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The wife smacks him on the back. “She’s an American. They don’t kiss strangers, you old pervert.”
“Call me Boris.” The father grins so widely the edges of his mustache touch his temples.
The mother smacks his back again, then shakes my hand with a genuine smile and drags me closer. Thankfully, her kiss is of the air variety. “Forgive my bear husband, dear,” she whispers conspiratorially. “Call me Natasha.”
As I pull back, I do my best to keep a poker face.
Boris and Natasha? That’s exactly who they remind me of—the two villains from that old cartoon show with the moose and the squirrel. They even share their names.
I bet if I used my app on them, it would confirm this too. Even their heavy Russian accents are nearly identical.
“Please, sit.” Boris pulls out a chair for me—and gets another smack from his wife for his troubles.
“Thanks.” I sit down, and Vlad sits next to me.
The table is teeming with plates covered by cloth napkins. No one has begun eating yet, it seems.
“Service the lady,” Natasha says to Vlad sternly, gesturing at the covered food.
Service me? Maybe if he got under the table or something, but even then, it would be hella awkward.
Vlad’s face is stormy as he gazes at his mother. “Shouldn’t we wait for everyone to gather first?”
This isn’t everyone?
Natasha scoffs. “Latecomers do not get to eat.”
“Or drink.” Boris grabs a giant bottle of Stoli and pours me a shot without asking if I want one.
He then does the same for Vlad, Alex, and his wife. For himself, he pours the vodka into a wine glass.
Natasha stares daggers at Boris. “You will have shots, like a normal person.”
Boris waves for a waiter to come over and says something to him in Russian.
The waiter sprints away and returns with a handful of shot glasses that he pours Boris’s vodka into.
“How about a compromise?” Boris says to Vlad and uncovers one plate. “We’ll have some pickles and a drink for now, as an appetizer.”
“Whatever,” Vlad mutters, then spears a pickle and deposits it on my plate.
Boris puts a pickle on his wife’s plate, then his own, and Alex “services” himself.
“I claim the first toast.” Natasha raises her shot glass and looks around as if daring anyone to contradict her.
Did Vlad just roll his eyes?
Natasha doesn’t seem to notice. Looking at me, she says, “Only alcoholics drink by themselves, without a cause, and without a toast.”
Wise. I’m not sure any of that is part of the twelve-step program, but I keep my mouth shut, opting to drink some water instead.
“As a woman in her middle years, I can be forgiven if I think about my family legacy,” Natasha continues, for some reason narrowing her eyes at Alex before looking approvingly at Vlad.
Looking directly at me, Natasha raises her glass even higher. “To the health of my unborn grandchildren.”
I choke on my water and begin coughing.
Boris leaps out of his chair and smacks me five times on the back.
