The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine

Tutyrgan tavyk

John Taylor was just ten years older than I was, but already an old man. A widower. His wife had just died. It was a problem for him. His daughter had hired me because he couldn’t do anything anymore. Not that he was physically incapable — he was still strong. But psychologically he just wasn’t able.

He was an English teacher. He was out on medical leave for the time being because he was suffering from depression. I found him interesting because he was English and had a nice name.

He was an educated man and had a lot of books. Shelves from floor to ceiling, and many of the books were old. The spines of the books were dusty. It would have made me depressed, too. I started to dust them immediately. John just said, “Please be careful with the books. I love those.”

He had such a nice accent. It was a little hard to understand. I asked, “Who did you say you love — Rose?”

He looked seriously at me and said: “Not yet.”

I didn’t see much of him while I cleaned. He was in his bedroom most of the time. His daughter said he was afraid of people. Oh, yes, so am I, I thought to myself. People just didn’t notice it in my case. I started going there two days a week, for four hours per day. The house had been neglected. John’s daughter said I was worth my weight in gold. I knew that, of course.

At first I just cleaned up. There was enough work. John’s wife had been sick for a long time. I was curious to know what she had looked like, but there weren’t any photos. John’s daughter said she had taken them all away because they made it more difficult for John.

One day John came out of his bedroom. He asked me if it would bother me if he sat in the living room. I said, “Not at all, it’s your living room after all.”

He sat down on the couch. I dusted and then wiped the wood flooring. It didn’t bother me that John was watching me. But when I turned to him I realized he wasn’t watching me at all. He had taken out a book without my noticing and was reading.

He didn’t even look up from his book when the doorbell rang.

“Do you want to get that?” I asked.

When he didn’t react, I went to answer the doorbell myself. In front of the house stood a young man. He handed me a tray with food on it — like on an airplane.

“Meals on Wheels,” he said as he helped me balance everything. I must have looked pretty confused.

“Aha,” I said, as if I understood. I wanted to go back inside to get money to tip him, but he was in a rush.

“John, Meals on Wheels is here for you,” I said, placing the tray on a small wooden coffee table in front of him. He looked up from his book. I lifted the plastic cover.

“Here is. . uh. . soup, and here. . um. . looks like some kind of meat.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.

I didn’t really know either.

Later I found out that his daughter had arranged it for him. She couldn’t cook for him every day. And he needed to eat. Meals on Wheels, I surmised, was something like a pizza delivery service for old people in Germany. I shared my thoughts with John.

“Yes, except without the pizza and without the service,” John said, laughing for the first time.

He never touched the yoghurt on his tray. I always took it home with me because Aminat loved it.

“If you’d like, I could cook something for you,” I said.

“Not necessary,” said John.

“You haven’t tried my cooking yet,” I said.

When I resolve to do something, I follow through. That’s the way I am.

One Sunday at eleven, I stood in front of John’s door with a sack of groceries. I rang the bell. Nobody answered. Then I jiggled the door. I had a key. I had told him I was coming. I knocked with my fist. Then I unlocked the door.

Everything was clean. I’d been there two days before. I went into the kitchen. Several trays of food were there. I lifted the tops and found them completely untouched. I put down my bag.

“John, Rosa’s here!” I called.

Silence. I ran up the stairs and tore open the door to John’s room. It was the only room I hadn’t been in. Not yet. You could see right away: it was a dreadful space, full of books, papers, and garbage. An empty bed with sheets that were none too fresh. I should have had a look in here long ago.

“John!” I called.

Next I went to the bathroom. The door was locked. I shook it and put my ear to the keyhole.

“John!” I called into the silence.

Fortunately, nothing phased me. I’d been in a lot of houses and knew which ones had doors that could easily be opened even when locked. This was one of them, thank God. I found a coin in my pocket, put it into the slot, and turned. The door opened.

John lay in the bathtub. His long body barely fit. His head was above water, but it was hanging worryingly to the side. The water wasn’t bloody. He didn’t look good. I braced his head and tried to pull him out. Then, on the spur of the moment, I decided to hold his nose closed. That’s how I woke him. John coughed, shook his head, tried to free himself from my grip, and cursed — first in English, then in German.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you a nightmare come to life?”

He still seemed disoriented. I felt the water. It was cold. I didn’t expect any thanks for saving him.

“Why don’t you get out,” I said, looking around, finding a large towel, and offering it to him.

He slowly stood up. Yes, his face was the oldest thing about him. I couldn’t resist looking at him. I hadn’t seen a man in a long time. And an Englishman — never. He stood there and water streamed down off him. Then he stepped still dripping wet from the tub. A puddle formed at his feet. He ripped the towel out of my hands and wrapped it around himself.

“I fell asleep. Do me a favor and get out,” he said.

“I need to mop up,” I said.

I grabbed a cleaning rag and wiped the floor dry. John didn’t wait around for me to finish. From his bedroom he asked, “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I told you I was going to cook for you today.”

“You’re a pain in the neck,” said John. “Get out of here.”

“After I cook.”

He closed the bedroom door. I heard the key turn in the lock. He was stubborn, but his stubbornness was nothing compared to mine.

I ran the cold water and scrubbed the bathtub clean. And all of this out of the kindness of my heart.

I went to the kitchen and started to cook. It had been ages since I had a proper kitchen at my disposal. Today John’s kitchen belonged to me. There hadn’t been a woman in here for years. Everything was clean — I’d polished it myself — but it had been a long time since the kitchen’s contents had been caringly handled and used. That was something I had in common with the kitchen. I wanted to warm it up again and bring it back to life with my hands.

I rinsed a chicken in cold water, took out the needle I’d brought, and sewed the body cavity shut. At the neck, I carefully separated the skin from the meat and blew into the gap. Anyplace air came whistling through, I stitched the hole closed. I beat eggs and cream with a little salt and pepper and poured that mixture between the skin and meat. Then I tied off the skin at neck of the chicken, wrapped the whole thing in a cloth, and placed it in boiling salt water.

This chicken was called tutyrgan tavyk, a dish that Kalganow’s country relatives used to make. It had occurred to me today — at just the right moment. Not by accident, but because Dieter and I were discussing it. Or to be more precise, because Dieter reminded me of the recipe. He knew both what it was called and how to make it. The things he mentioned brought it to mind, and I realized I knew what he was talking about but had simply forgotten about the dish.

The chicken took an hour and a half and was a genuine traditional Tartar dish. I set the table in the living room. I already knew where everything was. I got out starched napkins and dusty glasses that I washed and polished by hand while the bird cooked. I turned off the stove and freshened up in the bathroom. My face was slightly flushed from cooking. I cooled it with water and applied fresh makeup. Then I knocked on the door to John’s bedroom.

“Go away,” said John.

I put everything back where I’d found it and left. Indeed, things didn’t always work out on the first try.