On the Noodle Road

by Jen Lin-Liu

  “I’m glad we didn’t have to lie,” she said with a sigh of relief. She apologized for not being able to accompany Craig and me to lunch, as she had to guide a European group. She kissed me three times, on alternating cheeks, and said good-bye.

  A few hours later, I lined up with Craig in front of the dining hall. It was ten-thirty in the morning and already a line of several dozen people stretched along a fence. An Iraqi woman behind us helped adjust my chador while an Afghan woman from outside the line approached us and asked for my ticket. I considered her request briefly, feeling guilty, but then again, I hadn’t gotten up at six in the morning to miss this. I held on firmly to my ticket. So did the others: as the queue began to move, one man kissed his voucher and held it to the sky.

  Before long, we were seated in a dining room on the top floor. Rows of tables stretched across the room. We sat with a group of Iraqis from Najaf, the men wearing ragged suits while the women were clad in black. As we’d experienced elsewhere, they nodded and smiled politely when we said where we were from. Waiters unloaded large carts filled with food trays and had everyone slide them down the tables so that every diner started eating in five minutes flat. Juicy lamb kebabs came with saffron-flecked rice and a roasted tomato, reminding me of the meal at Fariborz’s restaurant in Beijing. Yogurt and flatbread—the two items that had followed us all the way from China—accompanied the meal. After eating most of the food on their plates, the Iraqis scooped the leftover rice into the plastic bags the cutlery had come in, telling us they were taking it back to Najaf.

  Reluctantly, we left the dining hall to meet Mr. Sanjar. At the gates, I took a last look at the shrine. A few pilgrims handed out toffees and raisins to others, almost pleading with them to take the food. Others were fully absorbed in the moment, turning around and walking backward in a final good-bye to Imam Reza. Even though I wasn’t Muslim, I was moved.

  • • •

  I began to learn the basics of Persian food with Mr. Sanjar. Like most Iranians, he drank black tea from early morning until late in the evening. Every morning before we set off, he made a thermos of the drink, brewed to a dark, tangy brown. While driving, he bravely poured the steaming liquid into a mug wedged between his legs, then handed it to us in the backseat to share before he sipped his own mug. Like many Asians, Iranians didn’t add milk to their tea, but they did consume it with generous amounts of sugar. We saw cubes of it everywhere—on restaurant tables, in our hotel rooms, on shop counters. Iranians often held a sugar cube between their teeth while sipping tea, for an optimal sugar rush. After accidentally gulping many cubes, I decided to drop the sugar directly into my cup.

  At meals, Mr. Sanjar explained the order in which to eat things. He began with unsweetened yogurt sprinkled with oregano. That would aid our digestion. Next he took pieces of flatbread and placed the feta-like paneer atop it, along with fresh dill, tarragon, and basil. Bread was served at every meal, as important to Iranians as it was to Central Asians. Most varieties were consumed just out of the oven, Mr. Sanjar told us, and as we drove the streets before mealtimes, he pointed to the especially long lines in front of bakeries. The bread came in endless varieties, my favorites being sangek, the impossibly long sheets of whole-wheat bread that locals draped over their arms like beach towels, barbari, shaped either round or oblong and reminding me of nang, and lavash, thin and chewy, like soft tortillas. Beginning the meal with bread, cheese, and fresh herbs was a ritual I enjoyed, and one that reminded me of the West.

  Only after that would we turn to the main course, usually kebabs or long-simmered braises called khoreshts, both invariably served with rice. Mr. Sanjar brought me into the kitchens of our hotels, introduced the chefs, and translated as the chefs demonstrated. The lessons began with rice, something I’d taken for granted in China and wearied of in Central Asia, thanks to the continuous onslaught of plov. In Iran, the simplest preparations involved many time-consuming steps. A chef in his twenties named Chennari explained he used fragrant, long-grain rice cultivated in northern Iran, near the Caspian Sea. (Thai and Indian varieties were also popular.) He washed the grains thoroughly several times and soaked it overnight to remove the starch. Then he boiled it with salt for several minutes like pasta until it was just al dente—he tested it by placing a grain between his front teeth. He drained the rice and rinsed it with cold water, then transferred it to a pot lightly slicked with oil. Over an extremely low fire, the rice slowly simmered, the excess moisture absorbed by a layer of cloth under a lid or a pillow. He added a few drops of saffron water, giving the granules a golden hue. Persians found perfection in the dish when the grains were plump and fluffy, completely different from their sticky, slightly mushy Chinese counterparts. And this was the most basic of rice preparations.

  Kebabs were usually made of ground lamb and beef seasoned and flattened into narrow patties and grilled over charcoal. Though Iranians enjoyed sheep almost as much as Central Asians do, they preferred lamb to mutton and had a greater appreciation for poultry and other meats. Chicken, which had almost disappeared after China, came in many forms in Iran. It was marinated in yogurt, turmeric, and onions and skewered on wide metal sticks. Or it was stewed with tomatoes, turmeric, and onions and served with rice flecked with barberries, a cousin of the cranberry. Still more exotic stews featured chicken with pistachios, almonds, and apricots. But none could compare to fesenjun, my favorite of all dishes. Ground walnuts were toasted in a pan until they formed a fluffy paste, then pomegranate molasses was added. Chunks of chicken were put to simmer in the sauce, which thickened into a gooey, tangy reduction enlivened with a sprinkle of cinnamon and saffron.

  While I was learning plenty about the food, the people who cooked it remained a mystery. It wasn’t just the language barrier; it was Mr. Sanjar, a lackadaisical guide and translator. True, his laziness was a mixed blessing. When I wasn’t cooking, I wanted him to leave us alone. But in the kitchen, I needed him to translate and explain the cultural subtleties. He wasn’t bad when he tried, but he was impatient and indolent, accustomed to a life of luxurious hotel rooms and meals—and foreign guests far less demanding than I was. His attention was usually somewhere else during my cooking classes. He was on the phone, speaking in rapid Farsi, supposedly checking on “the program.” He was at the samovar, a fixture in Iranian and Central Asian kitchens, refilling his tea. He stepped outside to smoke. He scoured the kitchen for snacks. “Just a moment!” he would yell across the room as a chef and I struggled to communicate. He sauntered over to answer a few questions before disappearing again. When I tried to pin him down longer during one session, he gave me a pained look. It was too hot by the stoves! “Can I please take a rest?” he begged, as if I were subjecting him to cruel punishment.

  And he was a chauvinist. During one cooking session with a female chef, Mr. Sanjar turned to the male hotel manager and said with a laugh, “But we know men are better chefs!” After another lesson one morning, he got off his phone as we climbed into his car. “That was my wife calling. She’s at home. She’s a housewife. She doesn’t have a choice now because God gave her twins!” he said, howling. His laughter was beginning to make the interior of his compact sedan feel smaller by the day.

  • • •

  I developed a bout of a condition I dubbed “traveler’s paranoia.” Like traveler’s diarrhea, it sometimes afflicted me in foreign places where I wasn’t used to the conditions and standards. Onset could be sudden: one moment I’d be coasting along just fine, taking in the sights or luxuriating over a delicious meal, then out of nowhere, it would strike. I’d seize up in panic, and that awful feeling would persist. Unlike diarrhea, there was no immediate relief.

  In Iran, our visas triggered my paranoia. Back in Beijing, just before my journey began, I’d checked my passport and noticed that the Iranian visa looked like it might expire in the midst of our Iranian sojourn. I wasn’t sure if the date in the visa referred to the last day we had to enter the country or the
final day we were permitted to stay in the country. The embassy, oddly, didn’t know either, and our travel agent, Bahar, said it was probably the date of entry, but she wasn’t sure herself. I considered reapplying, but there was no time to start the arduous process again. Bahar said that even if the visas expired after we entered Iran, we could always apply for extensions inside the country. Besides, Iran was such a hypothetical that I figured I’d worry about it if we got in. My husband was right: I’d been more concerned with getting in than getting out, and now I was sorry.

  The border guard had told us that the visas were good; an extension wasn’t needed. That set us at ease for several days, until our paranoia caught up with us again. Could we trust a single border guard? Mr. Sanjar reassured us several times that the visas were fine, but we didn’t trust him either, especially because his surveillance seemed to be increasing. After warning us not to visit teahouses, he’d instructed us not to talk to locals. If we did talk to them (an inevitability given how friendly people were), we should certainly not believe anything they said, nor accept invitations to their homes. We’d hoped to see an Iranian-American friend’s family in Tehran, but reconsidered after we learned Mr. Sanjar would report the visit to the police. In fact, every day he filed reports about us to the authorities, he finally admitted. Also, he tagged along more, deciding that we needed his expert narration of certain tourist sites even when we assured him we’d be fine without him. When we went hiking one afternoon, he slowly drove behind us for several miles, like a stalker in a horror movie. He often showed up just as we sat down for meals. One evening after we’d checked into a caravanserai that had been remodeled into a romantic hotel, Craig and I went for a sunset walk through the desert. Returning to the hotel, we strolled to the dining room to find Mr. Sanjar waiting at a candlelit table for three.

  “Shall we eat?” he asked with his goofy grin.

  The evening before the date shown on our visas, we decided that we needed to ascertain that the visas would not expire the next day. I called Bahar in Tehran. “How’s the program?” the travel agent asked warmly. “Are you enjoying the food?” I told her that all was well, but that I was worried about the visas. If they were to expire and we didn’t leave the next day, authorities could levy large fines and even imprison us. The consquences seemed more real after Uzbekistan, where a friend had misread her visa and, after parting ways with us, had been detained for several days. Bahar listened sympathetically and told Mr. Sanjar to take us to the nearest visa office the next day.

  We spent the night in Tabas, a barren oasis town consisting of several streets and a few ramshackle buildings. Having arrived late that evening, we’d eaten at the only open restaurant, which served limp submarine sandwiches of shredded chicken smothered in ketchup and mayonnaise. Our motel was rows of ugly military-style cement blocks plunked in the sand. Our room—a suite, Mr. Sanjar called it—contained two lumpy single beds and ragged carpeting. We settled into bed with some reading. In the morning, we would make the six-hour drive to Yazd, where the nearest visa office was located.

  Just as I was about to nod off, a detail in the guidebook jumped out at me: the visa office in Yazd was open only until noon. I shook Craig awake, my pulse quickening.

  I threw on a head scarf and we rushed over to Mr. Sanjar’s room. He was rustling around, the lights and television still on. “Just a moment!” he called before answering the door, his phone cradled to his shoulder. He was wearing only a shirt and a pair of tight black briefs. I cringed, and it was not from having acclimated to Iran’s social norms. Answering the door in that outfit would have been inappropriate anywhere.

  “Yesh?” he said with a big sigh, dropping the phone from his ear.

  “It’s an emergency,” I said firmly. If our visas were going to expire tomorrow, we’d need to start our drive much earlier. I pointed to the paragraph in the guidebook that listed the closing time for the office.

  Unfazed, he gave me a look that said something like, You are a stupid foreigner waving a ridiculous guidebook written in English at me. Then, reverting to tour-guide mode, he assumed his most soothing parental tone, stifled a yawn, and said, “Everything will be fine, don’t worry. I’ll even go and check your passports for you.”

  He pulled on a pair of jeans and walked us to the gatekeeper’s office. The guard, sitting on a mattress, barely looked up from his game of solitaire. After plunking down a few more cards, he got up reluctantly and fetched our passports. Mr. Sanjar flipped through the pages of one to find the Iranian visa. “You see, everything is fine—” He paused and examined the passport a little more closely. There was something strange about it. On second thought, he decided, we should leave at five in the morning.

  • • •

  The sun was just starting to rise when we left the dingy rattrap of a motel. A band of fog hovered above the desert floor. Mr. Sanjar sacrificed his frequent smoking breaks so we’d make it to the visa office before noon. Craig and I sat nervously in the backseat.

  Along the way, we happened to pass the site where U.S. forces, attempting to end the Iran hostage crisis, had flown into the desert to stage an operation to free the Americans held in Tehran. In the desert, military aircraft, already running low on fuel, became engulfed in a dust cloud and crashed, killing several Americans. The rescue mission, needless to say, was aborted. The Islamic government had commemorated the event with a large billboard and a mosque. As we passed the site, we asked Mr. Sanjar how he saw the Iran hostage crisis.

  “Well, all I know was the government held the diplomats for one week and they were treated very well,” Mr. Sanjar said. “They were our guests.” This account only increased my alarm. The hostages, in fact, had been detained for more than a year. Whether or not Mr. Sanjar believed the propaganda he uttered, it reinforced the fact that he represented the government—one that held Americans hostage, lied about it, and celebrated American deaths. What were we doing in Iran, traveling on questionable visas with an agent of an enemy government? To make matters worse, with Mr. Sanjar in earshot, I couldn’t even communicate my anxiety to Craig, who sat poker-faced next to me. All the while, my brain rushed to make contingency plans, should our visas be expired and should we not be able to renew them. We’d have to leave Iran, of course. We would have to buy plane tickets, but to where? Istanbul, perhaps, or maybe Dubai. Anywhere out of the country would be just fine.

  At ten-thirty, we arrived at the visa office and hurried in. It was part of a police station, and an officer greeted Mr. Sanjar with a handshake, a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. “If there are any problems with your visa, my friend will help you out,” our guide said. Everyone he introduced us to was a “friend.” He and the officer exchanged a few words in Farsi before he pulled out our passports.

  The police officer examined them and cleared his throat. “These visas are fine, don’t worry,” he said in fluent English, repeating what the border officer had said: we had thirty days to stay in Iran once we entered. He pointed to a stamp on one of the visas.

  We were suspicious. The stamp had only Farsi on it. And why were Mr. Sanjar and the visa officer so chummy? And finally, why had Mr. Sanjar been so concerned yesterday?

  Mr. Sanjar said that he’d noticed a strange stamp in our passports. But after scrutinizing it again, he realized what it was: a notation that we’d collected tickets for the meal at the Imam Reza shrine.

  But still, we argued, nothing in our visas that we could read indicated that they would not expire today. So would it be possible for the police officer to give us an extension anyway, so we’d feel a little safer? After all, we pointed out, we wanted to make sure we didn’t violate any Iranian laws.

  He couldn’t give us an extension, he explained, because we could only apply for one just before our visas were to expire, and as he’d already explained, our visas were good for another few weeks.

  Okay, in that case, we said, our voices growing smaller by the minute,
would he be able to give us something in writing we could show the authorities if we ran into trouble?

  “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can give you in writing,” he said, firmly. We would simply have to trust him.

  We left the police station defeated—there was nothing we could do. We couldn’t even flee. According to Mr. Sanjar, once we’d confirmed “the program” with the travel agency, we couldn’t change it. We were trapped in an Iranian vacation. The vagueness of our status was just another thing we’d have to accept, along with the hejab and our annoying guide. We would have to put our faith in a system we inherently didn’t trust.

  • • •

  After our visit to the visa office, we managed to relax a little. The officer had said everything was fine, we kept telling ourselves. At any rate, there was nothing else we could do; if we were overstaying our visas, it would only be a problem when we tried to leave, in a couple of weeks. So in the meantime, we idled in the desert oasis of Yazd, known for its labyrinth of alleys and for being a center of Zoroastrianism. The mystical religion, which the government still tolerates, preceded Islam by a couple thousand years and is the source of traditions like the celebration of the Persian New Year on the spring equinox.

  Fortunately, in Yazd Mr. Sanjar passed off his translating duties to a young man who worked at our hotel. Koshan’s job seemed to cover the responsibilities of bellhop, masseuse, waiter, and guide. Though he was only in his early twenties and had a baby face, his balding head and his constantly furrowed eyebrows seemed to indicate he’d had a lifetime of worries.

  As every Iranian had, Koshan welcomed me even more graciously when he found out I was American. But even though most Iranians liked Americans, we should be careful, he added as he escorted me to my first cooking class one afternoon. As we walked through an alley that connected the hotel’s two buildings, he peered around the corner to make sure we were alone.