There seems to be a degree of superstitious mysticism in Russian culture, and it can be seen especially in the Orthodox Church. There is a tremendous amount of ritual that must be followed before, during, and after being inside. At the threshold, believers will cross themselves (the Orthodox cross-motion is the reverse of the Cathol/Protestant- top, bottom, right, left). Inside, men must remove hats and women must put on headscarves. Women must also be dressed in conservative attire, that is, skirts or loose-fitting trousers. Believers scurry about the dark rooms perfumed with incense, busily crossing themselves and bowing to the gilded portraits of saints.
The whole atmosphere inside the churches plays to the senses: elaborate icons, golden alters and paintings on every bit of wall and ceiling overwhelm the eyes. The strong smell of incense permeates everything, and the warm stuffiness of the sanctuaries contrast sharply with the cold outside. The room is either full of chanting or, more commonly, so quiet that you have to make an effort to stifle the sound of your footfall. This all creates an environment that emphasizes the mysterious and the spiritual, which goes a long way in explaining the raw and emotional form of worship in the church. It is not uncommon to see women weeping before the image of a saint, and most every one of the faithful kisses the saints’ pictures on the walls. In some churches there are the remains of long-dead saints encased in tremendous sarcophagi with transparent glass over the top. I have seen people stand in line to bend over and kiss the glass, which is always smudged with the collective lip-gunk of the faithful.
I should mention that the bodies of the saints are covered in linens, so it’s not like you can see a decomposing face staring back up at you. But, I wonder if people would be so keen on kissing the glass if that were so?
The Russian Orthodox Church is so fundamentally different than the Protestant tradition that I am more familiar with. As far as I can tell, Russian Orthodox services lack sermons in favor of much chanting, singing, incense swirling, and prostration before the Lord (who stares down with a stern face from the ceiling). This worship is much more transcendent and spiritual than the typical Protestant variety, and without much organization or structure. People come in and out, praying to whichever saint they choose and all bowing and crossing whenever they feel like it. I haven’t seen the blank back-and-forth between priest and congregation of the Episcopal tradition, nor have I seen anyone taking communion in any form, or really any interaction between the priests and the people. That’s not to say that it’s not there, but not in a form familiar to me.
Really, it reminds me much more of the type of worship I’ve seen in mosques or synagogues. A great deal of chanting and recitation of prayer in Russian, Hebrew, or Arabic, respectively, with lots of ritualistic bowing, crossing, prostrating, and rocking. From what I can tell, the Orthodox priest plays a similar role to the imam. He leads prayer during a service, and is a spiritual adviser after hours. Unlike Islam, there is a lot more pomp and show in the Orthodox Church and with plenty of pictures of Jesus, God and the saints (strictly forbidden in Islam). So, in that sense, an Orthodox church is also similar to the synagogues that I’ve seen. There is a lot of decoration and they both have big elaborate versions of their holy books, to point out a few things. Well, naturally they will all be a bit similar since they come from the Abrahamic tradition.
There is a lot of formality in church, and being unfamiliar with it can get you in trouble. I was in the Cathedral of Christ the Savior and some бабушка ran up from behind, slapped my arm and issued some reprimand for an unknown violation. In another church, I mistakenly put my hat back on before being all the way outside. I was approached by a youngish man who gestured to me to take it off. It’s difficult to know how to behave inside exactly, but I just try my best to be unassuming and inoffensive.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Superstitions Are Silly
“Superstitions are for the weak of heart, they make you think you’re finished without even having to start…circumstances are the closest thing to luck, the trick is to keep on moving. Whatever you do, don’t get stuck.” So says Mr. Ian Hanawalt.
Russians have a lot of superstitions, and like all superstitions they don’t make one bit of sense. I enjoy superstition though, as long as it doesn’t impede progress or anything, because it is a relic of a primitive mindset where arbitrary actions are attached significance. Superstitious behavior satisfies an obsessive-compulsive tendency in human beings in a relatively harmless way. I like to play along!
I’ll relate a few uniquely Russian superstitions that I have encountered. When pouring a drink, always set the glass down on a table. When pouring a round of drinks, always have one person pour for everyone. When drinking, the first shot must be followed by a third shot (which, of course, necessitates a second shot). When drinking, always wait for a toast before you take your shot. When drinking, always finish your shot in one gulp. Of course, all of these superstitions have been related to us out of context- we certainly wouldn’t be consuming alcohol.
When describing a physical deformity, never show it on yourself. I was talking to Katya and Alisa about a guy I saw with no hands, and when I crinkled up my fingers to show them they both reacted immediately! The superstition holds that showing it on yourself will bring it upon you (but apparently it doesn’t apply in some circumstances like if a girl says “her breasts were way out to here!”).
When sitting between two people of the same namesake, one is granted a wish. This one is good for us because we have three Max’s in our group.
If someone itches their nose, you’re supposed to punch them.
I’m always being called out because I whistle: “whistling money away.”
When people are getting married the guests call out some word that translates into “bitter,” and the groom will kiss his bride while everyone counts. However high they count is supposed to be the number of years they’ll be married.
There are plenty of opportunities to make wishes. On Red Square there are several places to make a wish, but usually you have to throw money or something first.
In the metro station Плошадь Революции, there are bronze statues. All of the extremities of the statue are rub-polished because rubbing them is good luck, of course!
Russians have a lot of superstitions, and like all superstitions they don’t make one bit of sense. I enjoy superstition though, as long as it doesn’t impede progress or anything, because it is a relic of a primitive mindset where arbitrary actions are attached significance. Superstitious behavior satisfies an obsessive-compulsive tendency in human beings in a relatively harmless way. I like to play along!
I’ll relate a few uniquely Russian superstitions that I have encountered. When pouring a drink, always set the glass down on a table. When pouring a round of drinks, always have one person pour for everyone. When drinking, the first shot must be followed by a third shot (which, of course, necessitates a second shot). When drinking, always wait for a toast before you take your shot. When drinking, always finish your shot in one gulp. Of course, all of these superstitions have been related to us out of context- we certainly wouldn’t be consuming alcohol.
When describing a physical deformity, never show it on yourself. I was talking to Katya and Alisa about a guy I saw with no hands, and when I crinkled up my fingers to show them they both reacted immediately! The superstition holds that showing it on yourself will bring it upon you (but apparently it doesn’t apply in some circumstances like if a girl says “her breasts were way out to here!”).
When sitting between two people of the same namesake, one is granted a wish. This one is good for us because we have three Max’s in our group.
If someone itches their nose, you’re supposed to punch them.
I’m always being called out because I whistle: “whistling money away.”
When people are getting married the guests call out some word that translates into “bitter,” and the groom will kiss his bride while everyone counts. However high they count is supposed to be the number of years they’ll be married.
There are plenty of opportunities to make wishes. On Red Square there are several places to make a wish, but usually you have to throw money or something first.
In the metro station Плошадь Революции, there are bronze statues. All of the extremities of the statue are rub-polished because rubbing them is good luck, of course!
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Борис Пастернак
After I’d visited Pasternak’s house I decided I didn’t want to see his grave. His home is kept in such a way that you would think that it is still inhabited. There’s a cat sleeping on the bed, and for being a museum, nothing is roped off or behind glass. His worn paperbacks are still on the shelf and his plain oak desk sits unvarnished and empty.
Nadya and I had spent a while trudging through the cemetery, getting snow in our boots, but we couldn’t find the author. Russian graveyards are a bit of a hodgepodge with a different motif for each headstone. Some are wooden orthodox crosses- a bit more ornate than the protestant variety, with an extra half-X at the bottom, but without the macabre crucified messiah of the Catholics. Others are of black and red granite like Lenin’s mausoleum. Most of the headstones had pictures of the deceased etched into them: one particularly morbid grave was topped by a black obelisk that had on one side a dramatic scene of a beautiful naked girl reaching up towards the sun, and on the other side, a life-size etching of the same girl. Seemed like a strange way to decorate a grave.
We eventually abandoned our search for Pasternak and resolved to go on to his home. Down a residential street with new construction on one side is the dacha where he wrote Dr. Zhivago and where he died. There are neighbors next door and they have barking dogs. Besides a small sign on the gate and another on the side of the house, there is no indication that anything out of the ordinary happened here. Nothing would suggest that one of the greatest novels ever written was penned in one of the upstairs rooms of the little barnyard-red house. Nadya and I were the only people in sight; there were no tourists and no food or Pasternak memorabilia stands outside.
It costs 50 rubles ($1.75) to come inside; an entrance fee is almost just a formality. A friendly Russian woman led us around the house, holding up photographs of the author and showing us exactly where they were taken. Everything is in the same place as in the picture, just as it would have been.
Whenever I’ve visited museums or old estates in the United States or Europe the tour guides claim that “this is just how it would have been.” Somehow though, it always feels a bit contrived. This is not how it would have been. The Vanderbilts wouldn’t have let hundreds of tourists traipse through the Breakers or Biltmore and gawk. There wouldn’t have been yellow grip-tape on the stairs, cameras in the corners of the ceiling, velvet ropes blocking off rooms, or EXIT signs above the doors.
Pasternak has pictures that his father sketched hanging up on the walls in the dining room. Colorful etchings of chubby women in the nude and a painting of a mother breast-feeding. A magnificent grand piano is crammed into his wife’s tiny room. When Boris was dying they moved it there.
Looking out of the upstairs window next to his desk, Pasternak invented Zhivago and Lara. Has it ever happened to you that you feel a strong, almost romantic attraction to a fictional character? How could Zhivago have let Lara go? I don’t understand Boris Leonidovich why you had to make him so miserable. The characters become real people over whose mistakes you can’t help but feel distraught.
Yury Zhivago is loosely based on Pasternak himself, perhaps not in deed but in thought and mindset. That is only natural for an author to make his protagonist in the image of himself. For me, this has the effect of blurring the line between fictional character and the man who created him so that I couldn’t help but picture Yury and Lara going about the rooms. Pasternak’s desk was where Yury wrote his poems and just outside the front door is where Strelnikov shot himself. Perhaps this was Lara’s room and off in the distance is where Yury caught his last glimpse of her.
In the room where Pasternak died, a plaster death mask stares into the dining room. In the corner is a pencil drawing of the corpse. On the opposite wall there is a centerfold from a French magazine with a picture of the author’s funeral procession. It all felt out of place in the house.
We sat at his table on his wicker chairs while our guide flipped through a book to show us a picture of his grave. The panoramic windows let in sun, and cast the room in a cheery springtime light. A porcelain samovar and matching saucers looked ready to be made use of. She told us that the headstone had originally been pure white but some zealous literary enthusiasts wanted to pay special tribute so they burnt flowers on top of it leaving it blackened. She pointed it out in the picture.
We left the house and stepped out into the yard, full of towering pines and the occasional bleached bark of a birch. Across the drive is a guesthouse, or maybe it’s a work shed. At the end is a tiny garage. Down a walkway cut in the snow there is an outhouse where I pissed in Pasternak’s toilet.
On the way back up the road, we walked past the graveyard again but I couldn’t spot the charred headstone.
I can’t help but feel some fraternity with the man, even though he’s been dead for fifty years and lived in a different time in a different country. I haven’t even read his work in its original language. Still, some ideas and emotions transcend time and place and even language so that more than half-a-century after Dr. Zhivago was published and almost a century since it took place, I can still be deeply impacted by a work and the man who created it.
Nadya and I had spent a while trudging through the cemetery, getting snow in our boots, but we couldn’t find the author. Russian graveyards are a bit of a hodgepodge with a different motif for each headstone. Some are wooden orthodox crosses- a bit more ornate than the protestant variety, with an extra half-X at the bottom, but without the macabre crucified messiah of the Catholics. Others are of black and red granite like Lenin’s mausoleum. Most of the headstones had pictures of the deceased etched into them: one particularly morbid grave was topped by a black obelisk that had on one side a dramatic scene of a beautiful naked girl reaching up towards the sun, and on the other side, a life-size etching of the same girl. Seemed like a strange way to decorate a grave.
We eventually abandoned our search for Pasternak and resolved to go on to his home. Down a residential street with new construction on one side is the dacha where he wrote Dr. Zhivago and where he died. There are neighbors next door and they have barking dogs. Besides a small sign on the gate and another on the side of the house, there is no indication that anything out of the ordinary happened here. Nothing would suggest that one of the greatest novels ever written was penned in one of the upstairs rooms of the little barnyard-red house. Nadya and I were the only people in sight; there were no tourists and no food or Pasternak memorabilia stands outside.
It costs 50 rubles ($1.75) to come inside; an entrance fee is almost just a formality. A friendly Russian woman led us around the house, holding up photographs of the author and showing us exactly where they were taken. Everything is in the same place as in the picture, just as it would have been.
Whenever I’ve visited museums or old estates in the United States or Europe the tour guides claim that “this is just how it would have been.” Somehow though, it always feels a bit contrived. This is not how it would have been. The Vanderbilts wouldn’t have let hundreds of tourists traipse through the Breakers or Biltmore and gawk. There wouldn’t have been yellow grip-tape on the stairs, cameras in the corners of the ceiling, velvet ropes blocking off rooms, or EXIT signs above the doors.
Pasternak has pictures that his father sketched hanging up on the walls in the dining room. Colorful etchings of chubby women in the nude and a painting of a mother breast-feeding. A magnificent grand piano is crammed into his wife’s tiny room. When Boris was dying they moved it there.
Looking out of the upstairs window next to his desk, Pasternak invented Zhivago and Lara. Has it ever happened to you that you feel a strong, almost romantic attraction to a fictional character? How could Zhivago have let Lara go? I don’t understand Boris Leonidovich why you had to make him so miserable. The characters become real people over whose mistakes you can’t help but feel distraught.
Yury Zhivago is loosely based on Pasternak himself, perhaps not in deed but in thought and mindset. That is only natural for an author to make his protagonist in the image of himself. For me, this has the effect of blurring the line between fictional character and the man who created him so that I couldn’t help but picture Yury and Lara going about the rooms. Pasternak’s desk was where Yury wrote his poems and just outside the front door is where Strelnikov shot himself. Perhaps this was Lara’s room and off in the distance is where Yury caught his last glimpse of her.
In the room where Pasternak died, a plaster death mask stares into the dining room. In the corner is a pencil drawing of the corpse. On the opposite wall there is a centerfold from a French magazine with a picture of the author’s funeral procession. It all felt out of place in the house.
We sat at his table on his wicker chairs while our guide flipped through a book to show us a picture of his grave. The panoramic windows let in sun, and cast the room in a cheery springtime light. A porcelain samovar and matching saucers looked ready to be made use of. She told us that the headstone had originally been pure white but some zealous literary enthusiasts wanted to pay special tribute so they burnt flowers on top of it leaving it blackened. She pointed it out in the picture.
We left the house and stepped out into the yard, full of towering pines and the occasional bleached bark of a birch. Across the drive is a guesthouse, or maybe it’s a work shed. At the end is a tiny garage. Down a walkway cut in the snow there is an outhouse where I pissed in Pasternak’s toilet.
On the way back up the road, we walked past the graveyard again but I couldn’t spot the charred headstone.
I can’t help but feel some fraternity with the man, even though he’s been dead for fifty years and lived in a different time in a different country. I haven’t even read his work in its original language. Still, some ideas and emotions transcend time and place and even language so that more than half-a-century after Dr. Zhivago was published and almost a century since it took place, I can still be deeply impacted by a work and the man who created it.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
I like Russians
I am constantly trying to define Russians, trying to pinpoint some overarching character trait and create a mold. The futility of this is beginning to dawn on me. I’ve never tried to define what Americans are, because how can you? There is no one thing that binds all 300 million of us. There are good Russians and there are bad Russians. There are friendly and outgoing Russians and there are obstinate Russians and there are pretty Russians and ugly Russians. Yes, I guess all I can really say is that Russia, like anywhere else, has a great diversity of personality.
That being said, Russians do have a unique culture and a way of doing things that is different from what I’m used to. I first noticed this when I went to New York with English and my Russian friend Vasily. We drove from Clemson to Washington D.C. to New York, and along the way I noticed a few things that I now know are characteristically Russian.
Firstly, Russians seem to have a special love of automobiles. Vasily loved to drive. He chose to drive to New York City when we could have easily flown for about the same price. To him it was a great American road trip; to me it was I-95 for 14 hours! All the same, Vasily was so impressed with the quality of the roads, and cruising around in his older-model Lincoln Towncar we were really riding in comfort. He was very particular about the car, which was at least 15 years old and had way over 100,000 miles on it. It struck me as kind of funny because he bought it when he got to the United States, and he is returning to Russia sometime this summer- so this was not a long-term investment. But, before we could take off in the morning we would turn the engine on, sit in the car, and wait for about five minutes for the engine to warm up: “this improves the longevity of the car.” Well, no reason to argue. We stopped a few times along the way to let the engine cool, though the gauges suggested that it was operating at a normal temperature.
Vasily really treated his car well. My Russian friends here are also very particular and very proud of their cars. My friend Max has an old Lada, a Russian made car, that has difficulty starting in cold weather and sometimes turns off at stoplights. But, he has put a lot of work into it, fixing it up and making it run well. The Russians are a bit car-crazy; they love Mustangs and American muscle cars. I have seen more luxury automobiles in Moscow than I have ever seen in my life: several Bentleys cruising around, countless Mercedes, Audis, BMWs, and we saw a Ferrari dealership the other day.
Secondly, Russians have a fluid concept of time. When we were in New York, I wanted to be active. If we were going to eat, then I wanted to be in and out so that we could maximize our time adventuring! Vasily liked to take it easy and thought I was funny in my rush. When I am on vacation, the last thing I want to do is rest. I can rest at home, so let’s go see everything while we’re here! Vasily didn’t mind taking his time with things. When English and I accidentally took the subway over to Brooklyn and then had to backtrack, I was frustrated at the hour that I lost. When Vasily decided to go to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, the hour-long line to get tickets didn’t faze him, neither did the tremendous opportunity cost of being out on the water all day.
Especially among our male Russian friends, schedules may as well be written in the sand with the tide coming in. I learned quickly to not base my schedule around them. When they say “we’ll be there at three to do ____,” that really means “we’ll be there around five, sit around a bit and talk, and then go do ____ at six thirty.” It’s not a bad trait, it’s just not the way I do it.
Thirdly, Russians take things in stride. When things didn’t go our way or schedules were interrupted, Vasily would not be worried in the least. Where are we going to stay tonight? Where are we going to park? What are we going to do? Eh, we’ll figure it out; that was Vasily’s attitude. It’s a nice way to be. I’ve found Russians to be calm in situations when I am angry or worried. I like to be proactive with things. I like to channel that nervous energy towards fixing problems and finding solutions! I enjoy the emotional rush of uncertainty. Also, when something doesn’t work out, it distresses me. I’m bothered when my plans go awry. It’d be accurate to say that Russians are fatalistic: things happen, and that’s the way the world works. Nope, things happen because we make them happen!!!
When we went to the Georgian restaurant and were ripped off (previous post), the Russians didn’t seem too bothered about the whole ordeal. It’s just money after all. I guess that’s true. In the grand scheme of life, I’m not going to miss $25. Still, that didn’t have to happen…
Anyways, you can probably disregard everything I just said because it’s likely to be completely untrue. Still, those are my impressions.
That being said, Russians do have a unique culture and a way of doing things that is different from what I’m used to. I first noticed this when I went to New York with English and my Russian friend Vasily. We drove from Clemson to Washington D.C. to New York, and along the way I noticed a few things that I now know are characteristically Russian.
Firstly, Russians seem to have a special love of automobiles. Vasily loved to drive. He chose to drive to New York City when we could have easily flown for about the same price. To him it was a great American road trip; to me it was I-95 for 14 hours! All the same, Vasily was so impressed with the quality of the roads, and cruising around in his older-model Lincoln Towncar we were really riding in comfort. He was very particular about the car, which was at least 15 years old and had way over 100,000 miles on it. It struck me as kind of funny because he bought it when he got to the United States, and he is returning to Russia sometime this summer- so this was not a long-term investment. But, before we could take off in the morning we would turn the engine on, sit in the car, and wait for about five minutes for the engine to warm up: “this improves the longevity of the car.” Well, no reason to argue. We stopped a few times along the way to let the engine cool, though the gauges suggested that it was operating at a normal temperature.
Vasily really treated his car well. My Russian friends here are also very particular and very proud of their cars. My friend Max has an old Lada, a Russian made car, that has difficulty starting in cold weather and sometimes turns off at stoplights. But, he has put a lot of work into it, fixing it up and making it run well. The Russians are a bit car-crazy; they love Mustangs and American muscle cars. I have seen more luxury automobiles in Moscow than I have ever seen in my life: several Bentleys cruising around, countless Mercedes, Audis, BMWs, and we saw a Ferrari dealership the other day.
Secondly, Russians have a fluid concept of time. When we were in New York, I wanted to be active. If we were going to eat, then I wanted to be in and out so that we could maximize our time adventuring! Vasily liked to take it easy and thought I was funny in my rush. When I am on vacation, the last thing I want to do is rest. I can rest at home, so let’s go see everything while we’re here! Vasily didn’t mind taking his time with things. When English and I accidentally took the subway over to Brooklyn and then had to backtrack, I was frustrated at the hour that I lost. When Vasily decided to go to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, the hour-long line to get tickets didn’t faze him, neither did the tremendous opportunity cost of being out on the water all day.
Especially among our male Russian friends, schedules may as well be written in the sand with the tide coming in. I learned quickly to not base my schedule around them. When they say “we’ll be there at three to do ____,” that really means “we’ll be there around five, sit around a bit and talk, and then go do ____ at six thirty.” It’s not a bad trait, it’s just not the way I do it.
Thirdly, Russians take things in stride. When things didn’t go our way or schedules were interrupted, Vasily would not be worried in the least. Where are we going to stay tonight? Where are we going to park? What are we going to do? Eh, we’ll figure it out; that was Vasily’s attitude. It’s a nice way to be. I’ve found Russians to be calm in situations when I am angry or worried. I like to be proactive with things. I like to channel that nervous energy towards fixing problems and finding solutions! I enjoy the emotional rush of uncertainty. Also, when something doesn’t work out, it distresses me. I’m bothered when my plans go awry. It’d be accurate to say that Russians are fatalistic: things happen, and that’s the way the world works. Nope, things happen because we make them happen!!!
When we went to the Georgian restaurant and were ripped off (previous post), the Russians didn’t seem too bothered about the whole ordeal. It’s just money after all. I guess that’s true. In the grand scheme of life, I’m not going to miss $25. Still, that didn’t have to happen…
Anyways, you can probably disregard everything I just said because it’s likely to be completely untrue. Still, those are my impressions.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Georgian Food
Georgian food is a delicate mixture of eastern spices and sensible European fare. It has the heartiness of Russian cuisine with plenty of root vegetables, cream, and fatty red meat; it balances the aforementioned with vibrant spices like those in Indian food. All of this makes for delicious food.
I first tried Georgian food at a place called “Genatsvale,” which supposedly means “comrade” in the Georgian tongue. The place has a warm wooden interior with low ceilings and low lighting. It all makes for a cozy dining experience.
Our first time eating there was excellent: the food was tasty, the wait-staff was prompt and friendly, and our dinner didn’t cost very much! Basically, it fit all of my criteria for a good eatery.
That our second visit was so unbelievably terrible was shocking.
On our second visit we came with about eight people. I talked the place up the whole way there and assured everyone that they would love it, even though Russians don’t like spicy food…
Our waiter, our smug waiter, came to the table and recommended that we take an appetizer sampler since most of us had never tried Georgian food before. He was pretty insistent, so we said that that sounded good. He walked off and returned a few minutes later, by which time we had decided against a sampler platter, and would prefer to just order our own entrees and share if we so desired. The waiter was taken-aback, he put on his most condescending smirk and said that it was too late, that he had already put the order in! Oh, and by the way, it cost 6,000 rubles!!!!!!! That’s $200, between 8 people, or $25 dollars each. Not only that, it was a sampler of the “cold” appetizers.
We should have just walked out, or insisted that he cancel the order, but we were polite instead.
While we were waiting on the food to come, we began to assure ourselves that surely there had been some kind of mistake- maybe this would actually be a full meal, or maybe it wasn’t really 6,000 rubles. Nope.
They brought us out a basket of bread, some cucumber and tomato slices, a kind of Georgian salsa, some vegetable pâté’, stuffed peppers, grape leaves, and a cold-cream and chicken soup. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t filling and it certainly was not something I would pay $25 dollars for.
I was so angry at our petulant, haughty, cheating, lying waiter that when he brought our bill I asked him “почему?” which means why? “Почему что?” (why what?) He asked. You know damn well what I’m talking about you foul moron! Why would you recommend a 6,000 ruble plate of cold appetizers to a bunch of college kids?! What do we look like? And then we say we don’t want it before it’s brought out and he gives us a hard time about it. It was a bunch of cold appetizers that were probably already prepared, so it’s not like they had to throw it all out.
So, now I’m torn. I love Georgian food, but I’m fostering a fiery hatred for that waiter- oh, you should have seen the way he carried himself, a real arrogant jerk. Ergggh! Here it is a week and a half later, and I’m still mad about the whole thing. Should I return to the restaurant? Can I return and still be able to call myself a principled person? I don’t know.
I first tried Georgian food at a place called “Genatsvale,” which supposedly means “comrade” in the Georgian tongue. The place has a warm wooden interior with low ceilings and low lighting. It all makes for a cozy dining experience.
Our first time eating there was excellent: the food was tasty, the wait-staff was prompt and friendly, and our dinner didn’t cost very much! Basically, it fit all of my criteria for a good eatery.
That our second visit was so unbelievably terrible was shocking.
On our second visit we came with about eight people. I talked the place up the whole way there and assured everyone that they would love it, even though Russians don’t like spicy food…
Our waiter, our smug waiter, came to the table and recommended that we take an appetizer sampler since most of us had never tried Georgian food before. He was pretty insistent, so we said that that sounded good. He walked off and returned a few minutes later, by which time we had decided against a sampler platter, and would prefer to just order our own entrees and share if we so desired. The waiter was taken-aback, he put on his most condescending smirk and said that it was too late, that he had already put the order in! Oh, and by the way, it cost 6,000 rubles!!!!!!! That’s $200, between 8 people, or $25 dollars each. Not only that, it was a sampler of the “cold” appetizers.
We should have just walked out, or insisted that he cancel the order, but we were polite instead.
While we were waiting on the food to come, we began to assure ourselves that surely there had been some kind of mistake- maybe this would actually be a full meal, or maybe it wasn’t really 6,000 rubles. Nope.
They brought us out a basket of bread, some cucumber and tomato slices, a kind of Georgian salsa, some vegetable pâté’, stuffed peppers, grape leaves, and a cold-cream and chicken soup. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t filling and it certainly was not something I would pay $25 dollars for.
I was so angry at our petulant, haughty, cheating, lying waiter that when he brought our bill I asked him “почему?” which means why? “Почему что?” (why what?) He asked. You know damn well what I’m talking about you foul moron! Why would you recommend a 6,000 ruble plate of cold appetizers to a bunch of college kids?! What do we look like? And then we say we don’t want it before it’s brought out and he gives us a hard time about it. It was a bunch of cold appetizers that were probably already prepared, so it’s not like they had to throw it all out.
So, now I’m torn. I love Georgian food, but I’m fostering a fiery hatred for that waiter- oh, you should have seen the way he carried himself, a real arrogant jerk. Ergggh! Here it is a week and a half later, and I’m still mad about the whole thing. Should I return to the restaurant? Can I return and still be able to call myself a principled person? I don’t know.
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