Culinary encounters in Uzbekistan: Discovering the roots of the world’s most popular snack
Eons ago, across half the world, from China in the east to Persia and on to the Mediterranean in the west, along the ancient network of trading routes, there was a relentless flow of gold, silk, gemstones and spices. But as the traders traveled, they also carried with them that critical piece of culture which bridges boundaries and opens hearts even today. Away from the traps of linguistics, the politics of clothing, the notions of right and wrong — this piece of culture evokes some of the strongest emotions among us — Food.
And this food in particular probably traveled the farthest. Today it’s found in the Indian subcontinent, Southeast Asia, Central Asia, Southwest Asia, the Arabian Peninsula, the Mediterranean, the Horn of Africa, North Africa and South Africa. The sheer spread and the population it caters to, should make it the world’s most popular snack.
It all started in modern day Iran, where Abolfazl Beyhaqi (995–1077), an Iranian historian, mentioned it in his history, Tarikh-e Beyhaghi. Muslim merchants later brought it to India along the silk routes, where it gained rapid acceptance due to its quick preparation time and convenient shape. After cooking around fires during the evening camps, traders could then store them in their bags to snack on over the course of the next day’s travels.
In 1334, the scholar — explorer Ibn Battuta, noted its ingredients : a thin envelope of wheat stuffed with minced meat, almonds, pistachios, walnuts, onions, and spices and then fried in ghee. According to Battuta, the snack was even served at the court of Muhammad bin Tughluq, the Sultan of Delhi at the time. The royal Indian poet Amir Khusrow observed that the princes and nobility of Delhi greatly savored it. In the Ain-i-Akbari, a documentation of the rule of Akbar by his Vazir, it was mentioned as a favorite snack.
As a kid accustomed to spending his summer vacations in blistering hot Delhi and serene Dehradun, no trip was ever complete without devouring it. The lull of the summer afternoon was spent in anticipation of the evening snack. We were all eager to do the bidding of our elders, waiting to run to the halwai to buy them. The excitement of eating it was in equal parts accompanied by the fervour of seeing it being made — fried in piping hot oil, emerging crisp and golden brown, with a crust to die for (And the crust often became the source of fights, with some of us nibbling at the crust, and leaving the stuffing for others to eat). We used to sit in the veranda of my ancestral home in Dehradun, the adults savored this snack with chai, the kids hovered around to steal more than their fair share, and the conversations flowed.
A couple of decades later, 1600 kms from Dehradun, on a hot September afternoon in Bukhara, I decided to give my worn out body a rest. I walked into one of the numerous cafes which dot the old city, hoping to grab a quick bite before I set off again. By now I had realized that scanning menus was mostly an exercise in futility, as my grasp of the Cyrillic alphabet was non existent. As I was mulling around my options, I noticed a quintessential silk road phenomenon.
On a gray tandoor plonked right in the main lane of the bazaar, among eager tourists and even more eager shopkeepers, stood the chef, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his weight supported by the large iron ladle used to scoop out food from the tandoor. I kept watching him, and with a sense honed by years of experience — he peered through the oven smoke, and expertly pulled out a Samsa. Or the Samosa as we know it in India.
As I got over the newness of a Samosa that is baked and not fried, a plate had already hit my table. The first bite of a Samsa was dangerously hot, as it tends to be hollow from the inside and a burst of steam escapes, burning your lips (Discovered it the hard way). As one becomes acclimatized to the heat, you start to savour the mutton! Yes, the Samosa, which we have accepted as an integral part of Indian cuisine, actually started off as a meat pie. And what’s with the square shape? The size and shape can vary greatly across regions. In Xinjiang (predominantly Muslim province of China) they are small and square shaped. In Uzbekistan, they tend to be much larger with round or rectangular shapes. In the Indian subcontinent, they tend to be triangular in shape — in fact, the name samsa, was meant to be representative of the pyramids in Central Asia, which were called sanbosag, in Persian. That’s also why they’re shaped that way. Travelling into India, the ingredients were changed to suit the tastes of the largely vegetarian Indian population.
As I savoured the taste of the Samsa, my gaze met that of the chef. We both smiled and he held a thumb up, asking for my approval. I walked up to him, kissed my fingers with my lips indicating my appreciation and in the most quintessential Uzbeki way, he put a hand on his heart and said Rehmat. And I murmured Rehmat as well.
His Rehmat was for the business I gave him, mine was for the lesson in history, the culinary journey and yet another hit of nostalgia, which transported me to my childhood. Thousands of miles away from home, a little tired of consuming copious quantities of meat and bread — the samsa was the jolt of the familiar. It was a sweet known unknown, with the comforting familiarity of a beloved snack from home and the exciting newness of unfamiliar ingredients and cooking methods, all packed into a piping hot snack meant to delight. It gave me the joy of reminding myself of the gamut of influences that today makes up what we call Indian culture. We all appreciate home when we miss it abroad, but maybe the purpose of travel is, even for a few moments, to see the whole world as your home.
This post is a part of the larger series of posts under ‘Tales from the Silk Road’. Follow me for my stories on travel in Central Asia and around the world.
