RuKsaK

The dreary Russian girl ached her way through a desperate conversation with me:
‘You like Russian kitchen?’
Stretching my irritated ears to her minuscule whisper:
‘You like Russian kitchen?’ she repeated.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sorry.’ The last word being a nasty lie. I also didn’t know the truth of her question yet.
------
Alexander Anatolovich, my father-in-law, twisted off the cap on the first bottle with ease, but also smiling determination. Anatoly Feodorovich, my grandfather-in-law sat next to me – a seriously old man, whose grip was astonishing and long. Alexander popped three little vodka glasses on the plastic table cover and filled them:
‘Davai Paul.’

‘Davai’ is an ingenious Russian word, which means ‘come on’, but carries so much more zest, or annoyance, than our pitiful English equivalent.

Also, my real name is Paul – not RuKsaK. The truth must will out in a Russian kitchen.

As a trio, we necked the freezing fifty grams in one flick. The edges of our lips stretched, let out gasps, our teeth savaged some pickled cucumber, and another got poured. Me and Alexander exchanged pithy views on the weather and our jobs.

Grandfather sat in silence. The guy was deaf as a brick and only massive shouting, an inch from his ear drum, got through. This, coupled with my lousy Russian, walled us in silence.

We got to the end of the bottle and Alexander left the kitchen confines. As grandfather clasped my thigh, showing his gums just millimetres from my face, unnerving me, I could hear an arsy plea intone from the other room. Alexander came back with a square, unlabelled bottle of clear liquid:
‘Samogon Paul – davai!’

Samagon means nothing more than homemade vodka. Alexander poured a fill for the three of us again. I vainly attempted to conceal my apprehension when the two patriarchal in-laws nodded to me tightly, with glasses ready to be downed. This one was not chilled, and on drinking the first fifty grams I couldn’t help but yell out:
‘Whoo! Fuck me ragged!’

The rasp ripped down my throat, incinerated my oesophagus, railed into my guts, took a swift bully around and sat in there fuming. I sweated some pearls too. My Russian family laughed and poured another. I was ready this time. We downed them.
------
As much as it is an internationally recognised action, ‘fuck’ is also an internationally recognised word.
------
That first glass of samagon must have rocked me hard. After the third glass of samagon grandfather lurched forward from his ninety degree position, stared into me with mischief and bashed my face with an open, gritty palm:
‘Davai Lob! Russki mat!’

Another hammering clout:
‘Russki mat! Davai lob! Davai! Davai lob!’
Translated:
‘Swear in Russian! Come on forehead! Come on! Come on forehead!’

The samagon dry, Alexander walked convincingly to the other rooms again. This time louder sighs and disapprovals. He returned with a milk bottle full of more transparent liquid. My wife was following him:
‘Don’t have much Paul. Please.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s speert.’
‘What? What’s that?’
‘My dad got it from his job. They use it to clean technical details.’
‘Fuck it – my gut is a technical detail. Let me have some.’ I wobbled.

Two glasses into this ninety percent proof bottle of danger, diluted by the fetid St.Petersburg tap water, I did it. I leaned over, got in real close to grandfather, the hairs of his lugs almost scratching my tongue tip and blasted at him:
‘Yop tvai mat! Yop tavi mat!’ (Fuck your mother! Fuck your mother!)
------
We’d reached our destination.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Russian Kitchens - part 1