My First Meal in Mongolia
This was my first meal in Mongolia. I wasn’t really sure what it was, but this really nice Mongolian kid named Tolgi, who was studying to be an English teacher and who had just acquired his driver’s license despite having failed the test, said it would be a “meat plate with salads.” I admit it, he did tell me there would be beef tongue, but since the American couple and a few others said they’d kick in, we ordered it. To celebrate that Russian bureaucracy had finally passed us through the border after an agonizing six hours of nothing – absolutely nothing – Scott, my new Canadian friend, and I also ordered a shot of Mongolian vodka. Everyone else had beer.
The meat arrived and no one was quite sure if it was raw or cured or what, so I asked Tolgi, our now-de facto guide to all things Mongolian, what the story was.
“Oh, it’s boiled,” he replied. “We boil our meat.”
I’ll admit, I didn’t even like beef tongue last time we grilled it at Korean barbecue. The experience was not improved this time. In fact, when beef tongue is boiled, it becomes something like what would happen if SPAM made cat food.
“Smells like it too,” said Amanda from Virginia.
Scott, who’d just come back from India, didn’t think we should be eating the raw veggies in the salad. Wise, I thought, though Amanda did, and when we saw her today in the aisle of the most marvelous State Department Store, she didn’t look any worse for wear.
Don’t tell our really wonderful friend and guide this, but we wrapped up most of the meat in napkins and left it for the fluffy puppy who seemed to live in the parking lot.
Things have only improved since this meal. First of all, we got to Ulaan Baatar and so finally also got off the train.
And today I discovered the State Department Store with a supermarket that outdoes any Russian supermarket, even the fancy shmancy one. For starters, Mongolia imports from all sorts of places, so you can buy juice in German, Bon Maman raspberry jam, Korean kimchi, and Bob’s Red Mill grains. Maybe it’s just that unlike in Russia, I actually know what I’m buying, but there was, I admit, a slightly euphoric moment, and yes, I did think I heard some angelic voices singing from on high, when I found myself in front of the organic wall).
At the State Department Store supermarket, they also have – get this – “American Chicken,” which is a frozen chicken in a plastic bag from Tyson in Arkansas.
I would have taken pictures for you but the supermarket has posted very conspicuous signs that say “NO PHOTOS.” They have only written this in English which makes me think that I am not the only one amazed by its mishmash of glory and oddity.
Anyway, perhaps it’s better I didn’t take a picture. I’m not sure the marvelous-ness would translate. My eyes might still be clouded by the rose-colored glasses they hand out when you finally get past the Russian border.