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In 2007, in a dizzying feat of logic-defying inanity, I joined two mechanically retarded comrades — bearded Flash designer Mims Wright and graphic designer Andrew Coslow — in piloting a rust-choked, exhaust-spewing, two-door 1994 Subaru Justy more than 8,000 miles, from London to Ulaanbaatar, where men eat heroic amounts of mutton and get blotto on fermented horse milk. Its taste is much like, I imagine, fluid sucked from a decomposing tit.

But our asinine trek’s real culinary treasures were found in the Russian countryside. As our rumbling auto slunk across the cracked-road land, bribing cops with our magical twenty-dollar bills, we consumed mountains of dubious meat, fried doughy blobs and smoked fish products, not letting gastrointestinal distress dampen our dining adventures.

Not much, at least. Would it kill Russia’s goddamned gas stations to offer a single square of toilet paper?

After departing Riga, Latvia, and spending nine hours at the Russian border, where blonde womenfolk mocked our smiling passport pics, we were hungry for friendly human contact. And grub.

Luckily, on the shoulder of the two-lane highway (well, shattered asphalt held together with tape and Elmer’s glue), we noticed industrious salesmen selling buckets of blueberries and eels smoked to the color of cheap brown whiskey.

We bought a bucket of pea-size blueberries from two women with an affinity for athletics leisurewear. The woman on the left thought we were hot to trot, but the idea of splitting one woman between three men wasn’t as appealing as the blueberries.

Q: What happens when you eat five pounds of blueberries?

A: You poop blue.

The sweet mamas were also selling smoked eel. “Why do you need to buy a smoked eel?” I asked Mims. “Because how often do you get to buy a smoked eel on the side of the road in Russia,” he replied, buying a meaty one.

Moments after he chomped off some flesh, the animal’s pungent scent overpowered the car. We put the eel in a plastic bag and hung it outside a window, whereupon the rushing wind sent it hurtling against the road at 60 mph. We still stopped and picked it up; the gravel added a unique crunch.

It was dark. We were several hours south of Moscow. Lightning storms crackled through the sky. And our hunger was turning us into sniveling ninnies. But like an oasis in a desert, we spied this ramshackle settlement, which we like to call Shaslik Town: About 10 neon-lit restaurants are lined up in a row, with smoking kebabs sizzling over wooden fires.

I’m staring at dogs clambering across a dirt pile, wondering if they’re the secret kebab ingredient.

(Photo by Mims H. Wright)

Probably the best bowl of soulful, babushka-made borscht I’ve ever eaten.

Our chef. She was not pleased to have her picture taken. We told her she was beautiful, though, and she softened up like a pat of room-temperature butter.

These men were dining inside our chosen dinner hut. I’m particularly fond of the giant golden watch on the wall.

As we’re continuing our southern trek past miles and miles of sunflower fields, we come across a clearing. An elderly man with a flavor-savor mustache and an Adidas hat is standing in front of a shelf display containing bottles of various shapes and sizes. They’re filled with thick substances ranging in color from opaque to dark brown.

“Buzzzzzz! Buzzzzzz!” the man says. Honey. He offers us a taste. It’s supreme sweetness.

We buy a big ol’ jar for about $5 U.S.

“What are we going to do with all that honey?” Mims asked.

“Eat it, of course,” I answered.

We didn’t. It ended up in a sticky puddle on the floor of our poor car.

I’d gladly have gone down on a Starbucks barista if it meant drinking a serious cup of java. Russia’s coffee is as weak as my willpower at an open bar. But when my caffeine addiction calls, I answer it.

In the early a.m., in another dusty shantytown filled with tire-repair garages, this lonesome blue-aproned lady served steaming cups of Nescafe. Lemme tell you: It was pure ambrosia. I had seconds.

One Russian treat I could never devour enough of were pirozkhas. These deep-fried packets of dough are packed with everything from mystery meat and onions to minced eggs. Inside this woman’s magical mystery box awaited dozens of steaming, egg-crammed pirozkhas—each one about 10 rubles. That’s about 32 cents.

A close-up of the pirozkha that gave my hunger an old-fashioned whuppin’.

Somewhere in northern Russia near Siberia, we made a pit stop in a regrettable town with a name lousy with unpronounceable consonants. In an alleyway, two ladies vigorously fondled bloody meat sold out of a trunk.

Probably not certified USDA fresh.

Near the mobile meat market, we found another vendor selling hefty cuts of organ meats swarming with flies. Despite the low, low prices, we were not in the mood to fry up hearts for breakfast.

Or pig snouts.

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