#17 Kanachi Khar

May 2023 | Yerevan, Armenia

*Italicized dialogue is held in Armenian.

“Do you need me to bring you anything from Armenia?” I asked tentatively over the phone, nervous of what highly specific items my father might request me to seek out for him.

“Zubni poroshók,” he said, and sent me a photo of a small white tub with the words written across the top in Cyrillic letters. 

“Tooth powder?” I’d never heard of it before. Must be some Russian thing.

“Yes.”

It sounded easy enough. I’d go to the apteka. 

“Oh, and – ”

And?? 

My mind flew into a panic, soaring past all the ridiculously difficult and tedious tasks my dad might ask me to do. All the medicines I’d never heard of. The creams, pills, the small things he’d grown up with in the Soviet Union that might or might not still be around. How would I track it down? How would I – 

“Kanachi khar.”

Oh. Kanachi khar. 

Kanach meant green in Armenian. Khar – mix. Usually when you went to a produce market in Armenia looking for greens – parsley, cilantro, dill, basil, the works – you asked for kanach. Or kanachi khar. A mix of greens.

Of course, dad wasn’t looking for me to bring him fresh organic greens straight from Armenia. No, he wanted them dry and crushed. He had a salt shaker full of the mix back home, and used it to spice up his meals.

I’d gotten him kanachi khar before. No problem. Although the last time I’d gotten them, he had thrown a fit because I’d brought them dried, but not crushed.

“How am I supposed to use this?” he’d said. “They’re supposed to be crushed.” 

“Dad, they don’t sell it that way.” 

Once he’d run the dried greens through the food processor and deposited the particles into the shaker, however, he’d calmed down. And begrudgingly said thank you.

By now he probably knew the drill. 

“I’ll get it for you,” I said, and thought about my new task.

Last time I bought the greens, I’d procured them from the big supermarket with the gold detailed facade on Mashtots, across from the Blue Mosque. Once a large traditional, bazaar-style food market, it had recently been converted into a Yerevan City – a popular national grocery store chain. There were some locals, though, that still called the building by its old name: Pak Shuka.

Only the front portion of the supermarket still sold things bazaar-style like nuts and dried fruit, various spices, and dried greens.

So I walked to Yerevan City, preparing the sentences I’d have to recite in Armenian to the old women manning the front, preserving vestiges of another time.

“Hello, I am looking for kanachi khar,” I said with a smile to a small, old woman sitting by the fruit.

“Which kanach?” she said roughly. “We have chamomile, mint, basil, and others.”

I hadn’t been prepared for the follow-up.

“Well, a khar.” A mix.

“There is no khar, only arandzin.” Arandzin, or separate. 

“But,” I faltered. She looked irritated. “Last time I was here, they sold mixes.”

Slowly, the woman blinked one eye, then the other. 

“Aziz jan,” she started. Aziz was a local term of endearment. But there was no trace of endearment in her voice, only condescension. It was practically dripping with it. It ruined the word. “We only sell them arandzin.”

“Right, thank you,” I said and hastened my way out of the store. 

So much for easy.

Where could I go if not Yerevan City? I didn’t want to waste time trying various grocery stores, and all the small markets were outside the city center. I wanted to make sure this was only going to be one trip, so I needed to choose a place I was absolutely certain would have the goods. 

“Gumi Shuka,” I said aloud as I walked briskly back to my apartment. 

The final boss. It was the last large-scale traditional market left in town. The place was huge, with two floors and a roof. It was a cool place. A section for dried fruit – all sorts, even watermelon. Piles and piles of lavash bread. Open bags of spices – turmeric, paprika, cinnamon, cardamon, and bags of dried flowers boiled to make teas. There was braided mountain sorrel, dried hanging from hooks, and giant hunks of salty Lori cheese. There were various meats, and pickled things. 

And that was just the downstairs section.

Before entering the building, I stopped by a nearby ATM. There were no credit cards in this place.

When I entered, I made a beeline for the dried greens. And found an elderly man with a white mustache. 

“Asa, jan.” Tell me.

“I’m looking for kanachi khar.” He had a kind face. 

There was a pile of pre-bagged greens, ready to be bought. I picked one up, and wondered at how much less it would seem to be once my dad had crushed it in the food processor.

Better grab a second.

“I need a lot of it,” I told the man, who had already started taking the bags from my hand and placing them in a bigger plastic bag. “It’s for my father.”

“Your father likes greens?”

“He loves them. He is in America and – ”

“He’s in America? Then of course he wants greens! Good, fresh, natural Armenian greens.”

“Yes, he can’t get these there. Not this quality.”

“Well then,” the man said as he motioned for me to follow him behind the counter, where a giant tub of dried greens, unbagged, sat, “let’s fill up a bigger bag!”

We chatted for a few minutes about my father, about what I was doing in Armenia and why I wasn’t with my parents (every old local person wanted to know). I mentioned I was interested in the cardamon as well, and his eyes lit up. Somehow, at the end of it all, I had a bag filled with spices, dried greens, and floral tea mixes. “For your father,” he’d say as he tossed another item into the bag. I definitely didn’t need all of this. But I was spineless and didn’t know how to say no. Markets like these required a special kind of resolve in the face of vendors trying to sell you their entire kiosk of products. I had none.

My father, at first the perfect ice breaker, was now this man’s hook to sell me everything he owned. I said I should be leaving now, that it was enough. 

As he counted the total, I asked – to be nice – what his name was.

“Albert. And yours?”

“Roza.”

“Well, Roza, why don’t you take my number. Whenever you need greens, you can come to me. And if you have my contact, we can meet sometime.”

And there it was.

This was not the first old man to ask for my number. It had happened on that hike I’d done with a friend, with the man grilling khorovats by the side of the road. And the man selling Soviet cameras at Vernissage. There was the old man from Baku to whom a filmmaker had introduced me. Several cab drivers. And that man from Goris who had stopped me by the train tracks at Sasuntsi Davit as I was finishing a phone call. 

They would tell you their numbers and ask you to call them, right then and there, so they could save your number. Then they’d call, and call, and call. 

I hold firm that kindness is an asset, something that can only make your life and those around you better. But there are moments…when curtness really is the best course of action.

Annoyed, I took down his number. But when he asked that I call him, I told him I was in a rush and insisted that I’d do it later. And then I deleted it. 

Not every interaction could be wonderful, I suppose.

But I had done it. I had walked away with a giant bag stuffed with kanachi khar. And a bunch of other spices that I really didn't need. 

A week later, I returned to the United States. And as I unpacked my suitcase, I pulled out the bag. I brought it to my father, who was drinking tea in the kitchen.’’

“Roza, it’s supposed to be crushed.

“I told you, they don’t sell it that way!”

If you’d like to go back and read my past musings and meltdowns, hit this link.