Ulaanbaatar-Beijing ( Trans-Mongolian Express): It's common knowledge that cola was handed down to humankind by the gods themselves, a beverage so exquisite it should be had first thing in the morning. Yet, as I prefer the zero-sugar variety, this sometimes poses an issue while travelling.
Recently, while staying at a yurt in Inner Mongolia, we were informed that only regular Coca-Cola was available. One sometimes needs to make sacrifices. But that does not mean one needs to embrace all culinary vagaries of the places one visits.
While I am okay with snails, deliciously prepared in garlic butter, I have never been able to wrap my head around brains - fried, sauteed. Having been to Japan, I still can't get myself to swallow natto. Its cheese-like tendrils haunt me in the opposite way I dream of sushi. For years, in Singapore, we lived near a shop overflowing with durian. I associate its smell with home, but its taste remains alien to me.
Roaming around dramatically lush hills with merrily frolicking horses in a national park not too far from Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia's straggling capital, we decided to stop for ice-cream at a stall down the road. While Mongolia's sheep produce half of the world's cashmere, its horses are not only ridden, but they're also milked.
Particularly popular is kumis, a fermented dairy product made from mare's milk. Curd-like, it tastes somewhere in between goat cheese and freshly tapped toddy. It took a few seconds to realise that our ice cream, whose packaging we could not read but which promised something with caramel and vanilla, was kumis-flavoured.
Ice-cream is easy to dispose of without offending anyone. But a plateful of food can be another matter. At one time, staying at the tiny Tongan island of Eua, our hosts - two boisterous sisters with arms the size of hams and hands like dinner plates - decided to fry chicken for dinner. Just that morning we had seen a bunch of them run down the garden chased by a tiny dog.
We still talk about that dog named Popo and the crunching sound of its tiny teeth as it wolfed down the remains of dinner - chicken legs rolled in batter and tossed in boiling oil that came from a box from New Zealand, with water and grease having leaked through the cardboard.
It's one of the less relished aspects of being on the road most of the year - the fact that what's on the menu is often more defined by limitations and restrictions than by an abundance of choice. Unaware of how seriously Ethiopians take the fasting season, we not only found that no meat was served with our injera - the traditional, sour, fermented, spongy flatbread - but also that many of the country's best vegetables were off the table. In Saudi Arabia, you can forget about pork, while in Argentina, it is next to impossible not to find beef on your plate.
For some reason, we always struggled to find fresh eggs in the supermarket in French Polynesia. But no matter how remote the island, there was always champagne and foie gras available. 'Which variety are you looking for?' a Polynesian shop attendant once asked. She said she had three types, but could look for more in the back.
Writing this on a train from Ulaanbaatar to Beijing aboard the infamous Trans-Mongolian Express, this brings me to today's lunch and dinner and tomorrow's breakfast, it being a 30-hr-long journey. Just now, while wandering over to the dining compartment with its intricate wood carvings and tables bedecked with thick linen, I noticed that most of the Chinese guests had pulled out their cooking utensils and were busy heating up noodles and the like in public bathrooms. If this is any indication of what's being served in the restaurant, we may need to dust off our best 'ni hao' and start making some new friends.
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
Recently, while staying at a yurt in Inner Mongolia, we were informed that only regular Coca-Cola was available. One sometimes needs to make sacrifices. But that does not mean one needs to embrace all culinary vagaries of the places one visits.
While I am okay with snails, deliciously prepared in garlic butter, I have never been able to wrap my head around brains - fried, sauteed. Having been to Japan, I still can't get myself to swallow natto. Its cheese-like tendrils haunt me in the opposite way I dream of sushi. For years, in Singapore, we lived near a shop overflowing with durian. I associate its smell with home, but its taste remains alien to me.
Roaming around dramatically lush hills with merrily frolicking horses in a national park not too far from Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia's straggling capital, we decided to stop for ice-cream at a stall down the road. While Mongolia's sheep produce half of the world's cashmere, its horses are not only ridden, but they're also milked.
Particularly popular is kumis, a fermented dairy product made from mare's milk. Curd-like, it tastes somewhere in between goat cheese and freshly tapped toddy. It took a few seconds to realise that our ice cream, whose packaging we could not read but which promised something with caramel and vanilla, was kumis-flavoured.
Ice-cream is easy to dispose of without offending anyone. But a plateful of food can be another matter. At one time, staying at the tiny Tongan island of Eua, our hosts - two boisterous sisters with arms the size of hams and hands like dinner plates - decided to fry chicken for dinner. Just that morning we had seen a bunch of them run down the garden chased by a tiny dog.
We still talk about that dog named Popo and the crunching sound of its tiny teeth as it wolfed down the remains of dinner - chicken legs rolled in batter and tossed in boiling oil that came from a box from New Zealand, with water and grease having leaked through the cardboard.
It's one of the less relished aspects of being on the road most of the year - the fact that what's on the menu is often more defined by limitations and restrictions than by an abundance of choice. Unaware of how seriously Ethiopians take the fasting season, we not only found that no meat was served with our injera - the traditional, sour, fermented, spongy flatbread - but also that many of the country's best vegetables were off the table. In Saudi Arabia, you can forget about pork, while in Argentina, it is next to impossible not to find beef on your plate.
For some reason, we always struggled to find fresh eggs in the supermarket in French Polynesia. But no matter how remote the island, there was always champagne and foie gras available. 'Which variety are you looking for?' a Polynesian shop attendant once asked. She said she had three types, but could look for more in the back.
Writing this on a train from Ulaanbaatar to Beijing aboard the infamous Trans-Mongolian Express, this brings me to today's lunch and dinner and tomorrow's breakfast, it being a 30-hr-long journey. Just now, while wandering over to the dining compartment with its intricate wood carvings and tables bedecked with thick linen, I noticed that most of the Chinese guests had pulled out their cooking utensils and were busy heating up noodles and the like in public bathrooms. If this is any indication of what's being served in the restaurant, we may need to dust off our best 'ni hao' and start making some new friends.
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
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