Moscow-tails

Muskovsky bar befitted the occasion of a farewell drink, and so it is that we headed there on a cold December evening. This time, although temperatures were below zero, it was still in the single digits, making it unnecessary for the welcoming doormen to don their long, heavy red coats - they were  still in red, but short jackets, inviting the guests in with a smile.

I'd been waiting for the grand hotel in Manezh Square to open since I came to Moscow three years ago. The scaffold structure surrounded by metal railings and security guards I used to pass by, was the original, legendary Moskva Hotel built in the 1930s, I had read. It had been demolished and replaced with what is now the luxury Four Seasons.

My first visit was a few days after it finally opened. With a considerable amount of time to kill on my way to the theater, it seemed the perfect place to seek shelter from the double-digit, subzero temperature, windy day. As I was ushered to my seat in the Silk Lounge, I admired the modern décor of shiny blacks and whites, marble floors, plush seats and carpets, and the gentleness of the staff. They all spoke in soft tones, offered welcoming smiles, ever-ready to accommodate the guest.

Needless to say that the soy latte I ordered was delivered hot as I'd requested, in an elegant porcelain mug together with some snacks. The same order in other similar category hotels has been questioned, frowned upon or suggested be replaced with non-fat milk, as if it were the same. Extremely satisfied, did not begin to describe how I felt. Bearing that experience in mind and yearning to repeat the previous pleasant one, no other place seemed better for a memorable event.

We felt like long-lost family returning home as we were invited to take a seat in the empty Muskovsky bar. As I buried myself in the comfortable couch and piled pillows around me, it really felt like home. First on my list to try was the Moscow Mule; their signature drink - a cocktail with a kvass base, ginger and lime. I had long resisted trying kvass - a beverage made with fermented bread, not knowing how my body would react to it. Torn between reluctance and adventure upon learning about it, I decided to be a sport - at least I could say I tried it.

My surprise was directed more at the medieval-era looking, pock-marked brass cup that the drink was served in. It certainly made it very special. Big chunks of ice kept it chilled and the gingery-tangy taste was not at all unpleasant. I asked our friendly waiter, who came by to find out how we were enjoying our drinks, if what I had read about the origin of the ice used for cocktails in Muskovsky bar was true.


"Is this ice really shipped in in form of giant blocks from Baikal Lake?"

"Not the ice, but the water," he explained.

I didn't think blocks of ice would survive the long journey, despite reading about it in a serious international newspaper, unless flown in, and even so... The water, he confirmed, was brought in from Baikal and then frozen in Moscow for the sole purpose of making cocktails. He subsequently went behind the bar and brought out a chunk of ice to show us. How friendly is that? And how duty-bound is that?

My second drink was the same Moscowpolitan my colleague had had, claiming it was a lady's drink. Mine was served in the usual funnel-like cocktail glass with a stem, garnished with blueberries on a toothpick, whereas his was served in a circular one. Though enjoyable, I'm not quite sure I tasted all the ingredients in the drink - citrus infused Beluga vodka, home-made black raspberry jam, cranberry compote, vanilla and lime.

The atmosphere made for good conversation - dim lights, comfortable furniture, varied music at an appropriate volume to talk comfortably, not to mention that we had the place to ourselves. My colleague's second drink had us in stitches as soon as it was placed on the table. We had to reassure our waiter our guffaws had nothing to do with his service, nor anything he had said.

Named the Trans-Siberian, and served in the metal holder for the cylindrical glasses tea is served in on long-distance trains, we were reminded of our adventures across Russia on different trains. I had never thought I'd see drinks served in that kind of recipient anywhere outside a train, let alone, in an upscale hotel bar. The waiter understood and joined in the merriment as we mentioned a few places we'd been to on those trains.

The theme of Muskovsky bar became clearer - typically Russian. We reminisced about places visited in Russia and our experiences there, clinked glasses and hoped for many more, possibly elsewhere.

After the second drink, I was ready to pack it in. Our efficient waiter came by to clear the table and offer another drink, but I was done and wanted no more.

With his usual friendly smile and soft manners, he disappeared and promptly returned with a chilled glass of water in a Bohemian crystal cut glass with a twig of rosemary, and of course lumps, not cubes, of ice. I guess the ice makes all the difference.

Refreshing. Relaxing.

Shortly after, he came back to ask if we'd like another drink. How could I resist his friendly smile, his warm invitation, so rare in Moscow? Why not try something different, and humor him while I was at it?

"What would you recommend?

He ran through a list which didn't really register with me, so I took matters in my own hands.

"What about the Red Square?" "What is that like?"

He rattled off the ingredients. Not being a connoisseur, the only information which registered in my mind was the name - Red Square. We're in Moscow, of course. Why not try a Red Square?

Red, as in the doormen's liveries. Red as in royalty. Red as in the background of the long-buried yellow sickle and scythe, in keeping with the Russian theme at the hotel.

Off he went with our orders. Over the music and our conversation, I could hear the beat of maracas in the background - well the cocktail shaker. I turned my head to see the bartender emulating Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Missing from the picture were the young admirers screaming as they crawled over the counter to get his attention. Maybe if he had the same audience, he would also throw the shaker in the air, catch it behind his back after throwing it between his legs. It may very well be the scene next time I come to the Muskovsky.

The maracas stopped, and shortly afterwards, our drinks appeared in front of us. Rum, amaretto, raspberries, slivers of grilled pineapple and lemon - it tasted divine. No doubt, the pleasure could be read on my face.

"Good choice," said the waiter. I couldn't agree with him more.

Savoring the last drops of that last drink, we were ready to try the delicacies at the Bystro. We walked through the long halls admiring the columns, pilasters and chandeliers omnipresent in any grand building in Moscow - the Russian State Library, the Ministry of Architecture and even the Komsomolskaya metro station are a few that come to mind. This time, for the festive season, the halls were decked, not in boughs of holly, but in red and gold, shiny and matte balls.

The Bystro seemed reserved for us, and with no other guests in sight, the placed seemed overstaffed with all the beautifully laid tables expectant of diners. On two levels, the simple, modern look gave it a homey, accessible air. The emptiness notwithstanding, they were all very friendly and helpful with recommendations.

Eager to try different dishes, I was delighted to find half-portions were available, so I had half the venison salad - my first try, and half the Kamchatka crab salad. Both delicious, but I preferred the latter; the former being very salty. With little time to fully digest the stuffed olives of different kinds I'd previously gorged on at the Muskovsky, the grilled salmon proved too much, and thus the entrée became my lunch the next day. Dessert was out of the question - on hold for another visit.

"Weeeelll. So I see you cooked yesterday," a colleague commented.

"Just a doggy bag," I reassured her.