mix it with mayo, ketchup and chopped pickles to make a killer Russian dressing; stir it into a humble pot of beans; add it to your favorite Bloody Mary mix and cocktail sauce; put it in your meatloaf, or use it to spike a grilled cheese. It bedevils a deviled egg. You could smear some on a flat bread to eat with kebab or grilled veggies. Hell, you could do a zany Mexi-Russian mashup and put it on a smoked whitefish-pickled cabbage taco. Whatever you do, just get some.
