World Cup of Dining in Toronto 16: Russia

“I’m afraid I have bad news”, said the waiter, explaining that neither of our appetizers were available from the kitchen. So we went with pelmeni dumplings instead.

My friend and I did something profoundly un-Russian and showed up early Saturday evening. Consequently, we were the first at Rasputin Vodka Bar on Queen St. East. Not that we were complaining. The tsarist Russian theme, mood lighting, comfortable couches and tasteful techno music (can’t think of a better way to describe it) enabled conversation that a crowded stand-up setting would not have.

The setting also enabled a vodka tasting session. Usually, 80-proof grain alcohol is fired down gullets with bravado or drowned in Seven-Up. My drinking IMG_20140419_200404companion and I decided tonight would be different. And so along with the pelmeni, the waiter brought bottles of Icelandic, Polish and Texan vodka, pouring shots of each in different glasses. After sipping rather than gulping, we pronounced Poland smoothest and sweetest, Iceland most aggressive in “bouquet”, and Texas to have the most sting on the lips.

“I’m afraid I have more bad news”, sad the waiter. Our chosen mains were also unavailable from the kitchen. But we were in an agreeable mood and went with latkas and a cheese platter. My friend, who knows of scientific things, determined that a properly conclusive taste test would have involved at least 15 more shots in different order, and removal of the labels to eliminate the nationality bias. Mercifully, we simply finished off the last of our top choice bottle instead. A friend arrived, and talk gently devolved into rowing, cycling and other bad decisions.

All in all, not the most authentic Russian experience (no hangover to report!) but for that I’m certain we would have to go to Russia.


Check-in Kiev

Dec. 21 – Kyiv, Ukraine

“Travel”, it is said, “is glamorous in retrospect.” A warm train on a snowy night. A border crossing into a new country. Arrival in a grand city as it awakes. Yes, there is glamor to all that. But let’s take a peek behind the scenes, without the makeup.

The train to Kiev departed at 19:10 but I arrived two hours early, on purpose. Not because the metal chairs were particularly comfortable, or because there was much to see or do at Moscow’s Kievskaya station. But because circulating on the Metro with my luggage would not have been possible in the commuter crush. In the gloomy, echoing waiting hall, I read as pigeons pecked a bread crust, a baby wailed behind me, and another passenger cracked open a beer.

The train was full even in second class. When I arrived, a slim platinum-blonde woman was already in the compartment. Her bulky black luggage claimed the space under both our seats. Natalya, her name was, might have been my age. She showed me photos on her cell phone of her family including her teenage son wearing a Wehrmacht uniform (an actor I think she explained), and her Jack Russell puppy. Over the course of the journey, we did the usual “No Russian No English” pantomime-cartoon-life-story. She drew a sketch of her town in western Ukraine in my notebook. Middle-aged Viktor and Nikolai came in just after I did. The gist of my communication with them was:

“Canada.”
“Hockey!”
“Gretzky!”
“Tretiak!”

All overnight trains come with a mattress for each bench, a pillow, fresh linens, and a thicker blanket. It was already night when we left so we set up our beds right away. It’s an interesting form of anonymous intimacy, getting ready for bed in the company of strangers. It works, which is good because there’s not much choice anyway. Nikolai and Viktor clambered into their assigned top bunks as we rolled out of Moscow.

There’s nothing stiller than the second after a train stops in the middle of the night. It was snowing heavily at the Russian side of the border. Outside on the platform, vendors moved ponderously with large stuffed toys. Natalya explained that the border town had a factory specializing in these items. The Russian passport check went hassle-free.

The Ukrainian border crossing was at two in the morning, a time at which few good things happen. I knew that Canadians required no visa to enter Ukraine, but I was still apprehensive. On the document I had to fill in, I had left a lot blank, which made me feel like a transgressor. And indeed, I was asked into the corridor for further questions about my plans (“finding hotel in Kyiv”, “staying in the country only two days”). After conferring with her supervisor, the young border agent stamped my documents, wished me luck, and I was officially in the Ukraine.

The train rolled into Kyiv’s passenger station at 5:30, and we left Natalya, who was continuing westwards, sleeping in her bunk. I ignored the taxi touts and moved toward the city. A tourist at a railway station, immobile and looking around, attracts too much attention. Fully loaded, trundling my suitcase behind me, I headed up a broad boulevard in the pre-dawn darkness. An occasional car would pass but otherwise the only sound was the alarmingly loud “clackclackclack” of my suitcase’s wheels.

I had sketched the route to the hotel I had in mind – 2km away. My path took me onto Kyiv’s main commercial boulevard, all luxury shops, banks and hotels. I arrived, sweating, and got a room, though check-in was not for five more hours. I left my bags, sat in the lobby to let my sweat-damp pullover dry. Wishing for sleep and shower, I instead unfolded the tourist map to plan my day.