The Associated Press
September 30, 2005, Friday, BC cycle
Local Flavors: Hash for breakfast – in Armenia, it’s not what you
think
By MIKE ECKEL, Associated Press Writer
YEREVAN, Armenia
Cow’s hoof soup for breakfast: Is this the right way to begin the
day?
For an American brought up on cornflakes and orange juice, the
prospect is daunting – not to mention that the concoction is ritually
accompanied with vodka.
But for people in the Caucasus, it’s as much of a treat as a
champagne brunch.
During a trip to Armenia, my colleagues Avet, Gevorg and Misha talked
about it with the obsessive enthusiasm of stamp collectors or
antique-car buffs. The dish seemed to have deep emotional resonance
for them.
After two days of listening to them, I was determined to experience
the mystique – or at least choke down the chow, which is called hash
(wheeze heavily on the first “h” to sound like a local).
Just after 8 a.m., we sat down at Yerevan’s Kavkaz restaurant in a
booth of elaborately carved wood with floor-to-ceiling pictures of
the Caucasus capitals. Avet negotiated with the waitress, then waxed
poetic on the meaning of hash.
“It’s not just a dish. It’s a union of harmony and digestion,” he
said. “From this process, you get deeper contact with the food, the
ingredients, your culture.”
It used to be considered poor man’s food: The wealthy ate the best
parts of the cow, then threw the castoffs to the poor. Legend has it
that children of the poor became hardier stock than those of the rich
and the dish eventually became a classless culinary custom.
Gevorg swore that if you broke a bone, you should eat hash five times
a day to mend your bones faster. Misha said his Georgian grandmother
ate hash to alleviate her arthritis.
Appetizers arrived: parsley greens, scallions and radishes; warm
flatbread called lavash; a plate of cold, crisp lavash; pickled
cucumbers; and the vodka. We were on our second round of toasts at
about the same time I’m usually on my second cup of coffee.
Avet began building a chest-high mound of crisp lavash pieces;
essential to the process, he said. I made a mess of it, sending
lavash confetti everywhere. Avet, meanwhile, regaled us with
childhood memories of having to prepare the cow’s hoof by cleaning it
of hair, dirt and manure.
Then it arrived: two shallow, clay-fired bowls for each of us, one
resting on the other. The lower held hot coals. The upper held a
yellowish bouillon with puddles of oil and a six-inch piece of
blanched bone wrapped in jiggling, yellow folds of skin.
Avet and Gevorg called it “meat.” I called it “indeterminate,
cholesterol-enhancing meat product.” I was instructed to put it aside
and cover it with the soft lavash for later.
We started adding lavash pieces, alternating salt with minced garlic.
Avet added his entire mound and spent 10 minutes adjusting the salt
and garlic taste.
Finally, we could eat. The hash was rich and oily, but not at all
heavy. The soggy bread gave the soup heft, while the salt and garlic
added an unusual layer of flavors complemented by the garnishes.
At Avet’s request, the waitress brought out a plate of quarter-sized
pieces of cow’s stomach – an alternative, he said, to the standard
cow’s hoof. They were rather like undercooked chicken skin. More
vodka seemed advisable.
It was time, finally, for the hoof. Avet and Gevorg removed their
lavash and began gnawing at theirs. Misha refused to touch his. I
glared at mine.
“Eat it! Eat it! Don’t be afraid!” they said, laughing.
The hoof was bland and extremely chewy. I gave up after several
minutes and then was directed to nibble radishes which, along with
the garlic, purportedly helps cut the cholesterol assaulting your
arteries.
I was unsure whether I’d had the true hash experience and Avet
hastened to assure me.
He pressed his thumb and two fingers together, then tried to pull
them apart. They were stuck together by the gluey bouillon.
“There you go,” he said smiling. “That’s some good hash.”