Eating in Russia

In a meme two weeks back I reminisced about drizzling ketchup on mac 'n cheese when I lived in Moscow, and suddenly I found myself thinking of all the awful things I ate in Russia, all in the name of survival.

I moved to Moscow in the fall of 1995 to finish my M.A. in Russian from Middlebury College. I anticipated a difficult year; besides the weather (it typically snows from October through April), the recent invasion of the mafia and the everpresent despair of poverty-stricken babuskas who line the sidewalks with old socks for sale, there was also the issue of my vegetarianism. In a meat-loving land known neither for its culinary flexibility nor its abundance of fruits and vegetables -- there's a reason they pickle everything from mushrooms to tomatoes -- I felt like a stranger in a strange land. 

But I made do. While my friends feasted on pelmeni (meat-filled tortellini) I made cucumber and cheese sandwiches; while they dipped spoons into tureens of bright pink borscht flavored with beef, I noshed on potato-filled piroshki. When I was invited into Russian friends' homes to eat, I always warned them in advance that I had "food allergies." Russians view vegetarianism as a character flaw and pronouncing oneself a vegetaryanka produces much clucking of tongues. Though my friends accommodated my "bad manners" as elegantly as they could, when I traveled and ate in restaurants or hotels, I had but two choices: eat meat or starve.

One long weekend, a group of us took off for Suzdal, one of seven ancient cities that forms the Golden Ring northeast of Moscow. Each city boasts examples of 12th - 17th century castles and cathedrals, and Suzdal is best-known for its monasteries. One of them, Pokrovsky Monastery (Покровский собор) is still in operation today. Originally founded in 1364 along the banks of the Kamenka river, the buildings that stand there today date back to the 16th century. Its close proximity to Moscow made Pokrovsky a convenient and informal prison for the paramours, courtesans and wives of the tsars, once they'd fallen out of favor.

The cathedral's onion domes, these in shades of burnished gold, soared high into the air wielding Russian orthodox crosses, their majesty a sharp contrast to the dirt paths and crumbling walls of the outer perimeter. Small wooden country houses called izbas huddled along the monastery's grounds, their dark and brooding shells the only evidence of the hotel on the property. That wintertime they did little to protect guests from the cold.

We had arrived in time for dinner. Like most Russian towns, at least a decade ago, restaurants were scarce in Suzdal and we took our meal in the hotel. Consider it Communist prix fixe: you pay what they ask and in return take what you get. There was no menu, and as with all Russian meals, it began with soup.

This soup, like many I had that year, was little more than cloudy broth with vast slicks of oil floating on top. The few vegetables, boiled until they were identical shades of drab, no longer bore any resemblance to the carrots or potatoes they had once been. Flavor and seasoning were notably absent. But it was hot, and it moistened the dry brown bread enough to choke it down. It was followed by a fatty cut of overcooked meat, potatoes and a salad of mealy tomatoes, cucumbers and mayonnaise. Before bed we retired to someone's frigid izba and drank bottle after bottle of cheap Georgian wine. Along with the layers of sweaters and scratchy blankets, it was enough warmth to let us sleep.

Breakfast the next morning offered another chance to eat the previous night's brown bread along with a cold slab of ham and slices of hard cheese. The fruit juice was apricot or peach nectar, a thick, overly sweet concoction offered at every Russian breakfast I ever had. Since I wouldn't drink the water (Russians don't, either) it was either that or a small shot of weak coffee.

Breakfast over, I rushed to the cathedral as the tolling bells died away, indicating the beginning of services. Though I'm not a religious person, standing quietly inside this Russian church, I felt like I was witnessing something private, something sacred, in one of the holiest places on Earth. Hundreds of spindly candles lit by parishioners cast a warm golden glow against the walls which were, by tradition, painted top to bottom with pictures of saints, angels, holy men, the Son of God. The icons were painted in jewel tones: velvety reds and purples, burnished gold, smoky blues. The rituals were foreign, and many felt pagan to me. The ragged-bearded priest wore heavy black robes that dragged along the floor as he walked, swinging censors full of incense and burning charcoal, which symbolize the prayers of the faithful ascending into heaven. There were no seats and so everyone stood, lighting candles, praying, listening, the women with their heads covered by scarves, gently swaying along with the priest's hypnotic recitations. In the back, an ancient crypt held old bones, relics, the earthly remains of a man or woman of God. The faithful lined up to kiss them.

The service lasted nearly two hours and when I walked out of the church, it was into a quiet land, white as far as the eye could see, the Kamenka river frozen and tall birch trees rising up in the distance, their branches barren. My boots crunched as I walked along, inhaling the cold air, absorbed by a sense of peace. Last night's thin soup and stale bread were far from my mind, and I had to remind myself that it was the 20th century, somewhere out there in the world beyond this one.

Comments

[tanvi]

Your post reminds of my friend who stayed in Russia for 3 months- she was also a vegetarian who related her adventures in food to me, which was quite hilarious. She's not a strict vegetarian like I am, so she made do but Im not sure what Id do in the same situation! On a separate note, I didnt know you were a Middlebury alum! My sister is going to start there this fall :-)

[Catherine]

Yeah, I was as vegetarian as I could be, but wasn't totally strict. That would be tough to do, unless you refuse all invitations to peoples' homes! I hope your sister likes it there. I only attended during the summer (language schools don't meet during the year) but it's a beautiful campus and a cute little town. The Ben & Jerry's factory is close by and does tours...perhaps on your first visit out you can stop by?!

[tanvi]

Yeah, I dont think Ill be visiting Russia anytime soon, though I do hear its beautiful.

Haha- Im already planning on a Ben and Jerry's visit. I mean, why else would I go there? Just kidding!

[Melissa]

Your experiences as a vegetarian in Russia made me chuckle - I had similar experiences as a vegetarian living in Spain. Something I will never forget is the look of absolute incomprehension on people's faces and the inevitable followup question, 'but you do eat chicken, don't you?'. You know, I even studied Russian for a couple of years too - before deciding that Russia wasn't really the place I ever wanted to live, so why bother... Still, it's fascinating to read your account!

[Robin DeMartini]

Oh my, didn't realize you were a vegetarian when gifting you with smoked-baked meat, fish and poultry from Smoky Market to enjoy! Glad to hear Mr. Food Musings and relatives liked it, and you enjoyed the salmon! p.s. saw this on a t-shirt recently; Vegetarian, old Indian word meaning 'not a good hunter.' Love your site and blog..keep up the good work!