Sprichwortforschung (proverb research)

Mongolia

I've probably become a bit cocky. I've spent days watching my two Swiss companions refuse pretty much anything local and live on canned food they brought or boiled spaghetti with mashed tomatoes (seems to be the only thing they can think of to make for foreigners who don't want meat - it really doesn't look tasty). For her it's because she's vegetarian, he worries about indigestion because his stomach is sensitive, they both worry about cleanliness of food. Unfortunately for both of them Mongolia is not really a country for vegetarians. Every time our driver has to explain to shop keepers our special needs there's a lot of confused stares and shaking of heads. I've been trying to eat whatever our driver had. And as a former selective eater I'm a bit proud of myself.
I hit my limits sooner than expected, however. When visiting the ger of one of Gorin's friends (he seems to know everybody, no matter how remote the area) we were offered the usual drink of liquor and morsels of home-made cheese. Now, I love cheese and was very curious. Marc and Nicole were cautious but it looked tasty, so when it was my turn I even took one of the bigger pieces. To show I was being keen. I regretted it when I took the first bite.
There was a literal taste explosion in my mouth. Acidic, soapy are adjectives floating around my recollection now. Maybe it's somewhat similar to French Roquefort, which I didn't like either. The thing is, when people are being polite offering your their food you cannot really spit it in front of their feet. So I munched and swallowed. I tried to smile. I think I said something along the lines of, "it's good". I hope I didn't completely embarrass myself. I couldn't really ask for a drink.
Then I was faced with another problem: the rest of the cheese nibble was still in my hand. Tossing it back in the basket was not an option. The tiny morsel suddenly seemed as big as a whole wheel of Dutch Gouda.
I kept it in my hand, toying with it absently while listening to the conversation. I bravely nibbled at it. There was another explosion. How on earth was I going to finish all of it? The question of how to get rid of the cheese seemed a matter of national importance. Finally, when it was time to go I slipped it into my pocket as discreetly as possible. I still wonder if any of our hosts puzzled later at why the strange foreigner kept cheese in his pocket.
This time both the Swiss and me were in agreement that the cheese was way too strong. I quietly dropped the morsel by the road at our next stop. Not a word was said about it. I guess this is what they mean by "bite of more than you can chew".