Khinkali addiction is as real as you and I. I can count the nights spent tossing and turning in my bed in Tbilisi when I had forgotten to get a plate and the restaurant had closed. That deep fear that a soupy dumpling was lying somewhere alone, weeping at the fact it couldn't feed you. That fear keeps me awake at night.

Stumbling across this devilishly cool little bar/restaurant in a side-street of Odesa, happened to coincide with a deep need for Borsht. Asking a slightly confused waitress if they served the beetroot soup, she quickly announced they had the best in town, and buoyed by her confidence, I took my seat in the small outdoor area. ​

Woken up in garbled sweats, wondering if today is the day that i'll find a salvational bowl of Pho, more often than not disappointed by a hundred promises and only a handful of deliveries. Christina at Den Bar had overheard me talking about my love for Pho and Ramen, and interrupted to excitedly detail the existence of a hidden pho bar on the outskirts of Odesa, in an area surely no travellers trod. In a small hallway of a junk-market a 20 minute drive from the pretty downtown, I took it upon myself to hunt it out.

After a slightly embarassing episode at the hospital and a long walk through the glorious Lychakiv Cemetery, I had conjured a hell of a hunger.

Chaikhana Samarkanda was nearby, had great reviews and offered a glimpse into Uzbek cuisine of which I was ignorant.