After riding on a bus for 12 hours with locals who don’t eat, we finally have some mutton with gravy.

Yet another food I don’t recognize, and decide to try.

My friend had warned me not to drink kvass. I didn’t mean to, I swear!

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.

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.