Ordinary Russians by Barry Broadfoot

Author:Barry Broadfoot [Broadfoot, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-55199-506-9
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 1989-11-04T00:00:00+00:00

Then there was Olga. Comic relief, I suppose, but to the Ukrainians dining in the Hotel Rus she must have been something from another planet.

I had been told to make a reservation in the dining room, which I did for seven o’clock through the Intourist bureau in the lobby. When I arrived, the maître d’ scanned his reservation list, which had about four names on it, hesitated, gave the almost empty room a look, and then, reluctantly, picked up a menu and guided me to a table. The time was 7:05 P.M.

I looked around the room, bored, and counted the tables and besides my lonely self, there was a party of about sixteen people behind me. There were white flowers on their table and the celebration was roaring along. A family affair, I judged, because they ranged from grandmother to children.

At 7:20 – one learns to tick off the minutes and hours in the Soviet Union, especially when in restaurants – one of the celebrants at the next table brought over a brimming goblet of wine. This was more like it. I saluted the party and smiled thanks. I would dearly have liked to be invited to their table. Travel is lonely.

Then I counted the waiters. There were nine of them, standing at their stations with napkins folded over their arms, but none seemed to be mine.

The maître d’ had disappeared, and groups of people were piling up at the reservation desk. Finally he reappeared, probably counting on the growing frustration of the two dozen waiting people for his own gain. He would ask a name, scan his sheets, still as empty as ever, and purse his lips, tap his forehead with a pencil, probably thinking, “There doesn’t look like any tip coming from this pair,” and, reluctantly, it seemed, he would lead them to a table. That broke the deadlock. Perhaps it wouldn’t have happened in Moscow but it did in Kiev because Ukrainians are not Russians. The dam burst and everybody headed for tables. Pell-mell.

Now it was 7:40 and a waitress appeared. I do not know what happened to the cluster of waiters who had been hovering. I pointed to a meat dish, a salad, and ice cream and coffee and flipped to the back of the huge menu and ordered a beer. Ukrainian beer is very good, if you can find a place that sells it.

Just as the beer arrived, so did a gaggle of German geese, tourists all matched in age, size, weight, dress, haircuts, and hairdos. They were ushered to a long table at the back where they would be virtually out of sight, but not out of mind. Every time I saw German tourists on a tour, I could never understand why they were treated so deferentially. The last of the big-time tourist spenders? The scourges of Russia five decades earlier…

The band arrived. I want to tell you about Russian dining-room bands. They are hired by the state, and therefore there is very little incentive to play well, and they don’t.

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