by Jen Lin-Liu
• • •
Finally, we met a warm Turkman. A friend of a friend, he was even willing to meet us for lunch. While we ate, he explained that many locals gave a chilly reception out of fear. The government ordered locals not to talk to foreigners—university students, for example, were required to sign a contract that promised they would not interact with anyone but Turkmen. And despite his hospitality, even Michael was on edge. He asked me if my book was political in nature, taking care to inquire in the restaurant’s parking lot, where he was sure that our conversation wouldn’t be bugged. I paused—his question reminded me of something the writer George Orwell had once said: all writing is political. I decided not to bring that up.
“No,” I said. “I’m mostly interested in food.”
“Oh, good,” he said. “Because I could get in a lot of trouble if it was.”
Michael treated us to a meal at Pizza Haus. Despite its xenophobic policies, the government had okayed restaurants serving foreign food. Though international fast-food chains hadn’t opened in Turkmenistan, a number of copycats like Pizza Haus did brisk businesses. The owner had managed to replicate Pizza Hut’s feel, with a den-like setting and a salad bar. The pies were just as dismally bland.
Michael dressed and talked in a Western manner, wearing a button-down and khakis. He’d studied in America for a master’s degree before returning to Turkmenistan to marry, and he was the father of two children and counting. His wife, he said, was pregnant again. He invited us to his home to have a meal with his family.
“I just finished building a yurt in my yard,” he said in a British lilt he’d picked up from his foreign coworkers. Turkmen, like Kyrgyz, were traditionally nomads. He planned to use the yurt for entertaining and housing guests. He would have invited us to stay at his home, but the government didn’t permit tourists to stay anywhere besides a few designated hotels.
Michael asked me what Turkmen dishes I wanted to try. As I’d drifted farther from China, I discovered that noodles were no longer commonly made at home, and even dried noodles were rarely eaten. Not long after we’d entered Turkmenistan, I’d come across plastic bags of noodle fragments in a small grocery store. Our driver had told us that they were a convenience food of last resort, and they’d probably sat in the store for two years.
Our Turkmen friend confirmed that his family rarely made noodles at home, and given the lowly status of the foodstuff, they would absolutely not serve them to guests. With no noodles to try, I inquired about a traditional sheep-and-bread soup called dograma. The foreign friend who’d introduced us to Michael had mentioned that it was delicious.
“That’s a very good dish,” Michael said. “We’ll have to slaughter a whole sheep to make it.” The sheep needed to be fresh, he said. And not a single bit of the animal would go to waste. The head and feet would be saved for another meal. His family would use the wool for clothing. The skin could be used for jackets and shoes. “We eat all parts, including the testicles and the brain. The brain is terrifically juicy and good for your health. I eat it once a month to keep my brain sharp.”
The brain didn’t sound so appealing. But still, I perked up. The idea of witnessing an animal slaughter inspired morbid curiosity. I’d had the chance in Kashgar when I visited a live animal market, but I’d sidestepped the slaughterhouse at the last moment. Over the past month, however, I’d become more aware of the importance of sheep to Central Asian cuisine. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that there was something hypocritical about enjoying meat without watching how it was produced, from start to finish. “How about it?” I asked Craig. He was game. After all, it wasn’t every day that someone offered to slaughter a sheep in our honor.
• • •
On the appointed afternoon, Michael drove us out of Ashgabat in his shiny sedan to his home an hour away. His family, both immediate and extended, lived in a small village of neat, rectangular plots that reminded me of how homes were often divided in American suburbs. But his dwelling was far from luxurious. The four rooms were small, and the kitchen, adjacent to the main building, had been built of flimsy material, like a toolshed. In a large yard, near an outhouse and a barn, sat the circular yurt that Michael had recently pitched.
Craig and I greeted Michael’s family, which included his two toddlers, who frolicked next to his wife. She was a shy woman who was eight and a half months pregnant and looked ready to go into labor at any moment. Semsa looked as traditional as Michael looked modern. She wore a formless smock down to her ankles and a long head scarf, which swept up her hair into a bundle of fabric atop her head, the typical hairdo for Turkmen women. I said hello, only to learn that she didn’t speak English. She hung back in the kitchen as the slaughter got under way.
Two of Michael’s relatives carried a sheep out of the barn. They held it by its legs, upside down. The stunned look on its face seemed to be not one of fear but of confusion. Twenty-four hours before, it had been grazing on a patch of weeds in the Turkmen desert when it had been rounded up with its flock to a nearby bazaar. Michael’s relatives had gone to the bazaar that morning and, after inquiring about its age (it was a year old), checking for healthy eyes and teeth, and feeling its round but not oversize midsection, they plucked it out of the crowd.
It was best for the sheep to be slaughtered as soon as possible after purchase, Michael told us. If it didn’t adjust to its new surroundings, the animal was numbed against its imminent death.
As one relative held the sheep, the other used a sharp knife to slit its throat in one quick motion. Blood gushed into a shallow hole that had been dug in the ground, staining the dirt. The sheep’s legs twitched while its bladder relaxed, releasing a steamy stream of urine. The butcher made an incision in the spine and washed off the knife with water from a tin ewer, pointing its spout to Mecca as he set it down. The sheep stopped twitching and its eyes took on a glassy hue.
The butcher began to skin the sheep. He started at its feet, flaying with his knife before using his hand to massage skin away from flesh. The front leg wagged up and down as he worked his hands up it. His cell phone rang. He stuck his knife into a wooden post nearby and answered the phone with a bloody hand. When he hung up, he resumed the work, his hands fully immersed in the sheep’s body, making it look as effortless as pulling a duvet out of its cover. The sheep fully skinned, he sliced off the legs, then knocked off the head in one quick swoop. He hung the carcass upside down on the post and began the dirtier work: pulling out the intestines, which were as endlessly long as a fire hose. “Not my favorite part,” Michael said, grimacing. The rest of the internal organs were swiftly removed and the veins of the heart were cut to let the blood run out. The butcher slapped some cartilage onto the wooden stick. “We have to share something with the post,” our Turkmen friend explained. The butcher carved the meat away from the ribs and spine and removed the precious fat from the tail, leaving the skeleton hanging. I glanced at the clock on my cell phone. The whole slaughter had taken less than half an hour. “End of story,” Michael said.
I’d chopped plenty of meat and boned chickens and fish, but I’d never seen an animal this big slaughtered and butchered. I was surprised that I wasn’t traumatized. I’d felt a little queasy when the butcher removed the internal organs, but the slaughter hadn’t disturbed me, nor did it seem cruel. When it had been killed, the animal hadn’t made so much as a peep—“like a lamb to slaughter” was an apt phrase. The sheep would provide sustenance for the family for the rest of the month. The butcher had worked so smoothly and quickly that we could get on to the cooking without much thought.
Everyone sprang into action. Inside the yurt, Michael’s sister-in-law kneaded dough to make bread, kneeling before a large mound and pushing her knuckles into it. Another female relative flattened the dough into oval sheets, after which she made a dotted line pattern around the edges with a spear. The bread was placed into yet another beehive-shaped oven and baked unti
l crisp. Once it had cooled, we broke each sheet into little bits, a task that frustrated my husband with its repetitiveness. “That took a long time,” he said later. “Why didn’t we just dip the bread into the soup?” Had it not been crumbled, though, it wouldn’t have reminded me of the bread-and-mutton soup I’d eaten earlier on the Silk Road, in Xi’an. The bread, I remembered the Chinese food writer telling me, had originated somewhere in or around Persia. The connection was uncanny. But here there was an extra step. Michael placed the bread crumbs on a plastic sheet, sprinkled finely minced onions over it, and wrapped the plastic over the mixture. It was kneaded so that the onion juices and vapors permeated the bread.
Meanwhile, Michael’s father made the broth, firing up a huge kazan in the yard to boil the rib meat and assorted scraps. After the broth had simmered, he added tomatoes pushed through a food mill. The meat was cooked until it was firm, after which it was shredded by hand and divvied among the bowls, along with the bread and onions and the rich broth. I was impressed at the communal effort the feast had inspired. The entire family was helping, and for once the men seemed equally involved.
As this was going on, I went into the kitchen, where Michael’s wife, Semsa, was making . . . plov. Though I’d mentioned the copious amounts of rice pilaf I’d already eaten, our host told me it didn’t seem right not to have the dish when he was showing off his best hospitality. Semsa stirred the rice, her enormous belly nearly touching the stove. I chatted with her with the help of a neighbor who’d come for the feast. I learned that she, like many Turkmen women, was a stay-at-home mom. She’d never worked, in fact, and though her husband had gone off to college and received an advanced degree in America, she’d never gotten anything higher than a high school education and had never left Turkmenistan.
As she cooked, I noticed an odd habit of hers. Every so often, she looked around demurely and covered her mouth with the end of the head scarf that hung around her shoulders. She held the scarf in her mouth, biting it almost coyly. Seeing the puzzled expression on my face, she tried to explain by pointing outside the kitchen and then at the head scarf. Just then, Michael and Craig happened to saunter in.
“It’s a sign of respect,” Michael said.
“Respect?” I asked.
He explained that it was customary for a Turkmen woman to cover her mouth whenever a man who was not her husband nor related to her by blood was in her presence. It sounded too bizarre to be true. But sure enough, each time a man walked by the kitchen, Semsa and any other women nearby stuck their head scarves into their mouths.
Women were also not allowed to talk to these men, our host added.
“Wait,” Craig said to Michael. “What if there’s something important she needs to say?”
“Well, actually, just a while ago, for example, my father asked her where the tomatoes were,” he said. I remembered: she’d replied by pointing. She could also gesture or tell one of her children to pass on the message. Naturally, that was a practical solution, because her children were never far.
“But what if there’s a fire? Or an emergency?” Craig asked.
“If there is something really important, like a fire, she can whisper, like this,” he said, lowering his voice to a faint echo.
Craig and I fell as silent as his wife.
“It’s a sign of respect for elders, for men,” he repeated, seemingly ignorant that we were becoming more disturbed by the minute. “You know, women should learn to shut up—” He stopped abruptly and laughed lightly.
All I could do was feign a chuckle, as I tried to figure out an appropriate response as an honored guest. I inquired more. He acknowledged that things were different in America, as he’d seen when he was there. But he’d reconciled it very sharply. That was America and this was Turkmenistan. Yes, it was true that his wife didn’t have a say in many matters. But in exchange for her silence, he would take care of her and the family. “You can’t really live a modern life and be the man,” he said. So naturally, he’d chosen to be the man.
Michael ushered us into the yurt, where with great fanfare he opened a fancy bottle of red wine from the Caucasus. His family toasted us. The meal began with a mouthwatering cucumber, tomato, and mint salad, and slices of juicy melon. The dograma was hearty and delicious, while Semsa’s plov was better than most, with fresh mutton and apricots. Michael carried on an interesting conversation about world politics. The family toasted us some more. But still, the meal was indigestible. Not only because of the outrageous custom we’d just learned about, but also because the women sat outside the yurt in the cold, while Craig and I dined with the men. Apparently, my status as a foreigner made me an honorary man.
Of all the spectacles we’d see across Turkmenistan, the most alienating was Michael, who seemed so familiar, so kind, so Western, until we saw him at home in this land of unjust dictatorship, with his silent wife.
In Central Asia, I’d met women who’d cried and were unhappy at their weddings, an abused bride, and now a mute wife. If this was what it was like to be female in Central Asia, what about Iran, into which we would be crossing the next day?
GYULCHETAI (KYRGYZ NOODLE SQUARES WITH VEGETABLES)
Serves 6
FOR THE MEAT AND VEGETABLES:
3 pounds lamb, beef, or horsemeat in several pieces, bone-in
2 quarts water
2 bay leaves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 onions, peeled and sliced ½ inch thick
4 large carrots, cut diagonally into thirds
6 small potatoes, halved
FOR THE DOUGH:
1½ cups water
1 egg
1 teaspoon salt
4 cups all-purpose flour
Minced parsley and dill for garnish
Prepare the broth: Place the meat in a large stockpot and add the water. Bring to a boil and skim off the impurities. Reduce the heat, cover partially, and let simmer for an hour, skimming off the foam from time to time. Add bay leaves and salt and black pepper to taste, and let the broth continue to simmer for another hour.
Make the dough: In a large bowl, combine the water, egg, and salt and mix thoroughly. Add 1 cup of flour and mix it in with your hands. Then add the rest of the flour, ¼ cup at a time. Mix thoroughly until all the flour has been incorporated. Place the dough onto a clean surface and knead for 3 to 5 minutes, until the dough is soft, pliable, and smooth. Cover with a damp cloth or wrap in plastic and let it sit for at least 30 minutes.
Roll out the dough: Follow the instructions for rolling out the dough in Chef Zhang’s Hand-Rolled Noodles/Andrea’s Pasta. Cut the dough into strips 4 inches wide, then cut the strips crosswise into 4-inch squares. Sprinkle the squares with flour so they don’t stick together and make several stacks of them. Roll and cut the remaining dough the same way.
Finish the dish: Add the onions, carrots, and potatoes to the stockpot. Continue to simmer for about 20 minutes, until the vegetables are tender but not too soft. Remove and discard the bay leaves. Using a strainer or slotted spoon, remove the meat and vegetables from the pot and set aside. Add some of the pasta squares to the stock, being careful not to crowd the pot. Boil for 7 to 8 minutes. Then remove the noodles with a strainer and place on individual plates. Repeat until all of the noodles are cooked and divided among the plates. Slice the meat thinly and place some on each portion, along with the vegetables. Garnish with minced dill and parsley and serve immediately.
SAMSA (UZBEK BAKED DUMPLINGS)
Makes about 30 dumplings
FOR THE DOUGH:
1 cup cold water
1 teaspoon salt
2¼ cups flour
FOR THE FILLING:
½ pound ground beef or lamb (30 percent fat)
1 medium onion, minced
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 teas
poon freshly ground black pepper
½ cup vegetable shortening or margarine
2 egg yolks, beaten
Make the dough: Place the water and salt in a large bowl, and add 1 cup of the flour. Mix thoroughly, then add the rest of the flour, ¼ cup at a time, until all the flour has been incorporated. Transfer the dough to a clean, lightly floured surface and knead for 3 to 5 minutes, until the dough is soft, pliable, and smooth. Cover the dough with a damp cloth or wrap it in plastic and let it sit for at least 30 minutes.
Make the filling: In a medium bowl, combine the beef or lamb with the onions, salt, cumin, and black pepper and mix thoroughly.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Make the dumpling wrappers: Follow the instructions for rolling out the dough for Chef Zhang’s Hand-Rolled Noodles/Andrea’s Pasta, rolling each portion of the dough into a single, very thin sheet—it should be almost translucent. Smear a very thin layer of shortening or margarine over the sheet of dough. Fold it in half. Smear another very thin layer of shortening or margarine over this surface and fold it again. Place the dough in the center of your working surface and roll it out into a square about 2 millimeters thick. Sprinkle flour over the dough and cut into 3-inch by 3-inch squares.
Shape the dumplings: Place a dough square in the center of your palm and add approximately 2 tablespoons of filling. Bring one pair of diagonally opposed corners together and press to seal, then bring the other pair together and press again. Seal the dumpling completely along the edges to make a pyramid shape with a square base. Brush each dumpling with a thin layer of beaten egg yolk.