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“Bella shames the family.” Boris’s usually warm demeanor is gone.
“Bullshit.” Bella glares at her father. “You shame the family, with your drinking and—”
“Belka, stop it,” Natasha hisses. “We have a guest.”
Oh, boy. Sucks to be in the middle of a family squabble.
At least I’ve learned something. Besides meaning “squirrel,” Belka also appears to be the diminutive of Bella.
“Can we eat now?” Alex asks, and before anyone answers, he removes the cover from the plate nearest him.
“Good idea.” Vlad does the same to another plate.
“I’m starving,” I lie and join them in uncovering the food.
The parents and sister join us more reluctantly. They still look upset. I make a mental note to steer the conversation somewhere safe if I get the chance.
For now, I examine the food.
Vlad didn’t lie. It’s less weird than the chef’s choice from the restaurant—not that the bar was set all that high.
“Is that a Jell-O made out of meat?” I point at the item standing next to Vlad.
Natasha smiles patronizingly. “That’s holodetz. Try some with gorchitza and hren.”
“She means mustard and horseradish sauce.” Vlad puts some of the holo-whatever on my plate and garnishes it with the two items. “Try it.”
I do it gingerly.
The thing tastes like a really meaty chicken soup but has that jelly texture, which somehow works.
“Yum,” I tell the expectant Chortskys, and as a reward (or maybe punishment), they begin educating me about the rest of the dishes.
The main thing I learn: Russians like to pickle things I wouldn’t even dream of pickling, such as watermelon, apples, grapes, and herring.
Also, there are at least four more shots of vodka and long toasts throughout the lesson. Not wanting to get too drunk, I keep sipping on my one shot glass.
My favorite dish turns out to be Oliver or something that sounds like it—I mentally call it “the kitchen sink salad.” It has chopped potatoes, meat, carrots, pickles, eggs, green peas, and enough mayo to keep Hellmann’s in business for a month.
“She doesn’t want caviar,” Vlad says when his father tries to put a crêpe and some black stuff on my plate.
I smile sheepishly. “I only dislike snail eggs and cricket flour blinis. If this is buckwheat and sturgeon roe, I’ll try some.”
Boris laughs. “I can’t believe they made my joke suggestion at that restaurant.”
“It was pretty good, actually,” Vlad says with a grin.
I try the famous delicacy and enjoy it.
“That’s nothing as exotic as what we had in Ecuador.” Natasha looks at Vlad challengingly. “Did I tell you about cuy asado?”
“Fanny won’t like that story,” Vlad says sternly. Touching my hand, he explains, “Cuy asado is grilled guinea pig. Mother likes to tell that story because she doesn’t like Oracle.”
What? That’s horrible. Monkey shall never hear of this dish—she already acts like I might eat her.
Natasha wrinkles her nose. “A rat is a rat.”
Wow. So many minefields with this family.
