Real memories for keeps

I've just edited a piece written by Vika in the aftermath of our cozy evening at Café du Théâtre right next to Helikon Opera on Bolshaya Nikitskaya last Thursday. The concept and the execution of the article were brilliant, its tone infectious - much like the director of the cafe itself. Vika said she will try to restore her original voice - I don't know why she feels the need to do so.

Anyway, here was my corrected version just in case it's the only time it ever sees print.

The inside seems even smaller than it looked from the outside just before you convinced yourself to come in. With your love for cavernous pre-Revolutionary interiors there's every danger this oh-so-cozy intimacy might bore you. Yet a quaint feeling of instantly belonging here envelops you the moment the smell of freshly baked bread arrayed next to the door hits you – even before you remove your coat. And then the enchantment begins.

"Oh Champs d'Elysée," squeaks the accordion and your soul echoes this famous melody from your memories of childhood. It can't be déjà vu? You've never been to Paris yet oddly your mind draws that picture-perfect snug-as-a-bug French café along Champs d'Elysée and yourself sitting comfortably in a wicker chair sipping café au lait. A waiter then pops out with a menu, interrupting your flight of fancy by rooting you in down-to-earth expectations of nourishment. The café's range is limited, you think to yourself. Then again, what else would a theatergoer ask for before going off to that play or dropping in after a show? Certainly not a heavy meal, what with all the endless fuss over dieting. Thus the light fare on offer may just be enough to put you in a festive mood or refresh your inner male late in the evening. If you're really hungry and have come for a full dinner, you'll find some things to choose from like meat or fish dishes plus some unbelievably good soup. They're not only a treat for the stomach but also a feast for the eyes. The plate looks fantastic and all of a sudden you start to feel exquisitely French, only it's not paté du fois gras or coq au vin that has mesmerized you but a huge chunk of salmon instead. You dare not ruin the illusion – your friends startle you before your hands even grasp a fork and knife. The prices are somewhat moderate and are worth the size of the dishes. For all these paeans the café's raison d'être lies not even in the cuisine.

Surely there is not a single foreigner in Moscow who has not been to or at least heard of Café Margarita in Patriarch Ponds. It has a certain renown among expatriates that matches the notoriety of Hungry Duck or Boar House. Café du Theatre belongs to the same genre as Margarita. The proprietors may not have wished to give explicit homage, but their live musical performances inescapably remind one of Margarita. The difference, however, which could allow Theatre to carve out its own niche, is that the guitarists and the pianist can and do sing to the accompaniment of the accordionist. Songs in Russian, Georgian, French, and Italian were sung during the evening as were French and Russian chansons, western songs popular in the USSR in the 1970-80s, Russian folk songs and anything else the diners requested. Good food, live music, and a chorus of multi-accented voices rose to the occasion. For those too shy to sing, tambourines, salt shakers and various percussion sets were provided to all the tables, allowing everyone to join in the performance in a very familial setting. The café interior, accented by crayon etchings of Parisian street scenes, is more European than Margarita's, which looks more like a Soviet-era book-crammed flat for the intelligentsia. All the same Café du Theatre is really a place by and for Bohemians – in the way Russians understand it at least – with Helikon Opera and Conservatory regulars stopping by to enjoy the dimly lit, vanilla-colored space served by extremely polite waiters and incredibly engaging host, Igor the Art Director.

As for service, the waiters are still a bit forgetful, seemingly carried away by the music and atmosphere. In some sense they reinforce the café's Bohemian concept of living in a cocoon in absent-minded wonder. While a reminder or two sometimes becomes necessary, it's certainly preferable and less annoying than Moscow's infamous hovering wait staff, probably because of the sincerity, innocence and docility accompanying the apologies. It makes you feel as if you are dining at a friend's home instead of being waited on in a downtown restaurant. How can you possibly get annoyed with your friend's family? This coziness makes you lose all sense of hurry: the tea lights continue to burn, the music plays on, the merry voices keep to the refrain, and your friends sit still by your side. All is well.

Truffaut titled one of his films Shoot the Piano Player. At Theatre, we would advise against it. That would mean going after the life of the party. Igor the Art Director is not only a good pianist with a good voice. This Jack Black look-alike can also pass for Vrubel's Demon and Carlson from a Russian cartoon. With dark long hair, magnetic eyes, youthful gait and an almost maniacal energy he appears and disappears in different parts of the café very unexpectedly. He might be Mozart's Figaro to some, the Tasmanian devil to others. He is all that and more. One moment he is ordering some treats for the musicians or welcoming a new guest, the next he is dancing, playing the piano and singing heartily to vigorous applause. With infectious aplomb and enthusiasm, he does everything to give his guests an unforgettable time while evidently having a good one himself.

If this has made you in the least bit curious, do go and check Café du Theatre out. With its 10 or so tables don't be surprised if you have to wait to be seated. Concerts are performed regularly but not nightly so calling in to ask the staff advance is advised: 290 01 47. Igor the Art Director will also helpful: 941 64 06.

The address is Bolshaya Nikitskaya, 19.

Post Scriptum: In the end Vika decided to run it as is with the editor of one of the magazines here. It's really her work, despite her demurrals. She was saying how my rewrite had put in too many French words. I guess that's the idea - but no more than what non-French speaking Anglophones normally use anyway.

Staline et la nostalgie

C'est formidable, la manière avec laquelle les Français peuvent transformer un article dit culturel en l'autre complètement politique avec un accent social: il n'y a que lire l'edito suivant par Jean-François Guelain entitulé C’était le bon temps! au Courrier de Russie sur l'année Chostakovitch et les sentiments indulgents vers Staline.

L’année 2006 coïncide avec le centenaire de la naissance du compositeur russe Dimitri Chostakovitch. C’est donc tout naturellement que 2006 a été décrétée « année Chostakovitch » en Russie.

Patriote, il composa sa septième symphonie en l’honneur de sa ville natale résistant à un blocus de 1000 jours par les troupes de la Wehrmacht. Pourtant, c’est pour une œuvre moins connue et sans contenu patriotique affiché, le Quintet avec piano, qu’il avait obtenu en 1940 le prix Staline. En 1948, la censure du ministre de la Culture, Jdanov s’abat sur lui comme sur son contemporain Prokofiev et tous deux sont accusés de « formalisme », une bien vilaine chose, dont on s’étonne pourtant qu’elle ait irrité quelqu’un comme Jdanov. Cinq ans plus tard Prokofiev meurt un 5 mars, le même jour que Iossif Vissarionovitch Djougachvili, le séminariste géorgien devenu le sanglant Staline. Pendant la période brejnévienne, pour évoquer l’époque postérieure à la mort de Staline, on disait souvent « après la mort de Prokofiev ». Aujourd’hui la société civile se divise surtout autour du décès du dictateur. Notez que Staline est mort en 1953, soit il y a exactement 53 ans et que les instituts de sondages ont profité de l’occasion pour interroger la population sur l’image qu’elle gardait du dictateur auquel on attribue au moins 11 millions de victimes. Pourtant, selon les études d’opinion réalisées ces derniers jours, l’image de Staline, après avoir été perçue négativement en Russie dans les années 90, est aujourd’hui considérée comme globalement positive. Plus inquiétant : même si les adorateurs du dictateur à moustache en croc se recrutent principalement parmi les générations les plus âgées, ils sont de plus en plus nombreux chez les jeunes. Parmi la population des 18-35 ans, 39% pensent qu’il a joué un rôle positif, alors que seulement 30% des répondants pensent le contraire. En général, il est porté au crédit de Staline d’avoir fait de l’Union soviétique une superpuissance « crainte et respectée ». Cela signifierait donc que la Russie d’aujourd’hui ne l’est pas et que la population vit dans cette nostalgie. Cela veut également dire que, à deux ans des prochaines échéances électorales, tout programme démagogique promettant le rétablissement de la puissance impériale a toutes les chances de trouver un écho favorable auprès d’une majorité d’électeurs. Dans ce contexte, les projets délirants de Boris Berezovski sont particulièrement dérisoires.

Turin goes crazy for Russia

For all its foibles I've always been partial to Russia and Russians even before coming here. It's not simply because I had been somewhat socialist in orientation and dreamt of coming to the Soviet Union to study. There was always something about the country, its culture and its people that appealed to me.

For that reason, I am glad to see this article by Juliet Macur appear in 22 February 2006 edition of The New York Times about the craze now sweeping the Winter Olympic Games now on its last stretch in Turin. Even though the Russian team sponsor Bosco di Ciliegi and its in-your-face marketing tactics smacks of New Russian capitalism I do fancy the paisley-patterned sportswear peddled by this upscale clothing company. (There was an uproar when gold-winning speedskater for the 500m race, Svetlana Zhurova (photo below), was forced by this influential sponsor to attend the post-game party at the Russia House even though she needed rest. She lost the race for 1,500m the next day.) I reproduce the article here in its entirety.

On Podiums and in Parties, Russia Is Red-Hot

Outside the Russia House, headquarters for the Russian delegation in Turin, a horde of people gathered at the entryway, looking frozen and distraught.

"Please, I am Russian," one woman in heavy mascara and skintight jeans pleaded to a security guard late Tuesday night.

But the guard, in his red Russian team jacket, did not budge. The red rope keeping the woman from the hottest party spot at the Turin Games did not fall away.

"Sorry, but everybody says they are Russian," the security guard said before looking the other way.

For decades, Russian and Soviet Union athletes represented a cold, intimidating delegation at the Olympics. But in Turin, there has been a turnabout.

Here, it is hip to be Russian.

The Russians' red-and-white uniforms and gear, with their distinctive paisley-like design that mimics a pattern on Russian coins, are big sellers, to Russians and non-Russians alike. The Russian spectators at the Olympic sites are wildly enthusiastic, with Russian flags waving and chants of "Russia! Russia!" echoing through the crowd, including Wednesday when the Russian hockey team upset the Canadians.

And the parties held at the place they call Russky Dom, for Russia House, are filled with Russian dignitaries, movie stars, directors and pop stars. The athletes come to party, too, including those who have won some of Russia's 16 medals in Turin. (That is sixth on the medals' list.)

"We have the best parties because we made Russia House look like our motherland," said Olga Yudkis, a spokeswoman for the Russian luxury clothing company Bosco di Ciliegi, which sponsors Russia House.

At those parties, which happen nightly, a Russian polka/rock band plays. Borscht is served from huge vats sitting on an outdoor fire. At several bars, vodka drinks are served, some with syrupy black currant juice, others with orange rinds that bartenders set afire before dropping them into a martini glass.

For years, the Russian and Soviet teams were considered the evil empire of the Olympics. Their athletes seemed mass-produced by the Soviet machine. They performed like robots. Their presence loomed.

Now they have turned into a fun-loving group that is a great host.

"The Soviet Union used to be a great, powerful country and I think that made people think we were all bad and intimidating," said Yekaterina Galkina, who is on the Russian curling team, which gave a demonstration at the Russia House. "But now we are kind and warm. Not scary, like people maybe thought before. Now you see we are fun and friendly."

It's just as the American figure skater Johnny Weir preached from the moment these Olympics began: no one is cooler than the Russians.

Weir, who finished fifth last week in the men's figure skating competition, showed up at the Russia House after midnight Tuesday, for his second consecutive night of partying with his favorite comrades.

This time, he wore a beaver-and-python jacket and True Religion jeans, blending in with the other men and women in fur and designer duds. In minutes, he had a leggy Russian woman in stilettos on each of his arms. The trio giggled as they skipped past the hors d'oeuvres.

"These are friends of the lawyer of the richest man in Moscow," Weir said in passing, as the women tossed their long hair. "These Russians know how to have a good time."

The women interrupt him: "C'mon, Johnny," one brunette said, in a heavy Russian accent. "We want to dance."

"Dve minuti!" he yelled out in Russian, telling them to wait two minutes before running off.

At the parties, the Russians celebrate their Olympic victories, particularly in figure skating, where they have won gold medals in three of the four disciplines so far, with the women's final to come Thursday night. After winning the gold medal in the men's event, Yevgeny Plushenko zipped straight to Russia House, where he stayed well into the night.

On Tuesday night, Tatyana Navka, part of the gold-medal-winning ice dancing team, toasted with fans and friends, clinking her glass and saying, "Na zdorovie!" (To your health!)

In the women's event, Irina Slutskaya was in second after Tuesday's short program, but many Russians think the judges will purposely avoid giving her the gold because they do not want a Russian sweep.

No matter if Slutskaya wins or not, the Russians still have been successful here, in the competition and in business.


Some of their Olympic team gear, designed by Bosco, is on the verge of selling out, even with high prices. Sweatshirts with the word Russia written in Cyrillic are 149 euros ($177). Sweatpants, with Russia spelled out in gigantic letters across the backside, are 229 euros ($273).

A crew from a Swiss television station came to Russia House this week and asked Yudkis, the Bosco spokeswoman, why the gear has been so ubiquitous.

"They said, 'Do you know there is Boscomania in Turin?' " she said. " 'Why is half of Turin wearing your clothes?' I said, 'I don't know, but the sales have picked up as each day has gone by.' "

Bosco's biggest seller is the Russian Olympic team's mascot, Cheburashka, a fuzzy white animal with huge round ears and saucer-sized eyes. The character of Cheburashka comes from a children's tale that follows the adventures of a strange animal from Africa, who accidentally got packed in a crate of oranges sent to Russia, then made great efforts to make new friends.

Athletes have tiny Cheburashkas attached to key chains hanging from their backpacks. Fans fling stuffed Cheburashkas onto the ice after the Russian figure skaters perform, making their presence known at nearly every Olympic event.

"In the past, Russians hardly had money for food or for their apartments, but now they have more money to travel and come to the Olympics," said Konstantin Zadvornov, president of the Russian curling federation. "Now we can cheer on our Russian sportsmen, which we could never do before."

And they can come to the Olympics and go to parties every night if they want to. If they are lucky enough, they can come to Russia House and feel at home.

They can skate on the ice rink atop one of the buildings. Or sip a cosmopolitan while sitting in a chaise lounge on one of the patios.

Or they can just mingle.

"Isn't it obvious why this is so much more fun than U.S.A. House?" Weir said, as one of those brunettes grabbed his hand.

I guess Weir stated not only what's true in Turin but what people are starting to think the world over.

French and Danish

What's the difference between the French and the Danish?

Or for that matter, between the United States and Iran?

Not much, as far as using food as targets of protest is concerned. In what is certain to be pounced on in the blogosphere, Iran has followed in the footsteps of the "Great Satan" -the US- in banning the name of a food item following controversy.

According to the Doha-based cable network Al-Jazeera, bakeries all over Tehran covered up labels for Danish pastries after the Iranian Commerce Ministry called for the name change in retaliation for inflammatory cartoons of Islam's revered prophet first published in a Danish newspaper.

From now on they are called the Rose of the Prophet Mohammad. Or "gul-e-muhammadi" in Farsi for linguistic purists among you. The report also says one popular bakery, Danish Pastries, concealed the shop name with a black banner that read "Oh Hussein", a reference to a martyred saint of Shia Islam. Iranians use black banners for mourning.

Iranians adore sweets of all kinds, often bringing candies and pastries with them when visiting friends as guests in dinners or parties. Despite the name, the flaky pastries with fruits or nuts tucked in its layers are all domestically produced. It would be too expensive to buy imports, even if they were available. (Denmark, to add to its woes, is smarting from a consumer boycott of its products from Havarti cheese to Lego in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and other Muslim countries.)

This pettiness recalls a similar protest by a prominent member of Iran's diametric ideological opposite, the United States. Walter Jones, the republican congressman from North Carolina, forced Capitol Hill cafeterias to scuttle the French from fries, preferring them to be called freedom fries in protest of France's opposition to the US-led invasion of Iraq. Calling them chips would've simplified matters.

(As a footnote, the Guardian reports that Jones both regrets having made the suggestion as well as supporting the invasion.)

What is ironic is that Danes don't even call the pastries in the same way. In most Scandanavian countries doughy treat is called wienerbrød/wienerbröd. Despite the Viennese claim, it wasn't really invented in the Austrian capital. (The English ought to know what it means to be victims of a misnamed food item. It won't stop me from eating muffins, though.)

The Danish was first created in the 17th century by a French apprentice baker who, forgetting to add butter to the flour, tried to hide his mistake by folding lumps of it into the dough. Thus was created the mille feuilles (thousand leaves) - which Russians call napoleon, presumably after la Grande Armée brought it with them in the sweep from Austerlitz to Moscow.

From France, the pastry made a jump to Italy - where it is known as "folded pastry" - before being copied in Austria. Austrian bakers started exporting the pastry to Denmark, when a labour strike by Danish bakers prompted replacements from Vienna. From there, according to the Danish bakers' union, it was was only a matter of time before Danish immigrants took the pastry with them and introduced it to the rest of the world.

Some customers at least had the sense of humour to ask for the pastries with a laugh or even with irony. (The same approach was taken by Woody Allen in an appearance in a 2003 promotional video to lure American tourists back to France. "I don't want to have to refer to my French-fried potatoes as freedom fries and I don't want to have to freedom-kiss my wife when what I really want to do is French-kiss her," Allen said in the short film produced by the French government.)

What was decidedly not funny was the offer by a Pakistani Muslim cleric of a US$1 million reward for anyone who killed Danish cartoonists who drew the offending cartoons.

The cartoons, first published in Denmark in September last year then reprinted by other European papers over the past month as a support for freedom of expression, have sparked sometimes violent protests in Iran as well as demonstrations across the Islamic world, where they were seen as an insult to the prophet.

Live to eat another day

Deciding to have our Valentine's Day celebration early, we agreed to take off one of the restaurants in our long wish list by trying out their dinner menu tonight. The honour went to Uley, a gourmet fusion cuisine restaurant located at Gasheka Ul. 7, which is a right turn down 2nd Brestkaya Ul. facing Peking Hotel on the Garden Ring Road near Mayakovskaya.

After spending a small fortune eating at poorly chosen restaurants (the Soviet-style Artissimo in front of the Tretyakov Gallery was a severe example) in recent days, we agreed to reserve special occasions for eating out and go to pricier and more upscale establishments instead.

Seeing that both of us might be busy on V-Day on Tuesday, we pushed up our romantic dinner date to tonight. Too bad I spent only the evening with my ducky.

After spending most of the day downloading free music on Limewire, I finally made a move to go out at 2 pm to respond to a request from my boss to show up at work for some documents that needed sending back to capital.

An hour into work, I got a phone call from Anna, a friend and former flame from Saratov. It was her first time in Moscow since August 2004 and my first meeting with her since September of the same year. I should've been excited but there was something unreal about our meeting up again that I can't put a finger on. Anyway, we met up for an hour at the Lafé café in the Atrium at around 4:40 pm.

My Dear seemed unusually occupied at the library and then at home, so I took a quick nap back at the flat, only getting to at 7:20. Strange, I thought, how Inessa had yet to ring me up and it was getting on quite a bit. Finally we agreed to meet at Ulitsa 1905 Goda Station and from there proceed to Uley, which she chose over Galereya Café.

The resto boasted of white tablecloths and candles. Fine dining, it all but screamed. We were seated at the far corner, away from the bar or the divans. Out of an interesting but otherwise limited menu, we chose to have as soup and main course the following: French onion soup for her, Ceasar's Salad soup for him; Fois gras for her, lamb chops for him. The soups were extraordinary in their ordinariness. With the service not having been the most prompt and the bread being cold and dry, we stared at not very promising prospects for dinner. Fortunately the main dish and the afters we ordered more than picked up the slack. The final damage: 4,700 rubles. In other words, the most expensive dinner I've had to pay for myself.

The best part of the evening, however, wasn't the food: it was the special surprise my Honey had for me (and the reason she was slightly late at our meeting place), a weekend wristwatch! Yes, my mavourneen bought me a nice casual timepiece from the Swatch shop at GUM (where we last looked at wristwatches). Now I don't have to look like a real anorak wearing the same watch 24/7.

I wouldn't recommend a second time to Uley, but still it was interesting to go there at least once. As I told Inessa, the mystery of Uley has been solved.