Not too long ago LA was considered everything but a dining destination. With the major shift that has occurred in the past few years I could name several places capable of pleasing the most educated palate. In a recent interview with Eater, several chefs discuss the now as well as what appears to be coming to LA.
I generally pass through Paso Robles three or four times annually, spend a night and continue on to my destination. Over the past ten years, I have become quite familiar with the town and surrounding region. With every visit I have felt more drawn to its spaciousness, warm character and friendly people. Ancient oak and olive trees dot its terrain offering shady places to sit and sky-gaze; slopes latticed with vineyards roll and curl through endless space.
Before we get into today’s post I want say that Travels With Penelope is undergoing changes. Shortly the web address will change so emails will be subsiding. I encourage you to ‘follow’ by subscribing to the blog in order to continue to receive notifications. If you are already a subscriber, you do not have to resubscribe.
No matter what your dietary preferences may be I think you will enjoy the article recently posted in the NYT.
My Dinner With Longevity Expert Dan Buettner (No Kale Required)
It led me to reflect on the many dietary (from the Greek diaita meaning a way of life) paths I have chosen. Omnivore, vegetarian, pescatarian, vegan, raw foodie, juicer, sometimes combining more than one way at a given time, I will not become a Paleo because I agree with longevity expert Dan Buettner when he recently joked in the above article, that’s fine “if all you want is the life expectancy of a cave man.”
Am I conflicted? Not so much as it may sound. Changes in diet have been evolutionary moments in which I took in what body wisdom dictated and followed through on its sage advise. I have discovered that it takes about three weeks to change the palate. For example, the first week I ate raw, the food tasted lackluster, the second, some dishes began to appeal, and by the third I was in love. At the same time with a highly alkalized body wine tasted like vinegar, coffee like mud. Later with a little less alkaline in the diet I managed to shift the taste of wine back to nectar.
I turned back to coffee because I missed the early morning ritual it provided and the coziness of beginning the day with a warm beverage. I also rationalized that coffee as Buettner noted is one of the biggest anti-oxidants in the American diet. Furthermore, as a recent study from Japan has confirmed, coffee drinkers reach older age more free of common diseases than non-drinkers. Coffee gains ground with health experts.
Later, with my ubiquitous need for change, I turned to tea. Currently, my drink of choice is an almond milk chai, not the way most coffee houses prepare it loaded with sweetness, but as it is made at Portola Coffee Lab in Costa Mesa, Ca. Portola Coffee Lab: Micro Roaster of the Year www.portolacoffeelab.com/ or my own brew made with organic rooibos, fresh ginger, cardamom, cinnamon, and combined with steamed organic almond milk. The spices take care of the need for sweeteners, but on occasion I add a dollop of honey.
Recently, the coffee roaster at Portola prepared a cup of coffee for me one of my favorites from Kenya, no less. First cup in seven months I had to take my time, sipping ever so slowly. Three tablespoons in the caffeine began to pack a wallop. Still, the three T’s were heavenly!
My palate is not only conflicted, as some would have it, but likes change, variety and trips into the world of the unusual. When I transitioned into a vegetarian and could no longer depend on a pork chop, a chicken leg or a fillet for my main gig the experience of what I could eat expanded exponentially. I discovered Beluga lentils, mung beans, faro, millet and buckwheat groats. The same happened when I left dairy and eggs to transition from vegetarian to vegan. No move had quite the expansiveness as the move into the world of raw. I discovered that cheeses made with nuts are amazingly similar to cheeses made with milk. When I made raw zucchini pasta for friends, they failed to recognize the zucchini thinking it was wheat pasta.
Over the years I have drawn from each of the “ways” distilling the best and hopefully adding to the health and happiness of body, mind and spirit. The journey holds no absolutes, with personal health, animal health, and that of the planet my only goal. Lately, I had sensed a new adventure looming on the horizon. When I came across the article above on Dan Buettner’s writings about the Blue Zone diets I knew I had landed yet again.
I could hardly wait to share the news I just received from a food curator friend. Carlos Salgado does it again.
(https://penelopeshackelford.wordpress.com/2015/06/25/june-25-2015-taco-maria/)
Selected as #2 chef of 100 in America by Opinionated About Dining for 2015. See the new Fresh List link below. Salgado placed ahead of David Chang of Momofuki and Thomas Kellar of Ad Hoc among several other prominent chefs. Not only is he a great chef, he’s a most humble man as well. How fortunate for those who live behind the Orange Curtain!
http://www.opinionatedaboutdining.com/2015/fresh_list.html
A week ago I dined in a rectory. Yes, a parsonage, a vicarage, the home of an ecclesiastical rector. No rector was present, but I could feel a presence. So how did the rectory of St. Vibiana’s Cathedral in downtown LA come to be a restaurant?
Several decades back, my partner and I lived in a small rural village near Hamilton, Ontario. One snowy afternoon as I drove through the village, I had one of those out-of-the-blue moments in which an unusual question popped into my head. “What is Indian food like?” As I pondered the question I happen to pass the local library. I decided to stop and probe through the card catalogue, personal computers let alone Google lay far in the future, to see if I could find an answer. At the least, I could peruse Britannica’s info on the sub-continent’s cuisine.
When a cookbook of Indian recipes appeared on an index card, I knew karma had to be in play. I scuttled back among the dusty shelves where Classic Cooking from India by Dharam Jit Singh laid waiting. Published years earlier with the help of McCall’s Magazine, I had found one of the first cookbooks on Indian food to be published in the west.
I picked it up, took it to the desk, checked it out and took it home. With its help I assembled my first vegetable biryani, not difficult, but a complex dish. Preparing Indian food, like any craft, takes practice and after the initial dish I spent months doing just that. Pickles, chutneys, curries, breads; I even made paneer. What I discovered is that Indian cuisine is highly developed, but not intricate. Preparing a festive meal is easy, but there are so many layers and processes that it can take several days.
Self-taught with help from the borrowed cookbook and a little advice from Indian friends, I gradually grew adept. I liked the quality of my food, and, to my astonishment, so did my Indian friends. For the most part, I stopped frequenting Indian restaurants.
Until I met Chef Shachi Mehra.
Born in India while her parents were visiting, raised in Jersey with a few years in Delhi, attended college, and then the day came when Chef Bruce Johnson (a premier chef according to the New York Times) invited her to spend a day prepping in his kitchen at Trap Rock Brewery in New Jersey. At the end of the day she had found her destiny; offered a job on the spot, her path to becoming Chef Shachi began. She would do stints at prestigious dining establishments, Tablas and Bread Bar in Manhattan, Bombay Club in Washington, DC, Boconova in Oakland, Junnoon in Palo Alto among them. She would do a culinary tour through India, Japan and Australia. Gentry Magazine named her a rising star. But, moving to the OC brought the opportunity to open her own restaurant, Adya.
When I followed the advice of a friend and tried her food (she was getting great press) I tasted some of the finest Indian dishes I had had in the US. Like Salgado at Taco Maria, Mehra is among the recent generation of chefs who are bringing together the dual heritage of a root food with their background in the US, and in Chef Shachi’s case, abroad. Let it be said that ethnic food prepared in the US may reflect subtle differences from that prepared in the mother country. Ingredients, unless they are imported, come from different climates and soils. Like a chardonnay from California differs from a French chardonnay so too a dish from India may differ from one prepared in the US. It may be likened to a twin, but whether identical or fraternal is the question. A person of Indian origin is often referred to as a PIO. Though I have never heard it as such, I like the name FIO (food of Indian origin) cuisine. Mehra comes down on both sides of the world. Her food made with fresh, local ingredients is comfortable for any palate.
I love Adya’s digs in The Anaheim Packing District. Back in the day when the OC was a rural stage for citrus crops, farmers brought their fruit to the big warehouse by the railroad tracks in Anaheim. Here workers for Sunkist washed, dried, wrapped and loaded fruit on trains headed to destinations throughout the US. Adya’s location has always been a food center of sorts, but now it reminds me of the grand markets of Asia and Europe. The fact that it is ten minutes from Disneyland serves well.
Bar Seating
Outdoor Seating
Communal Seating
In Classic Cooking, Singh said, “If you would be a king, they say in India, you must eat like a king.” Mehra’s Indian street food, tandoori’s and curries, fresh and imbued with the rich line of spices with which we identify Indian food are fit for a king and queen! I never cease to enjoy observing the cooks preparing food in the tandoori ovens, or the chef tinkering over simmering pots on the large stove tops.
Chef Shachi’s menu includes classic Indian dishes, creative interpretations and daily specials.
Served on the classic thali with naan, raita, dal and salad
Two of my personal favorites watermelon chat (appetizer) complemented with fennel, red onion and lime and radish, mango, and jicama served on a papadom.
Chef Shachi’s Kaathi Rolls (wraps filled with potatoes, paneer, chicken or lamb), have become legendary. She also serves Pavs, a Bombay-style Sloppy Joe, with spiced vegetables, potatoes or lamb.
According to Pitaru a web site that explains the meaning of Hindu names, “Adya” a Sanskrit word, means “the original power from which all five senses originated.” It is said that Sanskrit not only names, but that the meaning of what it names is in the sound of the spoken word itself. Om, the example par excellence. If I repeat Ad…Ya slowly over and over, the vibration goes to my palate and down the throat. Soon, I am hungry. Time to head to my Indian go-to!
The following may be a bit of a geographical stretch for some readers, but with Disneyland, its gorgeous beaches, Catalina Island, vital museums and more, the OC continues to be a magnet. If you go, consider the following.
One evening about a year ago after my partner and I had dinner at a hole in the wall in downtown Santa Ana, the east end to be precise we decided to take a stroll. An interesting factoid: In 2011 Forbes named Santa Ana, the county seat, as the fourth safest city in the nation with a population over 250,000. Over the past ten years, the old downtown has been gradually coming back to life. Happily, the town parents are renovating old structures rather than tearing down, and, with its thriving Hispanic-Latino culture, the city scintillates. The quality of restaurants and pubs along with the new 4th Street Market is turning old downtown into a dining destination.
During our walk, we happened on North Left. Save for a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk, we could easily have missed it; due to its non-descript front with no signs or menus posted on doors or windows.
Old readers, note the manhole covers!
I would have passed by, but because of a friend whose palate I respect had given it a great recommendation, I peeked inside.
Dark walls, high tables with heavy metal stools, nothing pretentious, small table area off to side, a gastro pub or so I thought.
A video of colorful ethereal images played on an unobtrusive screen. As I looked about I recalled having been to the space earlier when it was under a different name. I liked the changes; the old space, a hip teenager, had become an adult. A casual perusal of the menu revealed brews and no, not burgers, but what appeared to be some very sophisticated plates.
Shortly, we returned for dinner.
Since that initial forage, with a dozen plus meals under my belt, North Left has become another one of my go-to’s. When I am in the OC, I have to have Chef Aron Habiger’s food at least once a week. The menu offers options for carnivores to vegans at affordable prices. Were North Left in San Francisco, they would double. Several plates to share are an option.
After culinary school, Habiger spent his time in an assortment of places notably Forage in Salt Lake City before moving to OC. Now, happily, he is in a place where he can show off his sophistical talent and craftsmanship. Ashley Guzman, the pastry chef, puts out desserts that are as creative as the rest of the menu. She changes and tweaks the dessert menu daily.
The brussel sprouts are sine qua non, the best I’ve found anywhere. First, de-leafed, then sautéed in brown butter, reducing some of the bitterness characteristic of brussel sprouts, the leaves turn chewy, but with the brown butter they maintain a hint of a melt-in-your mouth texture. Massaged in finely grated San Joaquin Gold, a mild cheddar-like cheese from Fiscalini Farms in Modesto, CA, they are finished with chunky roasted hazel nuts. I have done several brussel sprout runs up and down the left coast, but honestly when I want the sprouts my heart takes me back to North Left.
Habiger impressed me with his recent addition to the menu, Breakfast Radishes. That first bite, a chomp into a delicate, slim radish, bathed in a swirl of bee pollen flecked buttermilk, finished off with crunchy, candied sunflower seeds awakened my sense of the divine. A delightful sequence of mixed textures, the preparation came off as one, simple taste. I commented to Habiger that “the dish was so elegant yet so simple,” he returned, “the simple is the most difficult to execute”. I agree. Grilled steak, generally a sure bet in the right hands, but radishes? Never thought I’d see the day when I could hardly wait for another go-round with radishes. Not bad for my diet, either!
The steel cut risotto done with oats instead of rice, included escargot sans shells, manchego cheese, mushrooms for added depth, chives and edible nasturtiums. Kale salads are a must on most current menus. Chef adds beets, quinoa, goat cheese, dried cranberries all pairing beautifully, but it’s the fresh horseradish dressing that generates the lingering taste bombs.
At the time of this writing, two entrees, steak and a fish are available. We went for the trout. Sided with gentle potatoes and escarole, zinging with capers, served in an iron skillet, taste and texture perfect, we had enough leftovers for a second meal.
Recently, Habiger has been running a kind of pop up on Thursday evenings complete with tasting menu. Shopping the Farmer’s Markets, along with using his own rooftop garden above the restaurant he collects the most seasonable ingredients, but on Thursdays the menu is spontaneous depending on what’s available. In another creative vein, instead of taco Tuesday, he’s known for oyster Tuesday.
Rooftop Garden:
Steak, pork n skrimps, ham and biscuits, chicken nuggets, poutine; all on the menu as well, and prepared in a way that will satisfy the most educated palates. On one occasion, the chef surprised my partner and me with a plate of scallops. Encircled in mint flavored squid ink, highlighted with finely diced chips of green watermelon, it gave me pause. Umami? I am still reflecting.
Aside from the food one of the things I love about this place is the crew.
When I arrive, they greet me warmly and often share their enthusiasm about some dish on the menu. Habiger with his outgoing personality is generally out on the floor welcoming and interacting with diners. When I eat at North Left I feel like I am having dinner in the home of close friends.
I know it looks like a work of art, perhaps reminiscent of a Richard Diebenkorn. The sign like everything else that is composed at this unusual restaurant in Costa Mesa, California is elegant, artistic, and enough to turn the taste buds upside down. Two years ago, my partner and I had gone to Farmer’s Market on a Saturday morning at the OC Mix, a collection of locally owned boutiques and specialty food spots in my hometown of Costa Mesa. A ring of food trucks surrounded an end of the market. Hungry, I decided to check out the trucks for some lunch. After reading over the menu at Taco Maria, I ordered the shitake mushrooms, walked over to a table, laid down my meal and began to munch. My palate began to dance in the stars as I enjoyed the best tacos I had ever had. At the time, I did not know who was in the tiny truck kitchen or why, I just had to go back to Taco Maria every time I was in the OC. A few months after that initial meal, I arrived to hear that the truck had closed. Carlos Salgado, the chef, was going brick and mortar. I languished for several months until he opened
Talk about a native son (Salgado grew up in nearby Orange) doing well, Carlos is getting hooplas from every part of the food world. Los Angeles based Jonathan Gold, the only food writer to have received the Pulitzer Prize for food writing, has put Taco Maria on his top 100 this year (for Los Angeles, no less). Food and Wine recently selected him as one of the top ten best new chefs in the US. The announcement will be in the July issue.
Brad Johnson of the OC Register says that, “Taco Maria is one of the most sophisticated restaurants to open in Orange County in years…has turned fine dining on its head.” He also claims that, in a word, it is a restaurant not only important to California, but to the Americas. Move over Mexico City.
The thing is, Salgado does not serve traditional style dishes associated with Mexican cuisine: burritos, enchiladas, tamales. Raised by the owners of a taqueria in Orange, he worked in some of the finest kitchens in the Bay Area including a stint as pastry chef at Michelin starred Coi and Commis in Oakland before returning to the OC. At Taco Maria, he brings together his heritage and his experience in the fine dining world. When the brick and mortar opened, I was thrilled to see that shitakes were still on the menu in the form of mushroom chorizo, among other preparations.
The simple, attractive site, overlaid with black walnut and raw steel with a few interior tables, a patio with several and open to whatever the elements may bring. In Costa Mesa that usually means temperate weather.
At the bar (my favorite place to dine), one can easily observe the work of the chef and his small crew of sous artists in their open studio kitchen. They work seamlessly in unison almost as though one person, quietly composing dishes, generally breaking their focus only to respond or to acknowledge a customer. Salgado’s watchful eye addresses each dish before it goes to the diner.
Sylvia Salgado works along side her brother administering, serving, and advising.
If there is a restaurant that can be thought of as an art studio, it’s Taco Maria. Salgado draws, paints, sculpts, and designs with only the finest ingredients available. Methods include sous vide and charred wood fire. I am always amazed at the way delicate items such as flower petals and cilantro flowers are arranged and tweaked with tweezers. With nothing left to chance, his artful compositions are as beautiful to look at as they are to eat.
I know he forages but will not reveal where. I don’t blame him. Open, untarnished land is at a premium in OC. Besides, as Chef knows, I would be tempted to go myself if I knew where. He gets corn from a small farmer in Mexico, grinds it and makes his own posole and blue corn tortillas. Recently, I was standing near the door as a diner exited. I heard him say, “I generally don’t like corn tortillas, but those were the best I’ve ever had.”
The menu changes seasonally, and I have to have it at least twice. A pre-fixe menu is offered Wednesday through Saturday. A mainly taco menu is served at lunch and on Tuesday evenings with brunch only on Sunday.
When I think about describing the dishes, it’s hard to know where to begin. I was unfamiliar with huitlacoche butter. Sometimes called corn smut, it has an earthy taste. I had it at Taco Maria for the first time on a piece of bread smothered in refried beans and queso fresco at brunch. Simple? Yes, and good enough to bring me out again for brunch on any given Sunday. One of my favorite sides at the same is the crispy potatoes perked with just the right amount of torreados. The yogurt and fruit items give a new take on the traditional health breakfast: coconut granola atop a panna cotta like yogurt mousse gently covered in wisps of citrus sprinkled with poppy seeds.
Those who come expecting the traditional dishes mentioned earlier leave with an expanded understanding of what Salgado means when he calls his style Chicano cuisine. I cannot go to lunch without ordering the shitake chorizo tacos with crispy potatoes and queso fundido while my partner usually does local black cod with scallion aioli, cabbage and grapes. Out of the eight items on the dinner menu of which the diner chooses four, there is generally one taco. Mind you, not your mother’s taco! At this writing, squid, garlic, peanuts, purslane on an ink tortilla is the seasonal choice. I’ve had it. The purslane was so fresh it must have been picked just in time for my tortilla to be served!
The dungess crab with grits recently changed to crab with Carolina gold rice; green chili and chicken skin is a personal favorite…
… along with the frijoles, heirloom beans braised bacon, and oregano with grilled cabbage.
On the current menu along with the dishes in the above three photos is a salmon dish that reflects Salgado’s ability to layer history and heritage. A king salmon bathed in cultured cream containing, peas, potatoes and caviar brought up memories of dining with my parents at The Harbor House in Costa Mesa back in the fifties when salmon was preceded with Boston clam chowder. At the same time, the dish reminisced the best of California coastal cuisine of the same era. Salgado is too young to have experienced the above; the history must be in his genes.
The pre fixe dinner menu at 65.00 is the least expensive *** Michelin quality meal I have encountered. (A wine pairing featuring global wines and ales is available for an added 29.00.) When I mentioned this to Carlos he pointed to his staff at work in the kitchen and said, “They are doing the work.” Devotion to quality and humility are his hallmarks. While he is getting high press, I have never seen him grab the limelight.
In addition to artistic sensitivity, humility and commitment, Salgado has great regard for his customers. I once asked him if it would be ok if I brought a vegan friend to Taco Maria for dinner. He said, “yes,” then created a menu to suit my friend’s dining needs on the spot.
Until recently, no one thought of the OC as a dining destination. While it has a history of coastal cuisine, with longstanding traditional Mexican and Vietnamese establishments in the interior, it is the work of the second and third generations such as Salgado with his “Chicano Cuisine” who are changing the format. Taco Maria, a destination par excellence, is well worth a drive or a plane flight. It offers some of the finest food I have had throughout the US.
Taco María
www.tacomaria.com
All quiet on the mountaintop. No signs of tourists or locals. I reveled in the solitude that can only be had at the peak. As darkness descended, a donut of light from Osh encircled Suleiman Too with a silver halo. I was but a small atom in a universe whose limits reached beyond anything my imagination could conjure. Time dissolved into nothing more than an illusion of the recent past. After awhile, I had no idea how long I stood there, I began to hear a distant sound, a subtle echo that gently played off my heartbeat. Slowly, I recognized that home was calling; I had to return.
I had chosen to travel to Osh not only because of Suleiman Too, but also because of its position on the ancient Silk Road. Back in the day when all things led to silk, to obtain it one had to go to China. That is, until the seventh century when as legend would have it a Byzantine monk stole the secrets of silk production as well as the worms from the Chinese. By then the ancient land Road having grown as complex as the routes through an ant hill looped from the East China Sea, up to the Gobi Desert to India, paraded across Central Asia into the current Stan’s, onto the Middle East, eventually as far as Rome, back to Shanghai and visa versa. The complexities of the routes with all the comings and goings of tribes, armies, mercenaries and merchants aroused my curiosity. I had to visit the Silk Road. If only I could touch my feet to its surface, I would have direct contact with the collective energy oozing from the historical layers of what had gone before. Holding that thought, I closed my eyes and drew my intention inward. Momentarily, I felt what had become a familiar lurch.
In Osh, the 2000-year-old Silk Road Bazaar stretches along the banks of the Ak Buura River for about a mile. Historically, it is one of the most important markets because of the confluence of routes that crossed through Osh; in 2010, ethnic violence between the Kyrzks and Uzbeks (Osh on the border, has a sizeable population of Uzbeks) destroyed much of the bazaar. Efforts to rebuild have restored much of the market: a farmer’s market, a department and appliance store (with goods from China and Russia) so to speak, a place to buy crafts, clothing, everything from toothpaste to cell phones, and perhaps most important a place to gather with friends, share tales and eat. I wanted to get a bite and buy a kalpak for my partner before I returned to the US.
I landed near the meat department. No, I was not interested in eating jimmy, the famous lambs head delicacy, but I noted several European tourists as they scooped out and ate the eyes and brains from a head, or the olovo (sheep’s lungs). Nor was I interested in beshbarmark with the memory of Mierum’s noodles still lingering on my palate. I walked on through the spices. Nearly knocked over by aromas coming off mountains of bright red paprika, stacks of colored peppercorns, cinnamon sticks and cumin, I hurried on to what looked like a bakery-deli a few stalls over. As a vegetarian, I knew I was in luck when I found oromo being prepared with potatoes and onions. I watch a short elderly woman roll out a small pastry, spread the veggies, roll it up and place it in a kagan for steaming. I ordered two along with a plate of ashlam foo. I figured the spicy noodles in jelly and vinegar topped with eggs would be offset with the oromo. I was not disappointed.
After eating, I picked up a kalpak and tucked it in my purse. Then I withdrew to a quiet place along the river and prepared to return to normal. Return to Normal? A drop of the tongue, tongue in cheek, but the very thought of return to normal posed an interesting question. Am I out of normal or am I within the bounds of normal? I looked about the world for an answer. When Elon Musk is putting the plans together for the first hyper-loop in California, when members of the former Baathist army are trying to redefine borders in the Middle East, when Trump says he is really running for the presidency, when Goldman Sachs says it is setting up a small loan department for ordinary Americans, when a top athlete shows up on the front cover of Vanity Fair in a new guise, when His Holiness the Pope puts out an encyclical on climate change, when His Holiness the Dai Lai Lama speaks at the Honda Center where the Mighty Ducks play, when waves of kayaks try to thwart a major oil schooner, perhaps the fact of my astral hyper-looping is not too far-fetched.
Unfortunately, in my haste to get to the Bazaar, I left my camera back on the Suleiman Too, but not to worry. The internet has reams of pictures of the old and new bazaar in Osh. Simply Google. Is that not where we find the source of all information
The personal comments on some of the recent posts have been ranged from fascinating to hilarious. One friend said that she was “shocked to hear that I had been away and that she had many questions to ask about the Stan’s. Another told me he was confused. So am I. Just kidding.
So, the following is the continuation of the musings of an astral hyper-looper as she roams through Kyrgyzstan. Best to read the former post if you have not already done so.
Rustam stood near the door holding the reigns to two camels. Not the shorthaired, one-hump dromedaries I had seen in Egypt, but the two humped, two-haired Bactrian’s indigenous to Central Asia.
With a kalpak on his head, the traditional white wool hat worn by Kyrgyz men, he had the look of a royal.
In his hands he held a pair of long stocking-like socks that he said were to protect my legs against the camel’s hair.
He must have noticed the look on my face, I imagine somewhere between surprise and trepidation, because he told me that riding the camel would be easy, that he had taken several tourists on rides with no issues or injuries. I can’t say that I felt comforted, but I did feel some excitement knowing that I would soon be in the company of Marco Polo, Lawrence of Arabia, Indiana Jones, and Peter O’Toole. I had read how, during the filming of Lawrence of Arabia with his bottom bleeding from riding, the latter went to Beirut and purchased rubber sponge to serve as a saddle. When his Bedouin companions noted the comfort level, they too began to use the rubber.
Rustam told me not to be afraid, as the camel would sense my fear. Easier said than done, I called on Kali to give me some of her power, and then stroked the camel to show that I was not afraid. I made sure not to stand in front of its mouth to avoid the shower for which camels are famous.
Rustam brought it down on its knees to the traditional posture for mounting so that I could get on, and told me to swing my leg over the back hump and mount in one movement. As I am not tall enough to make it over the hump he placed a stool to stand on. Taking a swing with my right leg I managed the mount. As the camel raised its hind legs to stand up, I would have flipped off were it not for the front hump. I threw my arms around it and held on for dear life. Everything especially my bottom fell comfortably in place when he raised his front legs.
Rustam mounted the other camel, waved to Mierum and we set off down a wide path toward the mountains. My camel followed. It did not take me long to realize that I was atop a push button camel, mild and quiet, not the kind I had seen in Tracks, the book adapted movie about a young woman who crossed Australia on a camel. Rustam told me that a few years back a Russian Orthodox monk had come down from southern Siberia to rest and restore his health in the healing warm waters of Issul-Kyl Lake. While he was there, he spent quite a bit of time with the camel. It had a high-spirited nature, hard to hold down, and not in the least people-friendly, but over the course of the monk’s stay it became docile and gentle. I thought of the poverello. The monk sounded like a reincarnation of St. Francis of Assisi. Beginning to feel a little more reassured I relaxed and got into the swing of the camel’s rhythm.
As we headed toward the mountains and I wondered how we would manage the steep stone slopes just ahead, when Rustam made a sudden turn through some tall bushes onto a side path. We rounded a short bend and climbed for several minutes through a thick forest to where the path opened onto a beautiful gorge. We climbed down and continued along a river.
It had been years since I had been on a horse and I was beginning to feel an aching in my thighs from the unusual posture. I was relieved when Rustam said we should take a break. He disembarked then helped me to get down. We sat on a large boulder overlooking a lovely valley. Mierum had sent a snack, which Rustam opened. He offered some dark, dried strings of something I did not recognize. When I hesitated, Rustam said it was dried camel meat. I licked it gingerly. After finishing his, Rustam took off on a stroll downstream saying he would be back in a few minutes. I assumed he had gone to take care of private needs. When he was out of sight I tossed the jerky into the stream. Just too much for my inner vegetarian to digest.
A whistle like familiar sound called out from behind where I sat. I turned in its direction to see a myna sitting in a bush about thirty feet away. With a yellow patch around its eye and yellow legs I recognized the same bird I had observed in India. When I looked it in the eye, the myna began to screech. Having observed the scene with the camel jerky and while not exactly begging, I assumed it wanted some food. Rustam suddenly appeared and the bird flew off.
He said it would take us about an hour to get to the yurt camp. From there his friend would drive me to Osh. Not since my last trip to the Andes had I felt such grounding as well as the uplifting that emanates from soaring mountain cathedrals. As of late I had been somewhat Piscean in my relation to the world, spacing out, forgetting appointments. I knew of no better tonic for my lack of focus than soaring mountains. I recalled a Native American spiritual teacher who several years earlier had described mountain meditation as a means to balance the four elements in the body. “Sit as though you are a mountain,” he advised. I tried to follow his counsel as a rode through the gorge.
When we pulled up to the yurt camp, Rustam hailed the driver. As soon as I got down off the camel, Maxence, a friendly fellow, offered me a bottle of water and opened the door to a jeep. Although his English was not as good as Rustam’s, I understood him. I could not thank Rustam enough for all he had done. As the jeep pulled away I leaned out the window and waved profusely. Rustam left my life as quickly as he had come in.
I was so engrossed in enjoying breathtaking views of the Pamils that I lost tract of how long it took us to get to Osh the southern capital of Kyrgyzstan. As we rode along the name Osh…sh…sh, began to speak to me as had the sound vibrations of Baku on the trip to Azerbaijan, in a rising and falling pattern. Osh: ah ascending, sh descending. I repeated Osh like a mantra over and over.
I had looked forward to visiting the Silk Bazaar on the famous Silk Road in Osh, but the moment Suleiman Too, the tall mountain that rises up from the center of the 3,000 year old city, Osh, came into view the thought of the Bazaar disappeared. Rustam had told me some of the stories about the mountain as we camel trekked through the Fergana Valley. When he described it as a sacred mountain; I felt the hair rising on my arms.
As we got closer I noticed patches of red poppies carpeting spaces between the rocks. As in California, they bloom in spring. The mountain-peaks, five altogether, etched a jagged line across the sky that reminded me of Mt. Tamalpais. I reasoned that a slumbering goddess must live here as well.
Maxence broke my reverie. “The mountain,” he shouted with pride. “The mountain that stopped an army. When Solomon reached the mountain, he ordered his soldiers to stop. Enough! Such a powerful mountain.” Maxence thoroughly enjoyed extolling the miracle of Osh.
At my request he dropped me off at the foot just below the museum that had completed in time to honor the 3000th anniversary of Osh. Before he drove off, he suggested that I stock up on water if I decided to climb to the top and he warned that as there were no lights along the paths that I come down before dark unless it were a full moon night. I thanked him and gave him ten dollars that he assured me he could exchange for tyiyn at his local bank.
I climbed up to the museum, a cave cut into the mountainside and enclosed with a large glass wall.
As I entered, a receptionist greeted me, but she did not speak English. She pointed to a wall mount that offered a few meager facts. I took a quick glance around – lots of old objects, many of which I had no knowledge – then went out to an outdoor viewing site where I sat looking out over the city of Osh.
Like all sacred mountains and as I had gathered from my pre-flight research, Suleiman Too was couched in history and legend. Reminiscent of Sinai, a holy place where a prophet met with the deity, the same is said to be true of Suleiman. On this mountain Solomon spoke with God. Following the human-divine encounter, the mountain became a site for Muslim pilgrimage and continued as such for at least 2500 years. In the sixteenth century, Babur, founder of the Moghul Dynasty, built a small cell with a mikhrab. Today, a white mosque and a replica of Babur’s house have replaced them.
All of this had been preceded by cult worship now witnessed by many caves and petroglyphs. Suleiman Too is said to have been the ancient site of a fire temple stemming from the work of the Zoroastrians. Stories of cures for all sorts of ailments have been recounted.
I spent time reflecting on the history, but mainly I inhaled the energy of Suleiman Too feeling calmer, quieter and more energized with each breath. I felt uplifted, as though I were levitating, but my feet never left the ground. I knew I had to climb to the top. Maxene said it would only take about twenty-five minutes. Once there I would honor the deities of the ancient cults and traditions who resided in this strange and wonderful place and the mountain, deity in and of itself. Regretfully, I had no white sage from the southwest to burn, but no worry, they would understand.
In The Ascent to Truth Thomas Merton writes of how distractions divert our attention from what matters. As I ascended, distraction gave way to endless view, unbounded space. When I reached the top, I had arrived in more ways than one.
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