food – Page 2

Monday, April 18 – The Russian Museum

April 24, 2016 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

It was a blustery day of squalls. I Ubered to Double B coffee, passing this statue that always starts the William Tell Overture playing in my head. Hi yo Silver, away!

Fortified with a cup of their smooth brew, I started my walk to the Benois branch of the Russian Museum. Only a ten minute stroll, but by the time I passed the Church on the Spilled Blood, rain was pelting down. Despite rain boots, raincoat and sturdy umbrella, my jeans were going from damp to drenched. It was raining so hard water bounced up from the cobblestones and riccocheted from the surface of the canal. I sloshed onward as far as Café Berlin where I stopped for an early lunch, in hopes the downpour would ease up.

I ordered a burger, a sure sign that I’m missing home. It arrived, pretty as a picture, but it was like a burger made by someone who’d read about them and seen photographs, but hadn’t actually eaten one. The sesame seed bun was as dry and crisp like a meringue. The meat, while tasty, had an odd, pebbled texture, and was topped with pesto and pickles. I asked for a cheese burger and they slapped on mozzarella. Fries were great.

Sure enough, the sun came blazing out and I hoofed it to the Russian Museum of Art. A completely different experience from the Hermitage – less formal, less crowded (praise all the Russian Saints), and more relaxed. The change of pace was welcome. The art wasn’t as spectacular, but more than one piece made it not only worthwhile, but gave me reasons to return. I adored this painting of Phryne. I circled back to it twice, and sat on a bench and absorbed what I could. Similar to the Slav epic in scale (huge) but more celebratory. Thanks, Semiradsky.

As always, I noticed the dogs, like this jaunty, backlit fellow.

Detail of a larger hunting-themed painting. I miss you. Maddy.

The grimacing, half concealed faces worked into the design of this wall embellishment fascinated me.

This statue of Catherine and her page had marvelous textural detail.

It took a lot of self-discipline to not reach out and stroke this. — It took a lot of self-discipline to not stroke this.

And, according to the museum note, this naughty satyr is just being helpful, tying the nymph’s sandals. Riiiight.

Personally, I think he's taking them off, not tying them on. Museum interpretations can be so prissy. — Personally, I think he’s taking it off, not tying it on. Museum interpretations can be so prissy.

My favorite was this painting of a knight at a crossroads by Vasnetsov.

I overheard a guide tell five military officers that it’s from a Russian folktale. The knight must choose his direction. If he goes right, women and marriage. If he turns left, he’ll have wealth and land. If he rides straight ahead, war and death. He chooses the straight ahead path. I couldn’t help but mutter, if he picked the right woman he could have marriage, wealth, and all the fighting he wanted. Probably great makeup sex too. One of the military guys cracked a smile. They weren’t Americans or Russians, or they wouldn’t have had an English speaking guide.

I stood there and drew a couple of versions.

It reminded me of the painting in the Musée d’Orsay of a defeated cavalry solder riding home through fields of tulips, lance dragging, head bowed. The way I often feel after a full museum day, dragging my ass home through a field of glorious beauty. So much art, so little time. But I forgot one of the best attributes of this museum.

Yay, sofas.

I had planned to walk through the connected wing of the Benois, but fatigue overruled me. I sensibly walked to my dinner place, and after an excellent risotto, called it a day. Tomorrow, return to the Hermitage.

Friday, April 22; Tsarskoye Selo, Peterhof

April 28, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

My cordial and capable guide, Nina Kazarina, arrived at my hotel with driver, Igor. He was a no-nonsense man, ex-Army. If I ever need a bodyguard, I’m calling him. We spent the drive out to Pushkin getting acquainted and I relaxed, putting myself in her capable hands.

Nina Kazarina, as nice as she is pretty.

Catherine’s palace, originally a two story structure, was transformed into eye-popping opulence by her daughter the Empress Elizabeth. She embraced rococo and ordered her architect to out-flaunt Versailles. According to Nina, Elizabeth never wore a dress twice and spent money with both fists. Frankly, it was too fancy for my taste, more Vegas than Versailles, an aggressively gilded showplace. The Yusupov Palace was far more to my liking. The other downside was the hordes. Touring the smaller rooms, each a jewel box of exquisite objects, meant shuffling along, tightly packed into an endless, snaking line. I can’t imagine the fresh hell of high season. However, in the immortal words of Rick Steves, ‘if things are not to your liking, change your liking,’ I looked for what I could enjoy. Nina’s company and commentary were on the top of that list.

At the entry, you slip brown paper booties over your shoes. Everytime I looked down I thought of hobbit feet. Snicker.

Clean but slippery. Watch you step, Baggins. — Clean but slippery. Watch your step, Baggins.

It’s an excellent solution, when the floors are as fabulous as the ceilings, and the ceilings are intricate examples of every embellishment humans can devise. Security looks in bags and takes water bottles, but you can mark your and retrieve it when you leave. We did.

Nina pointed out a pair of small cupids at the top of the grand staircase. More bronze than gold, they were original, purposefully left unrestored. That’s when I learned this palace was virtually razed by bombing.

Nina explained that the highly visible palace was targeted by German artillery. All this aggressive gilding I see is restoration work, almost brand new. I was fascinated by a series of photos in the downstairs hallway of Russian artisans recreating former glory from a bombed out shell. The idea that people were taught these skills and employed to do this heartened me.

The fabled Amber room, lined with panels made out of blobs of resin on gold leaf, is a tourist mecca. It’s more famous for being famous than it is beautiful. Nor is it, in fact, the actual Amber room. That was looted by the Nazis in 1941, and this facsimile was installed in 2003.

The cheerfulness of Nina, and her steady commentary of interesting facts, was a huge plus, truly entertaining. She deftly led us through the labyrinth to the exit. When we emerged, I was enchanted by the magic of softly falling snow.

We walked over to the nearby Museum of Festive Carriages, which I longed to see. It looked closed, but no, we were just the only people there besides the attendants (many a pensioner supplements her income with these jobs). Between growing up on horseback, and all those regency novels I am fond of reading, I was in heaven. There were the royal ceremonial coaches, like a line of Rolls Royces.

This could poof back into a pumpkin at midnight. — This might poof back into a pumpkin at midnight.

Just right for a fair weather family outing.

I loved the cupids, carved wheels, fringe galore.

Loved this jaunty gold and green model, with an umbrella for shade.

Nina looking adorable — Nina, looking like the Mary Poppins of guides.

It’s not all swanky bullion fringe. This carriage was a damaged by the first bomb attack on Alexander II, but remained intact. it was the second bomb that killed the Tsar.

The shattered remains of the carriage Alexander II was in the day he was assassinated — The carriage of Alexander II, bombed by a revolutionary, was a gift from Napoleon.

I looked my fill. I’d go back in a hoofbeat. We ate in Sochi, a nearby restaurant, going for convenience over cuisine. A cafeteria with multiple stations and black and white film footage of Louis Armstrong projected on the wall. You could see how the vast crowds of summer could be accommodated.

The drive to Peterhof took us from snowflakes to lashing rain and then to blue skies, all in thirty minutes. It was sunny and freezing at Peterhof. “The wind is blowing from Finland,” Igor explained. Locals are exceedingly proud of the engineering of the fountains (it all runs by gravity; they sneer at Versailles’ pumped water) and the many many many gold statues (I’m hearing Terry Prachett’s dwarves singing the Gold song). Peter would arrive using that waterway. How the young boat builder must have reveled in that.

Blasted by arctic winds, I hastened inside and pitied the costumed actors who stroll the terrace.

Three of my favorite stories Nina told me: Peter put pieces of fake fruit in with the real thing. He liked to punk his dinner guests and it was a measure of just how drunk they were. Catherine II blew up a frigate for the benefit of a painter. She’d commissioned a dozen paintings of a navel battle, and he’d never seen a ship explode. The Picture Hall room, wallpapered in 368 portraits of young women, are mostly done from a single model, her head at different angles, wearing different accessories.

Instead of going back to the hotel, I asked them to drop me near my favorite restaurant, and they kindly agreed. I learned that I’ve seen enough grand palaces, that I am more interested in downstairs than upstairs. Wishing I’d come when Mon Plaisir was open.

Dinner was delicious, especially the chef’s take on beef stroganoff and the baked apple.

It's on a bed of shaved chocolate. Mm'mm. — It’s on a bed of shaved chocolate. Mm’mm.

Thanks again, Nina. If you want a stress-free day trip, with a cordial and informed guide, she’s an excellent choice. Here’s a link to her company, Tzarina tours. www.tzarinatours.com

Monday April 25, Marble Palace & Eliseyev Emporium

April 30, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Monday is the Hermitage’s day off, so I Ubered to Marble Palace. It’s a branch of Mikhailovsky Palace which, along with the Rossi and Benois Wings, holds the cultural treasures of the State Russian Museum. Founded by Tsar Alexander III, this is where much of the privately owned artwork, confiscated by the state after the revolution, ended up. It was an eclectic mix of grand rooms, like the Marble hall of the eponymous palace.

This gold box and these spoons made me hanker to get back to working on my own bronze box and silver spoons A pair of hinged cuffs is from the special exhibition Treasures of Ancient Russia. Along with the obligatory portraits of Peter, Catherine & Co, was this precious spaniel, who looks like an ancestor of my Maddy.

There were portraits of working class folk who looked abysmally down-trodden, and this guy. Even in Russia, the dude abides.

Jeff Bridges' Russian brother. — Wishing he was wearing a bathrobe,

Lenin and Stalin, chillaxin’. And this jolly Bolshevik. Cleopatra presides over the grand staircase. The sculpture reminded me more of Teresa in ecstasy than a snake bit woman suffering an agonizing death. Strolled up Nevsky Prospect to have tea at the famed Eliseyev Emporium, a gourmet establishment with marvelous windows.

Mechanical dolls caper around pastries, beneath winged cupids that raise and lower.

Inside, the décor was pretty enchanting too, stained glass, twinkly lights, a player piano that performed the Moonlight sonata. Alas. I should have just eaten with my eyes. This fall into the category of supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again. Not only was it clearly geared to tourists the food, charmingly presented, was mediocre – sandwiches were soggy on one side and dried out on the other, the cake tasted refrigerated, and the tea was weak. The prices were insane, but I was expecting that. In fairness, the worst aspect was out of their control. And elegant looking older couple – probably my age – sat next to me and smelled overpoweringly of mothballs. You might be luckier.

Walked to a grocery store on my way back to the hotel to pick up some milk and some chocolate. Priorities, yo. On the shelf was in the bread section was this little treat.

I went for a bag of mini-Milky Ways

Wednesday, April 28, Dostoyevsky & a red duffle

May 2, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It’s raining, cool, and predicted to be this way for the next five days. I’m good to go with my rain boots, my umbrella, and Uber app. A nice American woman at the hotel sprained her ankle on day one of her trip and is on crutches. She’s says the emergency care here is great. Hope I never find out first-hand.

I trod on holy ground today; the Dostoyevsky Museum. A room devoted to the anniversary of the publication of Crime and Punishment was particularly well done, the walls papered with facsimiles of his manuscript pages, drawings of fictional characters and photos of their historical counterparts, and photos of the intellectual miscreants he consorted with.Those bad boys got him jailed, condemned, driven to execution, and reprieved at the last moment by the Tsar. He was sentenced to hard labor (one of his many personal experiences with crime and punishment) and there are images representing his view of the road on the way to his mock execution. Also, photos of men in chains.

Prisoners in work camps.

And naughty ladies. Represent ladies.

Filles de joie, and dancers girls. — Filles de joies

cadle photo — This is the real saint all writers under deadlines should pray to.

There were screens mounted on the walls with multiple (muted) versions of the film adaptations playing, a series of projected images of churches that he attended or that featured in various stories, and many photographs of the great man himself. I liked one set apart, near a window and beside a candle. He worked through the night in the summer of 1865, writing The Gambler by day and Crime and Punishment at night. “Projected under the title The Drunkards, it was to deal “with the present question of drunkness … [in] all its ramifications, especially the picture of a family and the bringing up of children in these circumstances, etc., etc.””

If he didn’t meet his deadline, he’d lose the rights to all his work. He had 30 days.

Ledger with his original notes for the story. — Mr. D and notes. Revisions are a bitch, but essential. Ask any editor.

On the silver lining side, he was so buried under deadlines and desperate that he hired an stenographer, Anna Snitkina, to try the method of dictation, and proposed to her a month later She was 20, he was 45.

She accepted one of the least romantic proposals in history

The happy couple.

The family’s living quarters seemed both sterile and oppressive, but his plain, sturdy desk gave me shivers. I took a photo from the window.

Delete the cars and modern signage, and the view may not have changed that much since he stared out of it. There was something about descending the gouged and pitted stone stairs just as he must have done, that seemed more evocative than the sparse, carefully arranged room vignettes.

I bought some souvenir pens and pencils, and a mug with a quote from Notes from the Underground in Cyrillic. “I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.”

I went to the food market afterwards. I didn’t feel up to haggling with glowering men, so I passed the produce by.

Descending from the sublime to the international shrine of consumerism, I Ubered to the Galeria, a giant shopping mall. I trudged to the top floor, in search of a pedestrian piece of luggage I could use to bring home non-fragile items, clearing my small case for mugs and a ceramic bowl. I have a two suitcase allowance on my flight home, might as well use it.

I ate something for lunch that was on my list of Russian foods to try – a blini from Teremok, the MacDs of Russia. I ordered by pointing to what looked like ham and cheese. The guy on the register was patient and kind. It was 149 rubles, so $2.25. Watching them make it was a mistake – pour a ladle of pancake batter on the griddle and fill it with stuff squirted out of plastic bags. Ew. It was edible, but not good. Flabby pancake/crepe with gummy filling. I ate it anyway. It just made me love my regular Fruk joint more.

Found a small red duffle bag to carry my loot home. I went for red because, Russia. Just doing my part to support St Petersburg.

Saturday, April 30, and now for something completely different

May 4, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Woke at five and wrote two blog entries, which took me to 10:45 mostly because I get caught up in editing and looking up clarifications on the internet and time flies away. I approached the concierge about negotiating entrance to the Hermitage Storage Facility and the Stieglitz Academy and Museum over the phone, and she went to bat for me immediately. No luck. The Hermitage played pass-the-problem-to-another-department until she called one that doesn’t answer their phones. The plucky and determined concierge, named Xenia after the patron saint of the city, assured me she’d keep trying. She was wry and expressive and funny and clearly capable. Just watching her work her magic over the phone was entertaining.

I walked to the corner to try the Angel of Happiness café, and it was way too high-end hip and crowded. I loved the place mat.

My server didn’t approve of my choice to have milk with my granola instead of yogurt, and let her displeasure be known. The granola was great, like a homemade version of Sugar Smacks loaded with many varieties of nuts. Took this photo of this guy outside the window, holding a bouquet of daisies and texting, thinking he’s’ gonna get lucky.

The girl in the yellow coat facing the other direction, across the street? That's a story right there. — The girl in the yellow coat facing the other direction, across the street? That’s a story right there.

Before I left, he walked in with the object of his affection; a blonde in supple black leather. No wonder he was so hopeful.

Decided to walk to the Benois wing of the Russian museum and set out, following my Google Maps GPS. I pasted in an address from my master list. Bad call. It led me far away in the wrong direction. When I figured out I had nearly walked back to my old hotel, I stopped and called Uber. Know when you are defeated.

Scooted to the first place on my shopping list, Loft Project Etazhi (74 Ligovsky Prospect). I vaguely recalled it described as many arty shops in a loft. Pay dirt! Walked into the courtyard from the street into a mash-up of Wonderroot, Krog Street market, Homegrown, with an East Atlanta/Earl vibe. Skinny, young(er) people with bubblegum pink streaks in peacock blue hair, or shaved and cut at angles, or – extra credit – a sprongy mass of dreds to the waist. Guys with green top knots. Everyone pecking away on their phones, more texting then talking. Lots of I-am-too-cool-to have-a-facial-expression stares, but also lots of little kids, from babes in arms to toddlers lurching around, to resigned youths of eight or nine glued to their iPhones. It reminded me of Krog Street Market, but much rougher physically, People kept pouring in, paying 100 rubles to get in the loft door. It was a street party in an alley.

The interior was falling apart (sections of the wooden bannister rail came off in my hand. Twice,) but creatively divvyed up. Multiple tiny cubbies, made with loving hands out of scrap wood and lollypop colored plastic panels and insulation board. Raw edges and patchwork of found materials; the unisex bathroom stall doors were made out of insulation foam boards.

tat head — Poster boy for their target market.

There were five floors of these hole-in the-wall-shops stocked with hipster/boho/Goth/hippie/rocker/souvenier merch. Excellent! Some American thrift store tat, cool local designers who must be sewing in their bedrooms, sneakers, ‘herbs’, soap, pizza on hotplates and pushed through windows, magnets, charms, cards, leather cuff bracelets, and so on.

I thought this would be ideal for Robin, but needed her confirmation. Texted her the photo.

Simple in color, complex in design. Moves beautifully. Photo does not do it justice.

I didn’t hear back – I think it was 2am her time – so ended up buying a few small things and a teeshirt. On the fourth floor I stepped into a large open restaurant where the bread factory had been. Made by loving hands hippie decor reminded me of back in the day in Haight-Ashbury. Wooden crates, for light fixtures, tin buckets for delivering the check, Yellow butterflies cut out of construction paper and tacked onto every exposed surface; walls, ducts, columns, windows, and tables. I thought of Remedios the Beauty in 100 Years of Solitude who metamorphoses into yellow butterflies. Or maybe it’s a sly reference to Nabokov. The window ledges were lined with tropical plants and desert cacti.

Intended to order something safe, but asked the waitress what she suggested. Mushroom pancakes was her answer and I said yes, though my heart sank. She brought me blini with fresh sautéed mushrooms in a light cream sauce and it was fantastic. My lucky day!

Three costumed figures turned up. I don’t know if they were folk tale Russian characters or hipster weirdness. This couple wandered around doing mime and posing with the clientele.

A top floor art gallery displayed drippy versions of famous people; Bill Murray, Frida Kahlo, Woody Allen. No Russians. The air was redolent with Hookah smoke, pizza, sneezy incense, coffee, and that essential oils and soap reek. Thumping club music, twittery electronica, American R&B made it an ongoing battle of the bands. Looked out the window and saw the green buds of birch tree leaves dotting the bare branches and remember how when he saw the sticky little leaves as they open in spring, Ivan Karamazov fell back in love with the world he wanted to renounce. Then this happened;

On the way out I bought myself a soft, clementine orange bag in leather-ish material made in St Petersburg. Just a simple tote, but it pleased me mightily. Left with Incense clinging to my hair like a halo.

Ubered back to the Astoria with its distinctive red awnings and air of prosperity and permanence. Got a yes to the shirt from Robin, so will return and nab it tomorrow. The concierge had worked magic – I’m scheduled for tours in both places. Russian language, but that doesn’t matter, I just want to look. She said they were impressed I was from Atlanta because of our famed Kimball museum. Um, no. That’s in Fort Worth.