Photo Essay: Local Flavor- "Non" in Uzbekistan

A few years ago my wife and I had the opportunity to travel to Uzbekistan and visit the ancient cities of Transoxania- Khiva, Samarqand, and Bukhara.

We had arrived late at night in Bukhara without any definite plans for a place to stay. Bukhara was, like most cities in Uzbekistan, not particularly well lit and we ended up going to the only hotel we could find (by virtue of the fact that it had lights on) the "Grand Nodirbek." Though it's name was rather lofty, in fact it turned out to be a pleasant courtyard house with about a dozen guest rooms.

Still feeling the effects of jetlag, I woke up at about three in the morning and found myself in the lobby with nothing to do. Fahreddin, the young student who worked the desk at night, asked me if I would like to go get some bread with him. I agreed to do so, and we walked out into the pre-dawn darkness of Bukhara's winding streets.

After about 10 minutes we arrived at a small bakery, which announced itself not with a sign, but with a mouth watering aroma of freshly baking non. If you wish to find it, you'll have to simply follow the smell, because Bukhara is an incredible warren of twisting alleys, particularly in the dark. Still, the smell, strong and inviting, should see you to, if not this particular bakery, one much like it. Every quarter of every Uzbek city outside Tashkent has one.

Non is a leavened flatbread that resembles, to some degree, indian naan, but is far larger, fluffier, and occasionally more elaborate.

Non is the key element of a Central Asian meal. Uzbekistan is a patchwork country that comprises many different groups with many different languages; Turkic speaking Uzbeks and Karakalpaks, Persian speaking Tajiks, even a few remaining Jews and some transplanted Koreans (victims of Stalin's ethnic politics). They all have different traditions, but they all eat non, and reverence it in the same way.

Non is still made as it was when it was eaten by Alexander the Great's Macedonians as they traversed the region almost 3,000 years ago. The dough is rolled into a disc, then occasionally decorated with sesame or other seeds, or simply baked unadorned.

The man baking (and it is always a man) takes the disc and slaps it up onto the inside of a beehive shaped oven, where it sticks until it is done. I'm not exactly sure how they know it is done, but when they pull it out, it is amongst the most delicious things you could ever eat.

The bakery operates in a small room of about 60 square feet. At one end of the room is the conical oven, similar to the tandoor but not made of clay. At the other end of the room the bakers assistants prepare the dough and lay out the discs.

Though unexpected, we were greeted with warmth, both literal and social. Central Asia is cold during November, but the interior of the bakery was toasty. Fahreddin has been getting non here since he was a boy, and, as far as Uzbeks think, a stranger is simply a friend you haven't met yet. Despite the cramped quarters, the baker and his crew were happy to invite us in and show us their craft, of which they are justifiably proud. Curiosity about non, particularly from thos of us unfortunate enough not to have it in our own countries, is to be expected. Entire afternoons can be passed in conversation and arguments about the philosophy of non, and the relative strengths and weaknesses of each regions special way of making it. All non is good but, unsurprisingly, non from your home town is always the best.

There is other bread in Uzbekistan other than non The Russians make a sort of bread called "Chleb," which is as unappetizing as it sounds- gray, heavy, and rather Soviet. I have seen it for sale in Uzbekistan, but I have never actually seen anyone buy or eat it. Even the ethnic Russians, outside of Tashkent at least, eat non. As they should.

Non is not just bread. It is a sacred ritual object. You must treat non with respect; it is torn, never cut, and it is always placed on the table face up. It must not be allowed to fall onto the ground. It is placed under the heads of newborn babies so that they may have long life. When a son went off to do his service with the Red Army, he would take a bite out of a piece of non, and then his mother would nail it to the doorpost to await his return. One simply does not travel without non. It provides luck, sustenance, and comfort to the homesick.

Non is more than just bread. Chleb is bread.

Non is life.