Pushkin all the way

Small, big, medium-sized, in cities or rural areas, there is a Pushkin monument in every city I have visited in Russia. In Moscow, there's the Pushkin Museum of Art, Pushkin House Museum, Pushkin Square, Pushkin metro station, Pushkin Café… every possible place that can be named after this legendary literary creator, whose life ended senselessly and tragically at a tender age, has been granted this honor.  And let’s not forget the Pushkin Language Institute in Moscow and many other cities in and outside Russia, teaching Russian language, literature and culture to foreigners.

The square is graced with a bronze statue of the Russian bard,  respectably clad in his, at the time, fashionable tailcoat, looking up at the world before him as an admiral would at sea; ever accommodating for all those who have been posing with him in the background from time immemorial. In the summer, brightly-colored flowers illuminate the atmosphere, and tourists' photographs alike. In the winter time, the snow piles up around him. Throughout the weather cycles, inclement or pleasant, he is always present.

The metro station, however, is one of the plainer-looking ones not on the tour list. A shiny bronze bust of yours truly sits on display at one end of the hall. The curly-haired, young, serious-looking poet's portrait is set on a white marble column frequently accompanied by someone posing for a picture. It is a very busy station on the purple line, where it shares space with two other stations; one named after another very well-known Russian writer, Chekhov, and the other after the famous city of Tver, about 100km from Moscow on the way to St Petersburg. Although not on the metro tour, it would be your destination if you were on your way to the square and the neighboring area of trendy restaurants, cafes, and theaters.

 

Pushkin Café is a must-see and must-do in Moscow. Not only for the pleasant, classic atmosphere of dark wood, and tables dressed in burgundy on white, exquisitely ornamented with twinkling glasses and cutlery for several course meals, but for a memorable dining experience fit for the aristocracy. You are ushered in through the front door by the valet to face a long bar with every possible kind of drink bottle in view, as waiters in loose-fitting white shirts tucked into black pants welcome you to this fine-dining eatery. Several waiters were sporting Pushkin’s sideburns as he is shown in his ubiquitous portraits. I was convinced after seeing a few of them that they were either wearing wigs styled in short, curly hair as Pushkin’s to give the restaurant a real Pushkin air, or it may be a prerequisite for employment in the restaurant. However, a few others with slightly different hair texture and style erased the idea from my mind.

I do have to say that our waiter was one of the friendliest I have ever had in Moscow. Pushkin-like short, curly hair, sideburns and very witty with our orders, he smiled throughout our short stay. He was able to provide clear explanations of what each meal I requested contained. Very surprisingly, he was completely supportive in making sure I did not ingest food containing ingredients I am allergic to. His awareness was pleasantly unexpected, which made it easy to talk to him. 

Homemade berry juice, a typical drink consumed by most with all meals, originally only in Russia, known as “mors” is how I chose to start my meal. It was rich and tasted nothing like the ones served elsewhere made of different kinds of berries. It tasted so good, I was well into my second glass before the starter arrived. It was a simple green salad of the freshest vegetables with a dab of vinaigrette dressing which tasted heavenly.

I was in awe of the headless, grilled Dorada I’d ordered - my first experience of having fish completely deboned for me. As such, the fished which had been delicately grilled to a perfect point, with a touch of spices and a side of grilled vegetables inevitably melted on my tongue, shortly after each piece had traveled on the shiny fork from the elaborately decorated platter to my mouth. I savored every bite as long as I could before swallowing and was left with a longing for more after the plate was empty, although I was full.

In the meantime, we could not help listening to the aggressive, undertone conversation at the next table. A Japanese couple, possibly a tour guide and her colleague, were in a heated conversation about booking a table for a group of people, ordering a set meal but substituting different things on the menu with items of their choice. The manager they were speaking to was in no way as friendly as our waiter who exuded humor through all his pores. She sat upright in her seat, back straight, hair pulled up tightly into a chignon, her dress covering her calves matronly, shod in plain, black, low, square heel shoes. Her refusal to give in to the lady’s request, and the lady’s refusal to understand the unfeasibility of her order, even if it was for a big group prolonged the inane conversation to a point of exasperation. There seemed to be no agreement in sight for this relentless tug of war which irritated my co-diner to the point where he had to keep the reins on himself not to turn round and chastise them for ruining our divine dining experience.

Other than that, it was a quiet atmosphere, not crowded for lunch and very enjoyable. I shudder to think of what my experience would have been had we not had the waiter we were assigned.

 

Ordering dessert was a playful game which had us laughing out loudly. Everything looked good and would surely taste even better than it looked, I thought. However, I was limited to sorbets which they fortunately had, and coffee or tea. Trying to limit the number of scoops I could have in relation to the variety of flavors available was an ordeal which had the waiter in stitches – “black currant, mango and lemon”, “no, wait a minute, black currant, mango and strawberry”.

“Are you sure?” he asked with a smile

“Yes. No. Hmmm. Ok, black currant mango and … another mango.”

“Is that your final answer?” All three of us howled with laughter as my dilemma seemed to be tearing me apart.

“Yes”, I answered.

“You have one last chance.” he insisted. We laughed some more and I agreed that it was my final answer.

My friend ordered a very elaborate chocolate cake I was jealous I could not have. The taste it left in his mouth, looking at the empty plate, compelled him to order another piece, but of a different kind which looked equally as good, surely tasted even better and made me greener with envy, as I sipped my espresso and savored, spoonful by spoonful the different flavors of sorbet I'd ordered.

With the last spoonful of dessert, our meal had come to an end, but we were reluctant to leave that very pleasant, cozy atmosphere. A trip to the restrooms in the basement revealed an ample area and antique-looking toilets; wooden seats on blue and white flower decorated porcelain commodes with a matching design for the water closet set up high on the wall with a long chain. Back up on the first floor, we chose to venture on to the second floor. 

Dining there is akin to dining in a historic library. If we were in awe of the first floor, there were even fewer words to describe the sumptuousness of the layout of the second floor; tables set among dark wood shelves, laden with leather-bound books of yore. Floor to ceiling glass windows let in some light magnified by the luminosity from a number of intricately adorned chandeliers. A few diners could be seen lingering around the end of their meal, enjoying every moment of it. I would have stayed for dinner, but the fresh salad, exquisite fish, delicious dessert and strong coffee to wash it down, together with the mors and water, had left quite a hole in my wallet, so I had to arrange for dinner on the second floor another time.