'My Soviet Kitchen'

I banged the jar of salted cucumbers sideways on the table covered with patterned kleyonka - the lid easily came off. He cut off three thick slices of servelat, dense with fat and a memory of pig, and placed them sparingly onto oblongs of black bread. Vodka glasses were ready, all warm, bitter and heaven-promising. We threw back our heads - not too far, mind you, the space didn't allow - and gulped in one go...

'Soviet kitchen', photo by Andriy Bychay

Good old, old days, eh? Done by millions of (ex) Soviet people, in tiny spaces of their kitchens, shared by neighbours, friends, families, passer-bys..

Never, however, shared with crowds of gallery visitors, whilst sitting on a taburetka, on and as a display, in an alcove of the church crypt!

This is exactly what happened to me the other day at the launch of Amy Spurling's book 'My Soviet Kitchen. Ivy's guide to life in the ex-USSR' published by Roastbooks.

Amy's newly-published book

Described by some as a 'neo chick lit with a darker side, a vodka twist, recipe’s galore and a generous slice of post-Soviet living', the book (and its companion guide as a free bonus) is, from what I can make, a fictionalised story of the author's journey as a Phd student in Russia (as well as Georgia, Estonia, Uzbekistan) in the years soon after the collapse of the USSR.

Having only read a few pages so far, I can say that Amy's writing style is snappy, light, and witty, with the most dead pan English understatement you can imagine. This combined with Russian over-flowing love for drama and exaggeration, makes for a rather entertaining read (note, am practising English understatement). Some compared the book to Bridget Jones's dairy - Soviet style - and I can imagine why (especially with Amy's weakness for omitting pronouns at the beginning of sentences - am liking the style;)).

'The book cover', photo by Andriy Bychay

Amorous adventures, cultural clashes, awkward encounters with foreigners - the book you can easily swallow up in a few hours whilst lying on a beach (or in bed, whilst nursing vodka-induced hang-over). However, 'My soviet Kitchen' is so well-researched and full of such precise - and hilarious - description of all the kitsch Soviet detail, such as the composition of komunalkas (communal flats, housing several families, and one kitchen) and how to shop in a ex-USSR supermarket (queue 1 to choose, queue 2 to pay, queue 3 to pick up), that it will be fun to read for the most macho of us.

I would give out copies of the accompanying little book 'The guide to life, post-soviet style' to any non-Soviet person who is either:

a) married to a Rus
b) interested in being married to a Rus
c) or ever finds oneself in a company of Russians.

The guide has recipes (such as Estonian Kama drink or Georgian feast), Mayakovsky's Lilya Brik muse and their menage a trois, Properties of Soviet Snow (slyakot, parosha, purga, etcetc), and even the band DDT and Viktor Tsoi!


...Back to the launch.

As in Amy's book, we were taken on the journey through the Estonian banya, sauna, complete with Estonian beers and beech venik:

'Estonian sauna', photo by Andriy Bychay

A proper Georgian feast (thanks to Iberia, a Georgian restaurant in North London and the Georgian wine society), which later served as a real-life snack table, all eaten to the bone:

'Georgian feast' , photo by Andriy Bychay

A Soviet train, with real train-y chukh-chuch sounds (i-pod, behind the red curtain) and vodka:

'Soviet train' , photo by Andriy Bychay

...3 hours later, we were dancing to DDT jauntily, doing khorovods (holding hands in circles) and were very, very drunk.

From Amy's 'companion guide to life':

'Soviet-man stages of drunkenness:

Man disappears to the toilet and comes back with wet hair. At attempt to revive himself and regain lost ground.

Man slumped against the wall.

Man slumped against the front door when you open it.'

Russian trains and Russian tongues

Foreigners in Russia almost always note one peculiarity about Russians’ travelling habits – Russkis take food, home-made food, pretty much wherever they go.

Inside a Russian train (a more luxury version). Photo thanks to Tatters:) at farm3.static.flickr

Trains in particular are a sight of numerous feasts. Soviet trains are of course like nothing else in the world – almost double the width of their European compatriots, snail-speed slow but wonderfully public (which may or may not be to your liking - ‘platzkart’ being the most common type of a carriage – no doors, just 6 bunks of beds in each row and a little table in between. I remember long strands of white sheets hanging off the top beds as if to make a little self-made alcove, to allow women to change clothes. It all seemed so much fun then…not because of changing women of course...although this might have been fun now..hmm, sorry, back to trains).

Food in Russian trains. Photo thanks to streats.files.wordpress

A common scene encountered on those long, clickety train journeys would be families, babushkas, young ladies – all taking out their carefully wrapped goody bags, laying them out on tables in between the rows of bunk beds, sharing these ‘products’ with their fellow compartment comrades. These offerings, which could include anything from stacks of buterbrody (open sandwiches) to home-pickled gherkins and full blown hot meals, always had to have some hard-boiled eggs. I still remember their very characteristic smell whifting through the carriages, the sound of spoons clattering in tall glasses with dark tea, quiet cluckering of women over their offspring…

Recently I have re-created – ish – these childhood memories on my way from London to Tallinn, Estonia – the motherland, as I sometimes refer to it. This was the kind of upgraded version of the old Russian train-food experience:

Location – Stansted airport, waiting lounge

People – common human crowd all around, a good – Russian – friend next shoulder

Food – Chilled ox tongue (home-made), gherkins, rye bread (Waitrosely good), forgettebly named Russian chocolate

Drink – ex-yoghurt 100ml* plastic bottles filled with red wine and half and half wine and vodka

Feasting at Stansted airport, London a la russe

We had a blast. Gorging on all this beautiful – rather odorous – food right in the middle of, basically, a massive shopping meal, brightly lit as a hospital, it was especially enjoyable because of all the misunderstanding looks grazing, oops, glancing at us. The smell of garlic, which the tongue was packed with, and alcohol, followed by the sounds of cucumbers plopping in our mouths and us talking increasingly loudly, made – I’m sure – for an amusing and rather annoying sight.

Bring on the socialist order (a Conservative-Communist coalition anyone?)! These people have not tried the real publico-social method of travelling – or eating.

….

If you would like to simulate (it can be just that of course – the real thing is at least 3 hours flight away, and some 20 years ago perhaps), then here’s the recipe for the Ox Tongue that we have so successfully consumed amongst the capitalist consumerism of the London airport:

Cooked Ox Tongue

Cooked ox tongue, post ice-water treatment

1 ox tongue (they usually weight about 700-1000 gramms)

garlic liberally

bayleaves + peppercorns

1. They look huge, scary and unpleasant - hold the disbelief. Put in a large saucepan, cover with cold water. Once start boiling, take off the scum (but don't bother too much), then add a couple of bay leaves and 5-10 peppercorns.

2. Simmer for 1.5-2 hours

3. Prepare a large bowl full of ice and cold water. Plunge the cooked tongue into water and keep it there for a couple of minutes.

4. Take out and peel off the outer skin. You'll see, it comes off like a banana skin. The tongue will instantly look that much more appealing.

5. Cool a bit more if necessary, so that you can handle it with hands. In the meantime, slice thinly 2-3 gloves of garlic.

6. Make short, shallow cuts randomly across the tongue, so that you can insert slivers of garlic into these holes. Don't matter, how and when, just pack'em up!

7. Place the tongue onto a flat-ish plate, find something heavy to press it with. I normally put another plate on top, to cover the tongue, and then a saucepan full of water - some careful balancing is required.

8. Chill in a fridge over night.

9. When taken out, the tongue will be flat and ready to be gorged on. Slice it thinly, add horseradish, pickled, bread, and vodka, of course, and you are ready to go.

Train or no train.

* for those far from London - bigger containers are not allowed to bring into British airports for ‘security reasons’.

More parsnip New Year treats

Amongst all the post-Christmas wilderness (partying, snowing and otherwise), here's a little bit of curiosity to amuse you.


My cockle-warming Parsnip and Parmezan soup has been a hit with a number of friends, and so whilst looking for another parsnip inspiring idea, I came across Elizabeth David's collection of Christmas recipes. One of them particularly caught my eye...

Pastenak and cress soupOr parsnip and cress soup - pastenak, according to David, is the medieval English word for parsnip , a corruption of the Latin word pastinaca. Now, the association I mentioned in my earlier soup post between the Russian word for parsnip - pasternak - and the famous Nobel-prize winner (yes, yes, Dr Zivago) doesn't seem all that laughable!

Did I completely confuse you? What I'm trying to say very pre New Year's Eve inarticulately, is that I just loved the feeling of discovering this little, unimportant linguistic link, which kind of felt fitting. In Italian the word is pastinache, in French panais - what is parsnip in your language??:):)

Back to the soup though...

To make the pastenak and cress soup you follow the same recipe as for my parsnip and parmezan soup, but omit the cheese and add a couple of handfuls of cress at the end, which makes the dish a whole lotta lighter and fresher. To me, this is a spring recipe really, so here's something that will work very nicely as your New Year's even starter - very a la Russe;)

Egg mayonnaise with parsnip cream
(taken from E. David's 'Christmas' edited by Jill Norman)

500 g parsnips, peeled or well scrubbed
3-4 tbsp of home-made mayonnaise (it needs to be rather acidic, so don't be shrewd with your lemon)
4-6 hard-boiled, organic, eggs
parsley

1. Chop parsnips into big chunks, bring to boil, simmer until cooked (some 20 mins), then puree and season with salt and plenty of pepper
2. Stir in your mayo, spread on a fanciful dish (I'd say a Soviet kitsch of a crystal dish in shape of a egg or a fish will work well here)
3. Cup eggs in half and arrange on top of the parsnip puree
4. Scatter shopped parsley

Nemirov honey coloured pepper vodka will work wonders here - match by taste, match by colour!

Thank you all my dear readers for a wonderfully food-laden year!