We miss the Mongolian border crossing and have to dip into our sketchiest dried provision.

Before he got sick of us, our host treated us to horse meat, vodka, and a place to sleep.

A roadside honey salesman, an egg pirozhki at a shabby interstate stop-off—ah, the joys of Eastern European road-tripping.

I'm told that there is a large Indian community in Edison, NJ. The last reference to the Indian restaurants in Edison is Moghul from 1/2001. Are there any good ones, new ones, or other? Thanks.

I’ve been psyching myself up to try it; now it’s time. Kumis, here I come.

It’s fun to party in a yurt, but it’ll cost you.

At first, the hotel restaurant looked so elegant, with its chandeliers and Casio keyboard.

In a run-down restaurant with fake bark on the walls, we discover damn good borscht.

There are Sbarros here, but we opt for pork belly from a corner store and a pancake shop.

Like when crossing the Russian border. Our stomachs are ready to mutiny.

Going vegetarian in Poland makes us appreciate globalization.

Roadside assistance in the form of cured meat: pure serendipitous bliss.

A case of mistaken food identity in Belgium, with happy results.

A soul- and stomach-saddening meal, but a new radiator comes first.

Shockingly, Mongolia’s capital delivers some of the best Korean food we’ve ever had.