Russia Week (Bonus!): Cultural Differences

During training in Artyom I became friends with another volunteer, Mike, who had actually already served for a year in the Seychelles (where he would eat freshly caught fish grilled on the beach for dinner) before the Peace Corps closed that office, and he transferred over to the RFE. Several times I encountered his host family in Artyom as well, though all of my memories of them are now gone.

Except one. At some point Mike's host Mom asked whether I liked (eating) chicken hearts. I explained that I had no interest — that I'm sure they were fine, but most (northern, white, though I didn't go into that level of detail) Americans didn't really grow up eating any organs, really. Liver, maybe, and maybe kidney, but no hearts or brains, and not really tongue or tripe even. In any event, generalities aside, I didn't eat any of that stuff, and had no interest.

They were deeply amused. "But they're good," she said! "I'm sure they are," I said, "but ... you know, customs being what they are, it's not really something I have much interest in ...".

A week or two later they invited me to dinner, and included in the meal was a dish full of little acorn-sized piece of protein. "What's this?" I asked, of course knowing the truth. "Don't worry about it — just try it, you'll like it!"

Mmmmmm

Sighing inside, I had 2 or 3 of them, and they were pretty much what I expected. A little chewier than what I normally eat, and perhaps with a slightly stronger taste. Although honestly, maybe I imagined that? It's impossible, in that situation, not to focus on the taste and texture in a way you don't normally, so it's hard to know. 

In any event, I managed to get them down and offered a weak smile, and, when the host asked what I thought, said, "not bad, not bad!"

"They're chicken hearts!" she roared, deeply pleased with herself at tricking me. "Wow," I said, "who knew?"

I managed to avoid eating any more, at that time or any other (though I did eat cow brains once, 14 years later, in Morocco). But ... let me tell you, Peace Corps volunteers are forced to suffer, my friend. Oh yes. 

(My father, a far better cultural ambassador than I, would have devoured them with relish (especially if there was relish available), and would have expressed genuine rather than forced enthusiasm, regardless of what he really thought. My father was a better person.)