A Kyrgyz Meal

The food was cooked at the entrance to the restaurant, with a large grill to one side and some kind of open oven to the other in which bread is cooked. Salads and side-dishes appeared to be prepared indoors. We sat at a table.

This was nothing like in a European restaurant. The table itself was just 18 inches high and surrounded on the floor by thin mattresses which were backed by cushions. The clientele reclined on these mattresses, and the table was at the right height to allow eating at this position. The entire "floor"(mattresses, cushions and table) was raised a couple of feet off the ground. So although people were sitting on the 'floor' they were well above ground level. Noting that everybody else was shoe-less, I took mine off before sitting. Ulan sat opposite and told me I was sitting in the wrong "seat". Making me move further round the table so that I was sitting at 90 degrees to him, he explained the importance of the correct seating plan in Kyrgyz tradition

A nomadic people, for centuries the Kyrgyz and their Kazakh cousins had travelled across the steppe and the mountains, camping each night in yourts ("yoorts"). These are large circular tents made from felt, animal skins and wood, which are cool in the summer and warm in the winter. A circular opening in the peak of the roof allows smoke from the fire in the centre of the yourt to escape and lets fresh air in. Entry is by the single doorway. The warmest seat is therefore the seat furthest from the door and it is in this seat the head of the family, or the guest, sits. This tradition continues today, and so Ulan, as my host, made me sit in what would be the guest's seat, i.e. with the table between me and the aisle along which the waiter walked.

Ulan ordered food: relieved to hear that I was not vegetarian, he ordered some meat dishes, salad, break, soft drinks and tea. The bread soon arrived with a pot of white stuff which looked a little like clotted cream. The bread was circular and leavened, fresh from the oven by the doorway, with a soft crust around the circumference perhaps an inch thick, and then thin and flat in the middle. The "loaf" was about 9 inches in diameter. Ulan tore the bread into peaces, explaining that in Kyrgyz culture although the women take care of the food, tearing the bread is the man's job. The meal then began with omin, an Islamic action in which you pass your hands slowly down across your face as if cleaning it, then rub your hands together as if washing them. This indicates that the meal has begun, the idea being that you have announced to Allah that you are eating, and until you repeat this gesture at the end of the meal to signify that you have finished, your life is effectively paused and you will (hopefully) be free from interruption.
The torn bread was dipped into the white stuff. It was indeed a kind of cream, kajmak ("kaimuk"), which I was familiar with from my time in Serbia. This is a traditional start to the meal in Kyrgyzstan. The bread was good, soft and fresh, and was complemented by the kajmak. Simple food for simple people.

After three quarters of an hour, even Ulan was getting impatient, and asked the waiter when the food would be arriving. “Three minutes” came the reply. These were – naturally – three Kyrgyz minutes, and the food did not arrive for another 20 minutes or so. The tea never made an appearance, but the shashlik kebabs were good. Very good. At the end of the meal, we repeated the omin gesture.

The problem with eating fatty meat like lamb is the after-taste in your mouth. According to my guide, the authors’ number one ‘pet-hate’ of Central Asia is “the taste of congealed mutton fat on the roof of your mouth.” Ulan explained that hot tea helps digest the fat, and presumably it helps get it out of your mouth and into your stomach, but if the waiter never brings the tea you’re left with a layer of fat on the roof of your mouth for the rest of the day.