In Kazbegi we found a home stay with a remarkable dining room. When sitting at the simple table on rackety benches you could at the same time admire a huge portrait of Stalin, an election poster of the president in office, Sakashvili, and a pair of gigantic deer horns. While sitting at this table one evening the master of the house came in, very drunk. He asked aggressively in Russian: Are you Muslim!? When we answered no he slapped a black, plastic bag on the table and ripped it open and revealed something square, about six centimeters high and semitransparent. What was it? Some old cheese? Some kind of strange sweet? When he had sliced and salted it and his wife had returned with a pile of peeled garlic cloves we realised the reason of his first question. It was a piece of lard, pork fat. Nothing else, just pure fat.
Eat! The man ordered. (The same man who previously told us about his time in the Soviet army at the Ural mountains. He said that when you spit, ice hit the ground and it was inconvenient to wear a mustache since it generated long pieces of ice hanging from your upper lip.) I dared one piece (indescribable) and Peter was smart enough to refuse. I suffered of stomach pains the next day.
In Kazbegi we also found a restaurant serving a very limited menu: Grilled, hard-to-chew pork, Khinkali (hybrid between Swedish kroppkakor and ravioli), kebab, salad and cheese pie. When we came they where out of the first two items, but they had a great selection of seven different vodkas!
1 comment:
Uh Oh... Didn't you learn anything? After that Pizza and Peter's illness? That dish sounds even more dangerous that drinking vodka with those thugs.
That sounds like the same thing as that horrible Polish thing Smalec. I think it is exactly the same... Joanna has insisted several times that I should try it but luckily enough I have always refused.
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