Culinary Delight in Moscow

The menu was one of a kind - a wooden chopping board with a spoon and clip holding together, the intentionally dog-eared-I-presume, brown sheets listing the variety of meals and beverages available for degustation.

I ordered borsch, roasted beetroot and goat cheese salad, and pear strudel, all to be washed down with lipa leaves tea after a refreshing pear duchess [pronounced dyushess] with dried, poppy-seed covered bread snacks.

I had seen these minuscule white flowers blooming all over the city as the more favorable weather set in, but took no particular notice of it until a friend pointed it out to me on a trip outside of Moscow. Several ladies, plastic bag in hand, were filling these with the flowers attached to the budding leaves they plucked off the fast- bloomed trees after the long, longed-for defrost. "Lipa!" my friend remarked. "My grandmother used to make lipa tea all the time. Seeing these women reminds me of the pleasant aroma which filled the house when I visited her." The flowers are picked, dried and stored for use during the guaranteed, cold winter months. That was another item to add to the list of novelties I was experiencing in Russia, but had not been fortunate enough to taste till I could order it in a restaurant.

I took a few sips, actually gulps, of the chilled, sweet, carbonated soft drink which arrived first as I settled down to recover from the effects inflicted by the laborious task of finding Mari Vanna; a quaint, picturesque Russian cuisine restaurant in the heart of Moscow, not too far from Partriarch Ponds and the Tchaikovsky concert hall.

It had been one of those days in Moscow, with intermittent rain. And the restaurant had been one of those places - difficult to find. We had spent what seemed like endless hours, although it may have been only a few minutes, going round in circles looking for a sign signalling the name of the restaurant on top of an entrance we would walk through. But we were always at the wrong place. It helped that we were in the company of a Russian friend, so we didn't feel totally useless at finding a clearly stated address in this, at times, labyrinthine megalopolis.

We were in the right vicinity, in the right street, and at the right number, but saw nothing resembling an entrance to a restaurant. We asked on two occasions and were directed on both with the help of information provided by a sophisticated, hand-held communicating device - all to no avail, since neither got us there. Finally, we asked a man who had come out of a door for a smoke. After a long drawn puff, he startlingly informed us, "You are standing in front of her".

It took me a few seconds to recover from the shock, hoping he wasn't referring to himself - short, stooped under the awning, shielding himself from the pouring rain, cigarette in one hand, the other warming itself under his armpit. We looked up, and around, and still saw no sign. In the dark, we had missed the collection of old door plaques engraved with Russian last names and matching doorbells - their version of a sign; still no Mari Vanna sign in sight . There might have been about thirty to fifty of them. Would pressing any of the bells had led us to the right place? I could never find out as it didn't occur to me to try it.

Refreshed, rested and recovered from the ordeal, I made my way to the ladies room to wash my hands before tackling my meal. As I stepped into the restroom, I couldn't help but feel transported back into another epoch. I had been looking for signs of the bygone Soviet-era in different places unsuccessfully, as modernized Moscow aspires to be western, international, depriving me of the sights I hoped would represent and remind me of that legendary time in history so unique to this great country.

The top half of the walls of the small room were papered in what represented pages from newspapers and magazines from that nostalgic time I'd longed to experience. A wooden, wireless radio from which French melodies emanated sat perched on a small shelf on the left as you walked in. Wooden, were also the seat and toilet paper holder. The water closet was placed up high as its white-knobbed chain dangled to within easy reach. A few framed pictures and other colorful artifacts on the walls livened the little room. A grey wooden box on the wall held two current Russian daily newspapers. Fluffy, white face towels, nicely folded had been carefully piled in rows on shelves under the radio. A mirror in a wooden frame hung on the door, and a wooden bin affixed beneath the hand-wash basin provided for used towels looked more like a decorative, than functional piece of furniture. It was warm and squeaky clean in there, and oozed of the homey, snug feeling one gets from being wrapped in a familiar comforter on a cold, rainy, winter night. If they had taken such care decking the toilet, what wonders would they have done to the eating area itself?

I'd been previously informed that dining at Mari Vanna's was like having a meal in a Soviet apartment. It

looked more like pre-Soviet, bourgeois era decor to me, as I'd seen in more than one house museum such as Pushkin's in Arbat Street. On my way back to my table, I stopped every few steps to admire and take in the set-up which was simply breath-taking. A round table in a corner, which could be reserved for an intimate family meal of four, was set with beautifully hand-painted dishes which seemed to have been imported from Limoges, and crisply-starched, off-white, rectangular-folded napkins underneath beautiful, sparkling crystal, ready to be occupied. A row of old sewing machines lined on the window sill beside this table accentuated the warm, homey feeling in every square inch of the walk down memory lane in this small restaurant.

Most tables were occupied - some by couples of same or mixed genders having intimate conversations as they savored their meals. Extreme satisfaction deeply etched in their facial and bodily expressions. Others were occupied by groups of adults or families, some celebrating an event, others just refueling at the end of the day. Some tables were in the process of being vacated as others were being occupied. The restaurant staff didn't have an idle moment to spare.

I finally returned where my two co-diners waited patiently at the white-lacquered table covered with a beige table cloth, on seats upholstered in the fashion of the start of the previous century. There was very little room left on our table crammed with myriad utensils occupying their due space - the rest of my drink was waiting for me, the lipa leaves were brewing in the plain beige teapot sitting at one end, our three cups and saucers of the same set as the pot also occupied their space. A glass bowl of dried snacks from which three hands took turns sat majestically in the center. How would our dishes fit?

No sooner had I formulated the question, than the answer was provided in person. One of those deep bottom round hand-painted dishes was placed in front of me, and the borsch I'd ordered was ladled into it from a casserole. I waited impatiently for my friends to be served their chosen first courses before I started the appetizing soup. One had another kind of vegetable soup and the other had boiled potatoes with baked herring sprinkled with parsley served in a deep oval dish - all very Russian. I kindly declined to taste their choices and took my first spoonful - it tasted divine! After almost two years in Russia, it was probably my second try of this typical Russian dish. I voraciously savored every spoonful and left the dish dry, as did my friends who similarly enjoyed their orders.

We enjoyed our second courses and commented incessantly on how tasty it all was, how efficient the staff were, how nicely the restaurant was decorated, how homey it felt and how it actually felt as if Mari Vanna herself had cooked the meal we were having in the kitchen down the hall. The section we sat in had been furnished with transparent cupboards filled with crockery - dishes of all sizes, glasses, teapots, cups, saucers and other utensils as would be found in a family home, in addition to various table artifacts. On the opposite wall, a wooden frame held a flat screen TV we paid no attention to. It looked down onto us from a height as we sat busily talking under a big abat-jour shielding the lamp from which three elongated bulbs illuminated our table and all of its contents.

My dessert tasted just like I wanted it - fruity, not too sweet and healthy, accompanied by cup after cup of lipa leaves tea. As good as it tasted, and as much as I enjoyed it, there was no story behind it, contrary to my co-diner's "naked heart" as it was called in the Russian menu, but plain "pigeon's milk" in the English one.

As it was explained to us, "naked heart" is the name of a charity association founded by a Russian top model now married to a Swiss mogul. A percentage of the proceeds from consuming this dessert goes to this children's charity fund bearing the name Naked Heart. It was presented on a large, flat, hand-painted plate in the design of the others we'd eaten in, in the shape of a heart set in the midst of a strawberry syrup-drawn heart surrounded by an assortment of wild berries so common in Russia, so rare it other countries, and mint leaves.

It had been a wonderful evening after a not-so-easy quest to find the restaurant in the rain. All that difficulty was soon forgotten after the welcoming atmosphere we entered which played French and Russian folk music throughout our dinner. By the time we were done with our meal and ready to leave, any inconvenience we may have experienced was completely forgotten, with a great desire to return soon to try other dishes and enjoy the same warm atmosphere.

The bill was brought to us in an old ladies' coin purse which had us all ooing and aahing at the cuteness of the purse and the originality of the idea. As we placed our due in it and clipped it shut, I couldn't help but feel that we were rewarding and thanking Mari Vanna herself for the wonderful meal, homey setting, beautiful decor, and transporting me successfully to another time in history. I have dined in several other restaurants in Moscow and none have impressed me as much as Mari Vanna, in the quality of food-price ratio, as well as service. Leaving was more difficult than I'd expected but the thought of returning made it more bearable.

The fat, furry, fluffy, grey ball of a cat that stood immobile in its basket on a shelf looking like a lifeless part of the decor, petted by all as they came in, was finally curled up in the same basket sleeping. Were it not for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of grey fur, it would be completely unnoticeable as it blended in so well with the home bric-a-brac carefully placed on the various-sized shelves of the divider. But people noticed as they walked by, petted, caressed or kissed it on their way out as they did on their way in. Were it ever removed from that restaurant it would not survive, already used to the attention of scores of hands extended from different visitors.

Sad to leave, I produced the wooden number plate to the cloakroom assistant who located my coat and helped me put it on. We couldn't resist taking pictures of the strings of dried vegetables hung in the foyer and the bicycle over the door frame. A must-see-and-do in Moscow. Umbrella back in hand, off we went retracing our steps with a spring in our feet.