Pass the Borscht
Natasha rules against caviar. She, Natalia
Kraevskaia, hails from the Russian town of Astrakhan,
where caviar comes from, so she is not to be crossed.
"Oh no, it's expensive here, and maybe not real," warns
Natasha. We are on an authenticity mission to Little
Dream, a modest Russian eatery in Hanoi that draws its
clientele mostly from nostalgic Vietnamese who
laboured or studied in the former Soviet Union.
Alas, we weren't appointed to check out the place
ahead of the visit by Russian President Vladimir Putin,
who's in town until March 2. Just as well, really. My
gourmet credentials are paltry: distant Russian ancestors
plus vivid memories of slurping the famed beet soup
known as borscht in New York. Natasha is
well-steeped in Russian gastronomy, though her real
passion is running Salon Natasha, a quirky art gallery in
Hanoi. For this mission we have also recruited a visiting
Russian linguist, Irina Samarina, a.k.a. Ira.
So we skip the caviar--pricey indeed at 498,000 dong
($34) per portion. But I insist on starting the meal with
a shot of Stolichnaya vodka. "This tastes real," says
Natasha, her cheeks brightening. Virtuous Ira declines
vodka, pointing to "Russian Juice" on the menu. A thick
orange concoction emerges. With alarm, she sips. "It is
not Russian. It is mango," Ira proclaims.
They both cluck over the menu's Cyrillic errors but its
photographs of home win their favour. The menu stirs
memories of hungry days gone by. When Natasha first
arrived in Hanoi in 1982, food was scarce for the
locals. But not for the Russian teachers and technical
experts, who lived in a sprawling compound. They got
provisions from a Soviet-subsidized shop and enjoyed
their own cafeteria with a daily choice of two or three
soups and various incarnations of fried meat and
potatoes. Given Hanoi's dearth of restaurants back
then, the variety was savoured.
The variety at our table receives mixed reviews,
however. First to arrive is my borscht, swimming with
tiny beet cubes. Ira tastes a spoonful and then stares at
the soup, stumped. "Ah! Without smetana!" she
concludes, referring to Russian sour cream. Then
comes the roll-call of more missing ingredients: "No
potatoes. No cabbage. No carrot. You can have
borscht without beets, but not without cabbage and
potatoes." Natasha adds hesitantly, "I think it's
cabbage, but not real cabbage." As for me, I lap it up.
My rule: Mediocre borscht is always better than no
borscht.
We move on to the "Russian salad," a mish-mash of
eggs, potatoes, boiled meat and mayonnaise that
became popular in Russia in the late 1960s and has
since became staple fare in many Vietnamese homes.
My critical companions remind me that salad is always
served before soup in their homeland.
So it goes. I find one of the main courses--lamb
shashlik--delicious, but Natasha insists it should have
been marinated. She and Ira approve of the "lumpen"
shape of the golubsti, servings of meat wrapped in
cabbage, but stress that the authentic version has rice
and carrots. Ira blurts, "This isn't typical. There are no
potatoes." Natasha: "There are potatoes, we just don't
order them." Ira: "Fish, we need fish." Natasha: "There
is fish, we just don't order it."
And a good thing, too. With a bill of 358,000 dong, we
are stuffed. And despite their criticisms, my companions
hope that Little Dream, founded six years ago by a
former migrant worker, survives. Several years ago,
another Russian restaurant in Hanoi folded. The
owner's first mistake, Natasha recounts, was to hire
three waitresses from Odessa who only spoke Russian.
How did they take orders? "It was a miracle," Natasha
says. But at least no one complained about the borscht.
By Margot Cohen - Far Eastern Economic Review - March 1st, 2001.
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