Kindness of Strangers

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Bhutan is not known for its contributions to the culinary world. We were surprised when we got to our hotel the first night and were served a strange fusion dinner of international, Chinese, and Indian fare. “What is traditional Bhutanese fare?” we asked our guide. Chiles, cheese, and red rice, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Chiles seemed like a very odd thing for the Himalayas, but the Bhutanese eat them like fruit, giving New Mexicans a run for their money. As we toured around we noticed heaps of chiles drying on rooftops, in every shade of red imaginable, and long chile ristras hanging from rooflines. This was the last thing I had expected to see in Bhutan and I wondered, like Bugs Bunny, if I had taken a wrong turn in Albuquerque.

Given the country’s strong agricultural roots, we looked forward to farm-fresh eggs and meat. But each day our hotel informed us that they were out of eggs and chicken. Having visited the local vegetable market, where we saw crates of eggs, we weren’t sure how this could be. India has been hit with the bird flu, preventing the import of poultry products and byproducts into Bhutan. Local eggs are too expensive. As for the chicken? “Because Buddhist don’t believe in harming living creatures, all of the meat is imported from India,” explained Dorji. Some Buddhists eat meat (although the strictest ones don’t), but the slaughter of animals is forbidden.

When we’re out in the countryside we stop at small roadside stands, enjoying corn roasted over an open fire, the biggest cucumbers I’ve ever seen, crunchy apples, fresh whey, and succulent fiddlehead ferns, which cost a king’s ransom in the US but grow wild in Bhutan.

Towards the end of our stay we had the opportunity to stay in a traditional farmhouse with a local family. These are not tourist attractions, but a glimpse into the way most people live in this highly agrarian and rural country. Before dinner we relaxed in a hot stone bath, traditional in the Bhutanese countryside. Rocks are heated over a fire for hours and then shoveled into a sectioned off portion of a wooden tub filled with water. The stones warm the water, which is slowly displaced into the main tub, providing a most memorable bath (note to self: excellent business idea for U.S. spa industry).

For dinner our hosts prepared a great feast, and we sat cross-legged on the living room floor to enjoy. Pork with turnips and vegetables with beef were specially prepared for us, accompanied by the ubiquitous chiles and cheese and a heaping clay pot of red rice. The Bhutanese eat with their hands, and we watched in amazement as everyone deftly formed their rice into compact balls and used it to collect all manner of foods on the plate.  The meal was accompanied by butter tea, which was exactly as it sounds:  black tea laced with slightly salty butter.

After dinner, we were served apples for dessert. “Why doesn’t anyone else have dessert?” Maikael asked Dorji. “Betle nut is Bhutanese dessert.” The adults passed around small, hard, beige nuts, which they wrapped in large green leafs smeared with a pink lime paste. The leaf was rolled into a neat roll, which was placed into the mouth and chewed slowly. The family’s grandmother produced what looked like a thick metal candy cane. “What’s that?” we asked. Dorji explained that when you lose your teeth and can’t chew betle nut anymore, the tool grinds the nut into a fine powder.

“You want to try arra?” asked Dorji, a “local wine” which we would call moonshine. I nodded eagerly, and two small, wooden bowls were laid before us. The thin, clear liquid was poured slowly from a vegetable oil container. We took a tentative sip of the liquid, distilled from wheat. Our hosts smiled and looked on eagerly, laughing when I raised my eyebrows at the unexpected potency. The father stood at the ready, cradling the container with his hand, “It’s traditional to have a second pour,” said Dorji, after which the cups were once again filled. After two cups I was drowsy and happy and ready for bed.

Our last night in Bhutan we stayed in a lovely hotel in Paro, where more semi-Bhutanese food was served. “My primary goal is for people not to get sick,” shared the proprietor, but we were getting a little tired of the food. The next table over, a luscious bottle of red wine sat at the ready, and a steaming dish of lasagna was served from the kitchen. A hotel guest, having grown tired of two weeks of Bhutanese food, had asked to make dinner for herself and her husband. Soon, portions were being served all over the restaurant. “There’s pizza coming, too,” said the proprietor, and a small wave of cheers floated through the room. When the piping hot pie was served, sprinkled with baby corn and exotic mushrooms, everyone clamored for a piece. When the proprietor asked if I’d like a piece, I shyly said yes. Arriving assumed I just arrived, he said, “You haven’t been here long enough to get tired of Bhutanese food.” “I’ve been here a week,” I said. “That is long enough to get tired of Bhutanese food,” he exclaimed, letting out a big guffaw.

The pizza was a huge hit, and the proprietor declared “prices are going up next year!” We left the restaurant late, bellies full and hearts happy. Only in Bhutan.