What's that you say? Do I want more sheep's intestine? Well...of course

At right: Alina, one of my first host sisters, braids sheep intestines, which look no different from prep to plate.

Last night I unwittingly committed myself to a little Kyrgyz cultural induction; at the invitation of my school’s directors, I attended the teachers’ end-of-exams toi (party), which began at approximately 9 p.m. and lasted well after midnight. I arrived to an already packed table, heavily laden with the staples of a Kyrgyz feast: borsok (fried bread bites), candy, noodle and cabbage salads, and samsa (like an empanada). The other teachers made room for the director and me in tor (the honored seat at the head of the table), and I took my proper kneeling position. The alcohol was already flowing, but I managed to get off with just a shot glass or extremely sweet wine (to be refilled of course). I think this is because I’m unmarried; the older women all had vodka. Of course, my introduction was made again, and I tried to answer questions as they came my way, but pretty quickly attention was turned back to students’ exam results, thank you toasts, and the revolution at hand. I tried to follow, but I was kidding no one. I pretty much sat lost in silence for three hours, until someone asked me to sing and I pulled out my note cards for the umpteenth rendition of “жайлоодо,” a song I still don’t understand the words to. (Don’t get me wrong though; I’m always happy to sing.)

At some point, a plate of new food was brought out to share. It was white, gelatinous cubes, which I first took for slices of fat I have seen (and consumed) before, until I asked. The director was quick to explain—or rather take a few deep breaths to demonstrate: I was eating sheep’s lung boiled in milk. Fortunately, it actually tasted very bland, with a hint of butter from the milk, but had the unfortunate consistency of old tofu. I should have recognized this as a sign of certain foods yet to come, but some how in my wine-induced stupor, I did not.

Dancing had been mentioned multiple times, but as yet, no one had made a move, so when around midnight, the group stood for a mass exodus from the table, I thought some disco was in store. But as we gathered in the other room, all the women took their seats again and a tablecloth was laid out in the middle. I should have known; no Kyrgyz toi is complete without besh barmak (translation: sheep—the whole thing—eaten with the fingers; besh means “5” and barmak means “fingers”).

As an American former-vegetarian, the thought of unseasoned mutton seemed the antithesis of my taste buds’ desire. In truth, neither the taste nor texture bothered me so much, but the thought of how much fat—and it’s mostly fat, not meat—and otherwise nutrient-less roughage I was forcing myself to ingest was enough to turn the stomach. Here’s how it all went down:

The first plate to make it’s round was what I think was large intestine, stuffed with some sort of other ground part and onions, then boiled and oiled. In my opinion, if you can get past the texture and somewhat iron/metallic taste, the onions are ok. Fortunately, there are chasers provided—the oily broth the sheep was boiled in, and of course, alcohol. (Never thought I’d use wine or fermented wheat, known as bozo, as a chaser…) I drank both copiously as the following plates made their rounds.

Next up was the small intestine, cleaned out, braided, and boiled. Essentially cartilage. It’s like eating octopus, except without any salty flavor. I didn’t bother chewing too much, just swallowed. Next came the actual meat, a wedge the size of my head. Fortunately, I knew I wasn’t expected to eat all of this. It could go in the take home bag they’d fill for me at the end. (No party is complete without the goody bags—they serve as next day’s dinner for everyone.) Then the intestines made a second pass, this time accompanied with fat I was told to eat in tandem. And not to be missed, was the final bowl of brains. Turns out, it tastes just like every other part of the sheep: gamy and salty. Dinner concluded with what I actually think is the true “barmak” part of the “besh barmak” experience: ramen noodles flavored in sheep broth and onions with shredded sheep on top—no utensils necessary; you just take a big scoop with your hands and slurp.

I must admit I was very much relieved when the teachers finally put out their hands for the final omen. I’m glad to finally say I’ve eaten the whole sheep, and was delighted to share in the teachers’ festivities. But I’m a little sheepish to try the meal again any time soon—unfortunately for my stomach, I agreed to a second toi (this one, a wedding) tonight. So here I raise a final toast: To my health—and tolerance!