Not yet? Yes? Some of you? Okay, next one...
I know most of you have it by now. But here's one last clue...
Okay, so for those of you still not certain, this oughta lock it in...
Well, this is what the building looks like on the outside...
And this is our waitress's name tag (with appropriate flair, of course)...
Yes, we may all be proud that one of America's most impressive cultural exports is nothing less than T.G.I. Friday's. And I, for one, could not be more flush with the rich red, white, and blue blood of patriotism. For where else in Moscow could the lonely expat go for canned guacamole, rubbery quesadillas, and potato skins bathing luxuriously in a tepid pool of their own grease?
Just to be clear, this was not my idea. It was Olga's. Originally, we were supposed to go bowling. That was Olga and Agnes' idea. But it turns out that all the best alleys are taken on a Friday night. We've since resolved to hit the lanes on a weekday. In any case, in lieu of lanes, Olga decided we should go to T.G.I. Friday's. Marius was disproportionately excited by this idea. But then again, he's never been to one. Had he -- he probably would not have.
Marius and I got there first and (starving) ordered right away. Olga showed up just as the skins were landing. Now I know skins. I've eaten skins. I've made skins. And you, comrade, are no skins. Yes, they'd hollowed out the spud nicely. And the deep fry was passable. But there were no chives. And the bacon bits were stingy. And there was no ranch dressing. Usually this last one is a deal breaker but maybe I was just a little homesick. Actually not at all. But in a spirit of research I wanted to see what they were going to come up with.
The fajitas were alright. Marius raved over a peppercorn steak that I thought looked inedible. But there was neither a pepper nor a corn remaining by the time he finished. Long leggedy Olga noshed on the quesadillas.
Yuri showed up and ate all my 'leavins. I mean all of them. Even the soggy little peppers that constitute the flotsam of fajitas. But no Agnes yet. She had apparently decided that when the bowling went away she would instead go and get a tattoo. I last saw Agnes at Yuri's birthday party. She is a Lithuanian beauty living here in Moscow so in order to be an actress.
So the new and improved grand plan was to go to The Diaghelev Project to see a Moscow rapper named Tim-y-Tim do his thing. Tim-y-Tim is like the Kanye West of Russia. He's gigantic. He also has a cameo in HITLER KAPUT! Which is why we were going to see him. But the bigger reason was to have a gander at what is possibly the hottest, most exclusive club on the continent. But Mr. Tim wasn't going on till 2am. And I needed a full day of work on Saturday since we have a test screening on Wednesday. So since it was only 12:30, we piled into Yuri's car and took the long way around Moscow to Apartment 44.
Apartment 44 is a small bistro on three floors of a former residence. The rooms are small and cozy, populated mostly by the young and smoky. But it's warm and inviting. And with Frank Sinatra playing quietly in the background, you'd almost swear you were in New York.
In case you should be in Moscow and you wish to find Apartment 44, it's down this lane...
Across from this building...
And just inside this passage...
There. Now you know everything.
We settled into a table in the corner, surrounded by shelves of books and record albums and next to a New Year's Tree. People lounged and ate and sipped tea and vodka at the tables around us.
It's nice being around this particular group of people. Yuri speaks decent English. Olga has only been taking English for a year but has a remarkable command of the language. I can't say why exactly, but it's a unique thrill to be in a far away place that happens to feel so comfortable and familiar, around friends who speak English with a foreign accent. It just kind of makes you feel warm all over. Especially around people so funny and who greet you with traditional Russian kisses on each cheek and who are always throwing their arms around you.
The things you don't know about people. Olga is actually an expert hunter. A marksman, a tracker, she can go into a dense Birch forest and come out with black bear. Then she could take the fur, fashion something fashionable and walk the runways of Paris next to any model anywhere. She's currently studying Foreign Relations but harbors a secret dream of hosting an animal show for the Discovery Channel. She has black cat named Bagheera.
Agnes finally showed up with her tattoo artist in tow. It didn't take long for her to roll up her jeans high enough for us to take a gander at her calf where now, freshly inked, was a Zen-Buddhist icon hot off the needle.
Agnes. Again, Agnes is from Vilnius. Her father is Lithuanian. Her mother is from the Ukraine. In the Ukraine they churn out stunning women like they're rolling off an assembly line. The classic myth of the Russian Bride is actually referring to a woman from the Ukraine. There's a town there, the name of which escapes me, where the ratio of women to men is 10 to 1. 10 to 1. Speaks for itself.
At the end of the evening there were too many of us to fit comfortably in Yuri's SUV so Agnes decided she would ride in the backmost area usually reserved for your sacks of fertilizer or your pet Lab. So as we make our way through Moscow en route to everyone's respective homes, all you hear is Agnes' dusky, disembodied voice from somewhere in the back tossing out witty asides. She soon found a Tom Stoppard book amongst the clutter. You could hear her telling everyone's fortune based on your random selection of page number and line number. Apparently, for me, love is a religious experience. At least that's what Tom Stoppard says on page nine, line 23.
Second-hand smoke continues to be the most wretched part of this entire experience. I couldn't even begin to estimate how many of these people will die of heart disease and lung cancer in the next ten years. There's going to be something like twelve of them left. Certainly one way to solve the traffic problems here.
By 2am I was able to convince Marius that I would see The Diaghelev Project some other time and that for tonight anyway, the needs of the film needed to be put ahead of the needs of the writhing masses.
On the way back to the car, I saw this familiar face in a window...
I always suspected Frosty was a Bolshevik. Now I've got my proof and I'm gonna nail him.
2 comments:
Here comes your Mum again.....Wear a mask when ever your around 2nd hand smoke. Which by the way, are the cigarette packs decorative? If they are, would you bring some home with you. Arts and crafts for me OK? Also, doesn't one say Ukraine, not "the Ukraine" ? It's difficult to see those beautifuly painted buildings and think of it as Russia. Your photos of them are so beautiful.
That's (cough), that's good ad- (cough cough), that's good advi (cough cough cough cough cough cough...)
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