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Ellen Shapiro

eGullet Society staff emeritus
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  1. To read all the parts of this series please click: Part I; Part II; Part III; Part IV; Part V; Part VI; Part VII.

    "You're going where? And what exactly is it that you'll be doing there?"

    "Is that inner or outer you're going to?"

    "Do they have Mongolian barbecue there?"

    "Will you sleep in a yurt?"

    This was the standard litany directed at me regarding my impending departure for Mongolia, and when you plan a trip to Mongolia your departure impends for a long time -- you don't get there by subway. I didn't have any pat answers to these frequently asked questions, and still don't. I had been interested in the country since I was a young child, the people always seemed exotic and the land so far away, I knew it was the seat of the largest empire the world has ever seen (past or present), the people have lived through the worst of the rise and fall of communism and endured endless hardship and hostile neighbors, and the nomadic lifestyle and the idea of living in a ger (don't use the word yurt; it's the Russian term and is now in extreme disfavor) fascinated me.

    "Oh, I've always been interested in Mongolia; it seems like a really cool place," is the best I could muster.

    If there are levels of off-the-beaten-path destinations ranked on a scale of 1-10, Mongolia is surely a 10, or a 9 if you anchor the scale with the moon. On account of a refreshing, and also somewhat terrifying at times, lack of tourism infrastructure, my visit to Mongolia was a comedy of errors -- a very long comedy, kind of like the length of all 171 episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond shown all at once, five times over. There were lots of high points, and there were so many low points I lost count sometime on the first or second day -- so much went wrong so often, it became an issue of keeping track of the greatest hits rather than letting any given incident become too bothersome. Storytelling value was often the light at the end of the tunnel.

    Cue Lawrence of Arabia music, please.


    Well, maybe it's not quite the desert in the Ansel Adams photos or the David Lean movies. It's a real desert. Mongolia is not only culturally rich, but the landscape and scenery are truly like nothing I had ever seen before. It certainly doesn't feel like planet Earth: it's a seemingly untouched and never-ending series of vast open spaces with nothing around for miles -- that's nothing as in no people, no buildings, no trees, just occasional patches of desert grass. The sky seems so close to the horizon that it always feels within reach. The sand dunes in the Gobi Desert are a mighty challenge -- none of us reached the top. The roads, if you can call them that, are barely discernible dirt paths running through the expanses -- the only paved roads we traveled were in Ulaan Baatar, the capital city, and along the route to one of the most visited tourist attractions, the Erdene Zu monastery about 200 kilometers outside of the city. In most cases you can follow the tracks of the jeeps that have come before or just as easily pick your own.

    We were greeted at the airport by our guide, which was the last thing to go completely right for the next couple of weeks. Actually, there had already been mechanical trouble on one leg of the plane flight (no fault of the Mongolians -- this was in Japan) and our guide turned out not to be a guide. She was a translator by training (actually, she was an English teacher at the local middle school but it's Mongolia -- let's not get too technical), not a guide, and though she spoke English she didn't know all that much about our planned destinations.

    Nor did she know what those destinations were supposed to be. Our first tipoff was that there was an old (really old, like the kind of old you see in Cuba old) Nissan (or was it a Datsun) sedan waiting for us -- hardly the piece of equipment necessary for a week in the Gobi dessert. By the time we arrived at the restaurant where we were to have our orientation meeting thirty minutes later -- the restaurant was bizarrely named "California" -- it became clear to us that somewhere along the way we had fallen through the cracks and our guide was operating from an early draft of our itinerary (one we had rejected and not the actual itinerary we had approved). And this was the serious guide company -- the one personally recommended to us by a National Geographic journalist who had been to Mongolia many times over the past 3 years and had surely covered every inch of ground we were to cover -- and then some.

    Our translator/guide, on the one hand, had us scheduled to spend 5 days in the aforementioned Erdene Zu monastery and its environs, something that might take an eager tourist one afternoon at most -- unless you have a very specific interest in this particular Buddhist site, spending 5 days there would be like going to Washington, DC, for a week and spending 5 days at the Lincoln Memorial.

    We, on the other hand, had us scheduled for a week in the Gobi Desert, traveling by jeep.

    My dear friend and traveling companion -- my friend J, with whom I have in the past spent 2-1/2 weeks in a shared tent in Nepal enduring days of pouring rain and blood-sucking leeches -- was already starting to cough like a whooping crane (does SARS incubate so quickly, we wondered?) and in her eagerness to embrace the country she got us trapped into eating Mongolian food for lunch at the hotel, I mean restaurant, California.

    Innocently J asked our guide and short-lived driver: "Oh, what are you having for lunch?" We learned very quickly that for 99% of Mongolians the answer to that question will always be mutton. In an instant, all my dreams of culinary diversity (not to mention my hopes that we would encounter unusual Mongolian interpretations of pizzas, pastas, and hamburgers) were cast aside as I was shamed into ordering one of the four Mongolian dishes on the menu.

    J chose the horhog: fried mutton dumplings -- approximately three times the size of standard Chinese dumplings -- with chunks of mutton, mutton fat, mutton gristle, mutton skin, and maybe a little mutton fur, sealed inside. And, I noticed, she was having difficulty swallowing -- I took that to be a very bad sign. I, on the other hand, ordered the very authentic lamb cooked in a red wine reduction. Well, I actually never saw even so much as a trace of this kind of cuisine out in the countryside, but it was written right there in black and white on the menu, "Mongolian Food," so I ate every bite (except for that which I shared with J).

    Over the course of lunch we told our translator/guide about the itinerary we were supposed to have. She chatted with the driver in Mongolian and then turned back to us. Clearly we'd have to get another car and driver if we were going to go to the Gobi. And she'd have to call the company's owner's wife and confer with her (the owner was away, guiding a larger group) about these changes. Plus we would have to change our departure date for the western part of Mongolia and that entailed changing plane tickets during the high tourist season. Throughout lunch we gently pressed our agenda and our translator/guide slowly realized the plan had to be scrapped and that we intended to pursue the itinerary we had agreed to with the owner of the company. This all sounds like pretty basic consumerism to those of us who live in the parts of the world where eGullet members tend to dwell, but rest assured by the standards of Mongolian commerce we were radicals.

    Ulaan Baatar (which, if you're in the know, you call "UB") is a city -- complete with some very lovely mid-century Soviet labor-camp-style architecture -- but people still ride horses right alongside the cars. A Mongolian may very well ride a horse to the minilab for one-hour photo processing.



    We went to the bus station after lunch. That's where all the jeeps and drivers hang out, waiting to be hired by the likes of us. After much discussion and gesticulation (J and I remained in the Nissan) a driver and his Russian jeep were hired. Our bags were transferred from the Nissan to the jeep, we bade farewell to our old driver (little did we know how dearly we'd miss him), and we set off with our new driver and vehicle. After making countless stops in preparation for our newly configured trip (we needed warm blankets in case we had to sleep out, we had to buy food and water and snacks for the same reason, and we had to get some Togrog -- Mongolian money), we got on the road. And what a road it was. There were so many potholes that we thought, surely, the dirt roads would have to be better. Oh, we were so very wrong.

    We arrived at our ger camp at about 10:00 that night (not that it made any difference what time it was, given that we had just flown halfway around the world) and before we knew it we were sharing a ger with our guide and driver. Um, what?

    The week in the Gobi gave us a taste of Mongolian culture but because we were traveling the closest thing Mongolia has to a well worn tourist road the locals weren't always overly eager to invite us into their gers. Bear in mind that tourism in Mongolia only began when the iron curtain fell so it's still a very new industry, and it hasn't grown much at that. It no doubt helped that we were a small group, and on the occasions when we stopped at the roadside ger "canteens" we paid for our food anyway so we were always welcome there.




    Because we stayed in ger camps (essentially a collection of traditional gers set up for travelers, with beds and a stove in the center of each, a bathroom, and a ger dining room) our breakfast was typically bread, butter, jam, one egg (usually fried), and tea. Some of the other groups, who had more organized tours, had a much more extensive breakfast spread including sliced mutton, sliced yellow cheese (in Mongolia they identify and differentiate cheeses by color and age), tea, coffee, and some pastry type things -- none of which, excluding the tea and bread, are actual Mongolian breakfast foods.

    Lunch was always some form of mutton. Whether it was "vegetable soup" (with mutton and hunks of mutton fat and assorted other sheep bits and pieces) or horhog (with the same, uh, inclusions) or mutton stew (which also regularly included the sheep's fur as well and sometimes included some of the grass and dirt upon which the sheep were grazing before they became boiled mutton) -- one thing you could bet the family herd on: mutton was always on the menu.

    Despite my desire for immersion in the local culinary culture, I became pretty savvy about eating around the mutton. The soup part of the soup was usually good, so when presented with no other option I ate the broth and the noodles and tried to fish out any slivers of vegetables and choice pieces of actual mutton meat, leaving behind "the parts," which I'm happy to report, someone certainly ate after our departure . In "restaurants" (which were often closed, so it would take some running around the gers to find someone to open up shop for us) we were often able to get eggs and a cabbage salad of sorts. J ate lots of French-fries and rice. Another thing we learned in the course of our early Mongolian culinary educations was that any and all vegetables seemed to be mixed with mayonnaise, which to me, when I'm craving fresh veggies, altogether ruins the experience.



    Did I mention that no one has refrigeration? They're nomads. They live in the middle of Mongolia, which has earned its status as a metaphor for "nowhere." Of course they lack electricity. They mostly store their meat on the roof of the ger.


    The Erdene Zu monastery was a highlight, and I can hardly convey what an unusual treat it is to be able to take photographs inside a major Buddhist site. I've been to so many, and in all but a few cases I have only the memories. But this time I was able to get some photographs as well.









    Here I am modeling some of the latest Mongolian fashions.


    My favorite food items in the Gobi were the airag (fermented mare's milk), the milk tea with the floating yogurt "skin" added in lieu of cream, the white cheese (more on that later), and, hands down, the very good yogurt (notwithstanding the hair and fur that was always an integral part of each of these delicacies). Everyone was milking the herds (primarily sheep, goats, camels, and horses) to make dairy products to eat day-to-day and to store for winter. It was difficult to find the yogurt in the Gobi, because that's more of a Kazakh food, but I knew I would have more of it in the western part of the country (the second week of the trip), which is primarily inhabited by Kazakhs.

    Here's some butter being stored in a sheep's stomach.


    Moving right along . . . a sampling of the dairy-oriented lifestyle of the Gobi:













    At the end of the first week we had amassed plenty of memories. It was a week of 10-12 hour days spent driving around the Gobi Desert in a jeep on crazy bumpy paths. I often hit my head on the roof on account of the velocity at which our driver progressed and the quality of the terrain we were traversing. We had no set itinerary. Our guide had never been to the Gobi Desert and knew less about it than we knew from reading the guidebook we got at Barnes & Noble in New York. Our driver turned out to be relatively psychotic -- we were told later by our guide that he had been persistent about asking her to have sex with him from day one, even though they were perfect strangers, both married. We had made a pilgrimage to an "ice cavern" where the ice had already melted. Apparently the ice lasts until July; we were there the third week of August and while there were indeed still some bits of ice, it certainly didn't seem worth the many hundreds of kilometers and four or more additional hours that we spent in the jeep getting to this famous destination. I think the driver just wanted a break -- it was his idea that we go there. J, meanwhile, had progressed to what sounded like bronchitis and perhaps even pneumonia so all of this was less than amusing at the time. But our only options were to laugh or cry -- and we chose laughter as often as possible.

    I can't decide which was better: the trip to the ice cavern with no ice, or the trip to the place where we were told by our driver via our translator/guide that we could see dinosaur bones but which upon further questioning (after we drove there and walked around in the desert trying to determine which thing could possibly be the dinosaur bones that were left behind -- and for that matter, why exactly didn't they take them if they found them?) turned out to be a place where some dinosaur bones had been found long ago. But most likely the best bit of tourism had to be the time when, despite all of our protestations and urgings, our driver decided to drive through what appeared to be a lake (it was the rainy season but we had been fortunate to miss most of it) because he said he wanted to follow the "road" rather than go around where there was none. Surprise! We got stuck. And there was no one around. We were not just figuratively in the Gobi Desert. We were ACTUALLY IN THE GOBI FUCKING DESERT. It's not like we could dial up AAA (or MAA) on the cell phone and ask for someone to come pull us out and maybe bring us a few TripTiks. In fact, even if we could have, they sure as hell wouldn't have been so stupid as to drive in there to fish us out because they would have gotten stuck too. I guess that incident would have to claim the crown as the hi/low of the week in the Gobi. And, on top of it all, that night we slept at a gas station, on the floor -- after we ran out of gas, that is.

    I don't say this very often (I doubt anybody does), but we were pretty eager to return to Ulaan Baatar. By that time it seemed like an oasis in the middle of the dessert. A Soviet-style, bleak oasis, but when you need an oasis you take whatever oasis you can get.


    To read all the parts of this series please click: Part I; Part II; Part III; Part IV; Part V; Part VI; Part VII.

  2. Fat Guy follows the Varmint theory kind of in reverse, or maybe inverse, or converse, or contrapositive, I can't keep them straight. Anyway what he does is if we're invited to a meal at someone's home and there will be kids there, and he's on the phone making the final arrangements, he will at some time during the conversation put on his serious-low-quiet voice and say, "Now listen, I want to make clear that I don't believe in or support age discrimination, so if there are any special items prepared for the kids such as chicken fingers or hot dogs I expect to have the option of eating those in addition to or instead of the other food." Kids by the way are fascinated when he eats the same food as they do.

  3. Amazingly, we've even seen DQs in the south that close during the winter months. You can imagine my disappointment after spying the red roof and unmistakable DQ sign off in the distance only to find that there's a cardboard sign in the window that says "closed for the winter." Can you imagine? In the south? My favorite DQ in New Haven is open ALL YEAR--and there are always people there.

    One of these days I want to try one of the DQ cakes. Never have had the food--and don't plan to. In my mind, Dairy Queen is an ice cream destination.

  4. A restaurant in the Wicker Park section of Chicago serves pizza that seems inspired by Sally's Apizza.  The place is called "Piece," and its menu says that its recipe, "(I)s inspired by New Haven-style pizza."  Though Piece did not mention Sally's by name, thanks to Fat Guy, I caught the reference.  :biggrin:

    I haven't been to Piece but some years ago when I was at Sally's catching up on news I heard about a place that was being opened in Chicago by someone who used to work at Sally's. Let's just say, the way I heard it, was that the guy who was a friend, worked at the restaurant without divulging his intentions (of trying to learn the trade) so he could open this place with some partners in Chicago.

  5. It very well could be a relative of the pasta fagioli--perhaps a way for the peasants, who most likely were the ones who created and ate this dish because of the inexpensive and nutritious ingredients, to have a little variety in their menus--an oven dish one day (panecotti) and a soup the next (pasta fagioli).

  6. Do I recall something called a Dilly Bar?  Was it the name of that cookie ice cream sandwich?

    The Dilly Bar is a round ice cream bar: ice cream on a stick, dipped in chocolate/cherry/butterscotch dip, stored in the freezer. When I was a kid the cherry Dilly Bar was my favorite DQ treat (I think it was the name). I think it's still around.

    For research purposes only, of course, FG and I dragged my parents to my favorite of the local New Haven Dairy Queens in order to see the current offerings. The Blizzard, as we all know, is alive and well but there were a host of other selections. The Dilly Bar, The Buster Bar and the ice cream sandwich (I can't remember what it's called) are all still alive and well. The Misty Mist (now just called a Misty) was being promoted in the window as were the various popsicle-type items in star and circle shapes with red, white and blue color/flavors in each. The Brownie Earthquake Treat looked fantastic. I saw a family ahead of us on the line getting one. I almost asked for a bite. They also still have the Peanut Buster Parfait, though to date, I’ve never had one.

  7. Tour de France winner Greg LeMond once was asked what he thinks about on a long ride.  He replied, "Dairy Queen.  G-d, I love Dairy Queen."

    Greg LeMond has always been my hero--now there's simply no question!

  8. Tommy I can try to help you understand your McDonald's dinner anxiety. Your posts indicate that you prefer a formal dinner environment. As you know McDonald's discontinued its "Candlelight Dinner at McDonald's" program in the late 1970s. The cost-savings on those little red candles has been significant, approximately six trillion dollars, but the loss of some dinnertime customers such as yoursef has been an unfortunate effect.

    Tjaehnigen in my family (me and Fat Guy that is) we have a name for this and even a discussion on egullet: Parking Lot Dinner.

  9. FlaJoe—what a GREAT report. I also grew up in New Haven and my parents and one of my brothers still live there so FG and I go back once a month (or more). I’m glad Sally’s lived up to your memories and expectations. My family is a Sally’s family. We don’t cross the Pepe’s line. Oh! Those cannoli at Lucibello’s and the whole cakes with the real whipped cream frosting—to die for! Corner of Olive and Grove streets I think.

    It sounds as if you did well eating around town. I miss Leon’s! It was SO good for home style Italian food. And we knew the owners so extra orders of this and that would always show up at our table (as if the portions weren’t big enough already). Leon’s was my family’s special occasion restaurant. So nice to commiserate with someone who really knows the New Haven restaurant scene past and present.

    I also miss the “good old days” at Jimmy’s of Savin Rock. The grilled, split dogs there were great, as were the French fries and onion rings. When I was a kid, we’d go there and that’s all we’d order—no fish, no dessert—just the hot dogs and sides. And then a walk on the beach at Savin Rock. But Jimmy’s has really declined so we don’t go there anymore.

    Oh—do you ever eat at Claire’s Corner Copia? The food there has also declined dramatically—even the cakes--but when you hit it on “a good day” the Lithuanian coffee cake is still the best for my money. Problem is, most of the time it isn’t a “good day” so unless I’m really Jonesing for it, I pass.

    Other childhood favorites--including places that are long gone?

  10. got a Miele and it didn't cost anywhere near the prices I'm seeing here!  Less than $400 Canadian and I love it!  Has all the tools on board.  Used a Eureka bagless at work and it was horrid!  My vacuum shop refuses to carry any bagless vacs - says the motors burn out very quickly as the dust gets inside them.  Don't know how true this is.

    For what it's worth. 

    Anna N

    Hell, I'd go to Canada just to buy a Miele--if they're that much less! I really haven't used one in years but I'm telling you, the one I used day in day out the summer I was cleaning houses was like a revelation.

    As for the bag-less vacs, I'm skeptical. Anyway, what's the big deal about changing the bag?

  11. Unless you have a real mess a vacuum like the Eureka True HEPPA is good and is under $200.00 and 12Amp motor. I would be curious about some of the new bagless units in the same price range.

    This certainly sounds like a promising option. I really do need something heavy duty though because aside from crumbs getting ground into the carpet, there's also the constant issue of dog hair--all day, every day.

  12. I finally saw the Blizzard commercial this morning. It wasn't a very good one, though I think it must have been the abridged edition--the one with the red, white and blue candy (maybe m & ms?). The Blizzard was turned upside down so quickly, that had I not known to watch for this, I actually would have missed it. The wonderful irony was that I was at the gym at the time--sweating on the Stairmaster!

  13. So, we're driving to Yonkers. We take Madison Avenue up to the creatively named Madison Avenue Bridge and make the left to get on the Deegan. But, seeing a surprise traffic jam, we decide to go off-road, take the "sneaky route" past Yankee Stadium and along various service roads that get you past the Cross Bronx exit and it's always smooth sailing from there. The mission to Yonkers is for acquisition of watermelons, on sale 29 cents a pound at ShopRite.

    Along the sneaky route we always drive past but don't really acknowledge (just surviving the drive takes all one's attention) the Bronx Terminal Market. And there sure is a lot of fruit there. So I say, should I go in and see if they have watermelons RIGHT HERE?

    There's not much parking at New York Produce on the side of the main Terminal Market building. But if you hang around long enough and don't mind infuriating several thousand passing cars that you've forced into opposing traffic (see drive takes all one's attention above) a space eventually opens up. The prices are crazy-low even if you're just buying one of something. I can only imagine what happens when you go into big quantities. It's like, for a whole tray of mangoes, it's $5, which is pretty much what a single mango costs on the Upper East Side. The big-mama SEEDLESS watermelons were 23 cents a pound, lower than the lowest sale price in this region (which was 39 cents a pound this week), and a chunk lower than Costco (selling approx 15 pound watermelons for $5.99). I bought a 20 pounder and a 25 pounder, 44.60 pounds in all, for $10.25. You have to be really careful, though, because these hand-truck-forklift guys are moving around the place, zipping around the corners and blaring their horns. They're not looking where they're going; it's incumbent upon you to get the hell out of the way when you hear a horn, otherwise you will be restocked.

    The checkout system is one of the most Byzantine I've seen outside of, well, Byzantium. First you have to ask the price from "Juan" at "the first window." It's not clear that the price Juan tells you is based on anything other than mood, even though he diligently spends five minutes banging on the computer keyboard to give you your answer. If you have something to weigh, such as I did, you then have to go around to the other side of Juan's office where there’s another window and a scale. Juan tells you the weight, calculates the price, you go back to "the first window" and Juan tells you what your "ticket number" is. Then you go over to Juan’s counterpart who is in a maximum security window around the corner and you tell the woman there, "Ticket number 52," and she says, "What number," and you say "Ticket number 52," and she says, "27?" and you say, "52." Then you pay, no credit cards accepted despite the Visa, Mastercard, American Express, and Discover Card stickers prominently displayed on the window, and you get two copies of a receipt. You give one copy to a bouncer-type guy "out front" who stands across from Juan’s window. He keeps his copy and he takes your copy and makes a hieroglyphic notation on it and tears the corner. At that point you are free to go if your car is still there.

  14. When the siblings and I gather at the parental home for a holiday and have a couple of 'tinis, the worst thing about our childhoods that we can throw at our mother is: "You never let us get the chocolate dipped cones!  They wouldn't have been that  messy in the car!  "  This happens every single visit.

    A very healthy response, I'm sure. And good that you remind your mother--every time--of her parenting failure.

  15. I've never seen the commercial in question. Does that make me out of touch with the current generation? I never stray from vanilla. My greatest detour will be a chocolate dipped vanilla cone. Of course, I'm not averse to tasting anyone else's selections but at heart, I'm a DQ purist.

  16. I am extremely impressed by these precision strategies. I try to clean up before going to bed--or at least wash all of the dishes so that all I have to do the following morning is put everything away. It still takes time to put everything into its specific place (remember, New York apartment—it’s like a puzzle) but it's not too overwhelming.

  17. I love Dairy Queen. Usually I get a large cone (is there any other size?) but I had a friend in college who was a blizzard regular. She would select her own toppings to add in (can they be toppings if they're not on top?). Every creation was a treat.

    Nice touch the upside-down hand-off.

  18. Those Picardie tumblers are the right weight for my tastes, but I prefer a non-sloped glass. A straight glass is much more stable and feels better in the hand: hold out your hand the way you'd hold a glass and relax the muscles . . . does your pinky wind up inside the grip of your forefinger? Not unless you're from Men in Black II.

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