An evening at Dalil's (5/14/03)

Come along with me for dinner at Dalil’s.

Dalil and Omon are a couple of friends from last year’s seminar in Tashkent, Uzbekistan; and we had the pleasure of making contact with them this spring while back for another round of seminar sessions.

They’re an interesting pair.

Omon, who was in charge of arrangements on the ground for last year’s seminar, is now working with a financial software company. He represents the best and the brightest of Uzbekistan’s new generation. Lanky and single, he’s a natural born leader. Six months ago, he founded the first homegrown service club in Tashkent’s history, basing it on Rotary, Lions, and Kiwanis but keeping it unaffiliated to international organizations so it can develop its own style.

Dalil is an old buddy of Omon’s who was our driver last year. A constant hustler, when he’s not working as a driver he’s a graduate assistant at the Institute of Oriental Studies, working on his Ph.D. in international relations. And when he’s not driving or studying or teaching, he supports his wife and three sons by importing men’s ties from China and selling them as a wholesaler to dozens of vendors around Tashkent.

Dinner is at Dalil’s by his invitation. He wants us to share some traditional Uzbek hospitality. That also translates into traditional Islamic hospitality, since Dalil is a Muslim.

A writer once said that Islam rests lightly on Central Asia, and that’s generally true. But Dalil takes his religion seriously.

He picks us up at 7:30 p.m. at the little backstreet hotel that has been our home away from home this week. The car flies through the tangle of Tashkent streets, taking us far to the north side of the city.

As we get close to Dalil’s home, he pulls over and stops at a small open-air bazaar. It’s the equivalent of the neighborhood grocery. Vendors go to the large central bazaar, buy products of various types, then haul them back to the neighborhood, and charge a small mark-up to shoppers who don’t want to be bothered with a trip to the central bazaar. In other words, it’s capitalism at work.

When Dalil emerges from the bazaar, he’s carrying a stack of fresh-baked bread — nan — that resembles a pile of 45 rpm records and smells delicious.

Dalil’s apartment is on the first floor of a building that probably dates from the early Brezhnev era, perhaps even from that muddled time in Soviet history right after Krushchev.

We’re greeted at the door by Dalil’s wife and sons. As we take off our shoes, they introduce themselves. Erona, whose name I’ve probably misspelled, is Dalil’s wife. She’s a medical doctor, but she’s not practicing at the moment so she can concentrate on raising their three boys, Omar, Makmut, and Said.

We’ll see little of her all evening, though she’s slaving away tirelessly in the kitchen. Except for a brief moment when we present her with a gift, a Russian vase we purchased that afternoon, she’ll be invisible.

The boys are also at work to make sure the guests are comfortable. All evening long, they’ll work as little waiters, bringing fresh platters of food to the table. We’ve brought toy cars and trucks for each of them as gifts.

The men gather at a table in the living room. It’s a dinner for men only in the most traditional Islamic fashion.

On the table, every space is filled with another treat. There’s a salad with eggs and potatoes and fish. There’s smoked turkey and cheese. There’s some sort of pickled fish as well. To drink, there’s apple juice. No alcohol is allowed in the home.

So we eat and talk and eat and talk. And just when we think we are finished, it’s time for the main course: Plov.

Plov, better known in the west as pilaf, is a staple of Central Asian cooking and comes in hundreds of different styles. I once suggested a plov cookbook with all of the different recipes, only to be told that there were so many a single book would be impossible.

It’s a seasoned steamed rice that usually comes with onions and carrots and perhaps bits of meat.

Tonight’s specialty is Osh plov, from that city in neighboring Kyrgyzstan which has a large Uzbek population. It’s best eaten hot, and tonight’s is particularly delicious. In fact, it’s the best I’ve ever had.

According to tradition, one cannot predict the quality of plov until it is served. How good it tastes depends directly upon the quality of the guests and the company. Tonight’s good food is testimony to the good friendships around the table.

But there is so much of it that it’s impossible to take it all in.

Finally, the apple juice gives way to tea — chai — signaling that the meal may be winding down.

Dalil takes the teapot and carefully pours out a cup, looks at it and pours it back in the pot. He will do the same with two more cups before deciding that the tea is ready to serve. Why? Tradition. It’s always done that way.

Then, with the tea soothing your throat which has grown hoarse from all the conversation, small mandarin oranges are produced as a finishing delicacy.

Dinner is complete. Friendships have been renewed. Spirits have been restored.

Dalil nods with a smile on his face. “Thanks to God,” he says.[[In-content Ad]]