He really has a nice family.
I remembered seeing moments like this on TV shows—people chatting and laughing. No one talked politics or tried to boast about this business move or that. No one namedropped.
Conversation ceased when the staff appeared and set our dishes in front of us.
I inhaled the savory scents and studied all of the amazing food on my plate. I identified some of them instantly—the beet root soup called borscht, the pastry meat-filled dumplings named pelmeni, and a small rice dish that I knew was plov.
Oh great. We’re going to get actual Russian cuisine.
What was interesting was that Dima caught sight of the plate, looked at his mother, and frowned.
What’s wrong?
She stared back as if daring him to say a word. A mischievous glint filled her eyes, but I couldn’t figure out what. Meanwhile, the three uncles looked at me.
I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I was excited to eat.
Ms. Ivanov tossed me a devilish smile. “Have you ever tried Russian food before?”
“I have. In fact, I’ve eaten a lot of it.”
She eyed me with intrigue. “How did that happen?”
“I studied abroad in St. Petersburg for the spring of my junior year. I fell in love with the city, so much that I returned during my graduate years. I honestly picked a study abroad program that had nothing to do with the topic, just to return to St. Petersburg.”
I didn’t pick up my fork to eat, remembering that most Russians used standard European table manners. This meant that the guest was not to eat, until the host began eating.
Mrs. Ivanov noticed that I didn’t start munching, nodded, and picked up her fork. “You’re cultured and well educated. I’m quite impressed.”
I followed her actions and tried the same thing she did.
“Since you spent time in Russia, then you know what this is?” With her fork, she gestured to a small ring of food, layered with different items, rising up four inches, and covered in a light purple on the top.
I grinned. “It’s Herring Under a Fur Coat.”
Kirill clapped and spoke in Russian. It had been a long time since I’d heard any, but I guessed he said good job.
I forked some of mine.
Herring Under a Fur Coat was an interesting dish. It was a layered salad comprised of diced pickled herring. The other layers were grated boiled vegetables—potatoes, carrots, beetroots, and chopped onions. These layers went on and on—herring and vegetables, herring and vegetables. The final layer consisted of grated beetroot covered with mayonnaise. This was why the salad had the rich purple color.
A huge smile spread across Dima’s face. “Why haven’t you told me that you’ve been to Russia?”
“We’ve been too busy.”
Kirill laughed.
I blushed. “Not. . .that type of busy.”
Maxim lifted his gold cup. “No wonder Paradise is in flames, my little nephew is knee deep in—”
“Kirill.” Mrs. Ivanov scowled.
Artyom winked at Dima and drank from his cup.
“Unfortunately, Rose, we are not as civilized as you.” Mrs. Ivanov turned back to me. “However, we will do better next time.”
“That is perfectly fine.” I took more of my herring, loving every bite. “The chef is extremely talented.”
“Thank you.” She smirked. “The chef was recently fired by someone who refused to eat healthy dishes. Being that I bullied him to do it, I felt guilty and hired him to cook on the weekends for me.”
“Ah.” I chuckled. “How very interesting.”
“Now, back to you.” Mrs. Ivanov forked more of food. “Do you know the story behind Herring Under a Fur Coat?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Legend proclaims that in 1918 a man named Anastas owned a popular tavern in Moscow during a time of civil war and revolution in Russia.”
Kirill jumped in. “We, Russians, love our country. So, when tavern visitors talked about the future of the country, they broke furniture, smashed plates, and fought each other.”
Dima and Artyom laughed.
Mrs. Ivanov added, “So, the salad was made to stop drunks from fighting.”
Krill lifted some of the beets with his fork and showed me them. “Everything is symbolic. The salted herring symbolized the proletariat. The red color of beets represented the flag.”
Maxim placed his gold cup on the table. “The potatoes are the food of workers and peasants.”
Shocked, I smiled. “And that stopped them from fighting?”
“Food can solve many battles.” Mrs. Ivanov nodded. “Plus, the salad was so fatty, people couldn’t get drunk very fast.”
“And so the furniture was saved,” Dima concluded.
The meal continued with more fun conversation and food. While we’d just finished with the appetizers, the staff brought out platters of Russian desserts well before the entrée.
In my time in Russia, I remembered that restaurants and hosts served any dish they chose. There was no specific order of dinner then dessert with them. If the host preferred cake before steak, then that was what the guests received.
Going with the flow, I feasted on my blini—a wheat pancake rolled with chocolate.