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Washington Post
Feb 12 2005
Editor's Query
Tell us about a disastrous or funny experience you had involving
food.
Sunday, February 13, 2005; Page W08
In late summer 2001, the State Department sent my husband to Armenia.
During our tour, some friends threw a party in our honor. Like
many Armenians, they were quite poor, but they were determined to
demonstrate their hospitality by creating a feast to remember.
Iza cooked for days. On the appointed evening, she led me out to the
patio to show me two giant tables crowded with food. There were plates
of hummus and tabbouleh, fresh figs and persimmons, roasted peppers
and tomatoes. There were pitchers brimming with apricot juice and
rose hip juice. The homemade baklava was dripping with fresh honey --
even Iza's phyllo dough was made from scratch!
It took me a moment to locate the main course, but then I had to stifle
a gasp. Smack in the middle of the table, the giant head of a cow
glared at me, its tongue poking out. It's your fault, the cow seemed
to be saying, that they are throwing this party and roasted my head.
But Iza's husband, Vova, was so proud of this Armenian delicacy,
for which he'd driven three hours just that morning. He regaled us
over dinner with tales of the journey -- the car bouncing over rutted
roads, the head wrapped carefully and sitting on the passenger seat
beside him.
Beaming with pride, he urged us all to taste it.
"The cheeks," he declared, "are especially delicious."
Feb 12 2005
Editor's Query
Tell us about a disastrous or funny experience you had involving
food.
Sunday, February 13, 2005; Page W08
In late summer 2001, the State Department sent my husband to Armenia.
During our tour, some friends threw a party in our honor. Like
many Armenians, they were quite poor, but they were determined to
demonstrate their hospitality by creating a feast to remember.
Iza cooked for days. On the appointed evening, she led me out to the
patio to show me two giant tables crowded with food. There were plates
of hummus and tabbouleh, fresh figs and persimmons, roasted peppers
and tomatoes. There were pitchers brimming with apricot juice and
rose hip juice. The homemade baklava was dripping with fresh honey --
even Iza's phyllo dough was made from scratch!
It took me a moment to locate the main course, but then I had to stifle
a gasp. Smack in the middle of the table, the giant head of a cow
glared at me, its tongue poking out. It's your fault, the cow seemed
to be saying, that they are throwing this party and roasted my head.
But Iza's husband, Vova, was so proud of this Armenian delicacy,
for which he'd driven three hours just that morning. He regaled us
over dinner with tales of the journey -- the car bouncing over rutted
roads, the head wrapped carefully and sitting on the passenger seat
beside him.
Beaming with pride, he urged us all to taste it.
"The cheeks," he declared, "are especially delicious."