Karađorđeva šnicla is Serbia in cutlet form — loud, proud, unapologetically rich. A pounded slab of veal or pork, rolled tight around ham and kajmak, the country’s beloved dairy crack, then breaded, sealed, and deep-fried until it turns the color of a Balkan sunset. It arrives on the plate like a culinary manifesto: golden, overstuffed, dripping history and fat in equal measure.

The story traces back to Karađorđe Petrović — the rebel leader who kicked off the First Serbian Uprising and told the Ottoman Empire, in no uncertain terms, that Serbia wasn’t theirs to keep. Whether he ever laid eyes on this dish is beside the point. The name is an homage, a culinary salute to a man who refused to bend. So of course the dish that bears his name is defiant too — big, bold, impossible to ignore.

And then there’s the kajmak. Serbia’s secret weapon. Somewhere between clotted cream and cheese, it melts into the meat like molten gold. You cut into the schnitzel and it spills out, rich and tangy, pooling into mashed potatoes or fries in the most glorious, reckless way. Any sauce — mushroom, tartar, whatever the house swears by — is just background music. The real star is that fried roll stuffed with dairy decadence.

This is the kind of food meant for celebrations, for long tables, for toasts made with slivovitz that burn a little going down. It’s not light. It’s not subtle. It’s not trying to win points with nutritionists. Karađorđeva šnicla feeds the part of you that wants to be alive, full, surrounded by friends arguing over history and politics and whose grandmother makes it best.

Like the country it comes from, it’s layered, proud, a little chaotic — and absolutely unforgettable.