"We Do it Here"

We passed a row of bank machines and entered the Chorsu Bazaar where all of the pickled vegetables live: mounds of shredded carrots, chopped red and green cabbage, beets, garlic, tomatoes, and cucumbers. 

Our tour guide, Sam, a twenty something IT student who started doing this three tours ago, stopped at the first stand and said, "You want a taste?"

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed a pickle, broke it in half, and handed each of us a piece. Sue and I looked at each other, then at the vendor, who sat unconcerned on a stool in front of us.

"You can do that?" Sue asked.

"It's okay, yes," he reassured us, "Everyone does it."

Next he picked a few shredded carrots off a huge pile and offered some to us; again we looked around, embarrassed.

"No one would ever do this in America," I said.

"Why?"

We tried to explain about hygiene, rude behavior, and stealing.

Sam shrugged. "We do it here."

At first Sam seemed to shrug off almost everything; he seemed generally unexcitable-- perhaps, even, dull. Within the first five minutes he had told Sue he didn't like Chinese people, or Indian people either.  But by the end of our two--hour tour that had turned into three, we loved him. We called him "Dad" because he kept offering to tak our trash -- even the shells of almonds and strawberry husks. He took us places in that market we never could have navigated on our own, and was thoroughly amused at our reactions to the 50 things he helped us taste. 

Sue and I were in a state of dumbfounded awe the whole time, experiencing our dream version of a Central Asian magic carpet ride.

"If you weren't here with me doing this, I would be wishing you were here with me doing this," Sue said. I agreed--I would be trying really hard to explain it to her for a very long time.

After three hours, we had only seen maybe half of the bazaar. The picture above is the main market area, called The Blue Dome; the entire upper level of the dome only sells dried fruit, nuts, spices and tea--the best dried fruit and nuts I have ever tasted, and the best smelling spices and teas. Almonds in the shell; plump, sweet raisins: huge, light and crunchy cashews; dried, sliced avocados, oranges and figs; kaffir lime tea, orange peel tea, cardamom tea. Saffron.

The bread section is a bread art museum. Uzbekistan is known for bread-making in huge ovens, and this market hosts a famous working bakery with about seven flaming furnaces, dough formers, and oven masters. 

Sue asked if she could "help" put the loaves in the oven and, of course, was indulged. The oven masters go all the way in the ovens, slap bread on the ceiling and walls, wait two minutes, and retrieve the loaves with long-handled baskets. I called Sue a chicken for not following her oven master all the way inside, but I had to admit that her loaf turned out really good, even without the courage.

The butcher section was next to the dairy section--horror movie material next to high milk product art:

"We are going to the food court now," Sam said as we entered an open-air market filled with grill smoke. Just like Vietnam, Mexico, and so many other countries, this food court was filled with multiple variations of the same items: shashlik, kebabs, sausages, chicken. 

At the first stall, we saw a huge pile of what looked like thin rice noodles and shredded pork carnitas. Sam said, "Oh, this is my mom's favorite. You have to try."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Noodles and horse meat."

I recoiled and told Sam we didn't eat horse meat in America.

"Why? It's so good. Come on, you must try."

He negotiated a small sample plate from the woman and handed the fork to me. "Oh, come on, try."

I gave in, and so did Sue. Sue thought it was kind of good; I didn't. 

We handed the plate back to Sam, who handed it to the woman, who scraped our leftover sample into the pile for sale.

We moved on.

It was difficult to choose what to have for lunch, but I settled on this chef's minced beef kabob--something I hadn't seen at the other stalls.

Like so many others, he asked, "Where you from?"

And when I said, "America," like so many others, he had a strong reaction. 

"I love America!" Then he asked Sam to ask us how much a kabob would be in America. I pulled up the menu from Caravan on my phone and showed him the menu, which made him very happy.

"It's so expensive!" he said (translated by Sam).

After lunch, I told him his kebab was better than any kebab I had ever had in America, because it was. It was tender, juicy, and full of flavor. The slivers of onion accompanying it added just the right touch of contrast, a great compliment for Sue's bread:

When I say "America" brings a strong response from everyone, here's what I mean:

One of our Uber drivers (YandexGo here) just said, "Donald Trump" with a question in his tone. I gave him a thumb down, and he returned it, accompanied by a fierce frown. He was about 60 years old.

While ordering Samsa in the bazaar, a couple responded with "We love Donald Trump!" They were in their 30's.

Our hotel owner asked, "How is my friend, Donald Trump?" And then, "What do you think of El-Sayed?" When I answered enthusiastically about the second mention, he smiled. "He is a very good man. Take care of him."

One teenage boy selling nuts lit up. "Mike Tyson! Michael Jordan! Micheal Jackson! Muhammed Ali!"

There are many more Chorsu Bazaar stories I could tell, but I will leave you with this one: I had read that if you came across pumpkin Samsa, not to pass it up. It's the end of the season, but this woman was selling it. My excitement about it pleased her, and her pumpkin Samsa certainly pleased me. Like I said, I am thinking about my dad with many tastes on this trip, but pumpkin this good is on another level. In our household, canned pumpkin was a sin; my parents grew their own sugar pumpkins, harvested them, pureed them, and froze bags of the pulp so our family could have fresh pumpkin pie all year long. Growing pumpkin, like growing corn, was religion.

My dad would have loved this samsa, because it was topped with just the right amount of caramelized onion on top--a perfect contrast. 

Sam, who was too shy to have his picture taken, walked us to the Metro station and helped us navigate buying tickets. We were sad to say goodbye to our twenty something brand new tour guide; he had been very good to us. Honestly, I doubt he will have two more enthusiastic bazaar guests for his fourth tour, or any after that.