Editor’s note: This column is being reprinted from Nov. 23, 2005. Jack was a world traveler, from backpacking across Europe in his youth to his trip to China in the late 1980s to his various visits to Eastern Europe and Asia to train journalists. Clearly, he enjoyed a variety of food along the way.
Inevitably, it seems, the talk turns to food.
That’s not just because tomorrow is Thanksgiving.
It’s a matter of human nature.
Whenever I return from a project like the one which took me to Belarus a few weeks ago, folks can’t help asking that very human question: How was the food?
So, for the record, here’s the answer: Different.
And sometimes surprising.
Belarus is located in the northern heart of Europe, sandwiched between Poland and Russia.
It’s potato country, so don’t count on making the low-carb diet work while you’re there.
Instead, you can expect lots of sour cream, lots of eggs, and — of course — potatoes, boiled, French fried, or pounded into pancakes.
Three times during this past visit, I had the pleasure of having dinner in the homes of friends. Each one was different, but each one had followed familiar patterns.
Dinner started with salads, lots of them, some with meat, some without. Pickled tomatoes, shredded carrots, and more filled the table.
That was followed by a meat course, usually pork but in one case fresh-water fish.
And, finally, with coffee or tea at the end, there were chocolates.
Along the way, there were inevitable offers of vodka, with a bottle on the table as if required by law. Belarusian hospitality is gracious enough to let you off the hook if you want to avoid the stuff, but you can always count on it being offered.
A visitor may also be offered homemade moonshine made from pine nuts. It’s not for every palate.
While there was a comfortable predictability to food served in the home, restaurants were something else again. You never know exactly what you’re going to get when you order.
Last spring, for example, while visiting a brew-pub in Minsk with my translator, I foolishly ordered shrimp, expecting something like a shrimp cocktail.
Instead, I was handed a plate with three forlorn little shrimp, complete with eyes, tails, veins, and the rest of those unappetizing bits which Americans are used to having removed before being served.
This time around, I thought I knew enough to handle the unexpected.
Ordering lunch in Baranovichi with the managing editor of Intex-Press, a newspaper there, I asked for the grilled chicken.
“Would you like vegetables or rice with that?” asked the waiter. Though I know the Russian word for rice, I figured my carbohydrate count would be better with vegetables.
The chicken was tasty, but the vegetables — peas, carrots, and cauliflower — were a mystery. Though they looked inviting, they were served ice cold. Even my translator was baffled by that one.
Sometimes, even ordering something as predictable as pizza can be a surprise.
At a place called Retro Pizza in Grodno, I let my friend Pavel order his favorite. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
It featured ham, Swiss cheese, and lots of Dijon mustard.
And sprinkled across the top of the pizza was the finishing touch: Green beans.
