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The things I've seen and in between
(Internet at the Algonquin Hotel intermittent. We have not yet seen the resident cat, Matilda III, either. I do not care. Day pretty solidly seized so far.)
So I have still not made scharv, but that's all right, because we went to Nasha Rasha tonight and I got borscht. The atmosphere is not as Soviet kitschy as the website makes it look, although there are historical murals collage-style on the walls (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel recognized propaganda posters from his high school Russian classroom) and a gigantic red star in neon over the bar; the really important fact is that their food is good. We over-ordered. Next time we'll know to split everything. For the time being, however, I am very content with my half of the "Russian sushi" we shared for an appetizer (lox with cream cheese rolled in blini with salmon roe and caviar on top) and the blini with condensed milk we shared for dessert (HELLO BLOOD SUGAR). In between I discovered that Nasha Rasha makes their borscht vegan, but they brought me sour cream without asking as soon as it became clear from the rest of my order that I was by preference a carnivore; I consumed and regret nothing about an entire order of the house special pelmeni, plump and thin-skinned, filled with soup-dumpling-juicy lamb. Like the Knödel at Bronwyn, Russian restaurants are Food Not Quite of My People—my grandmother made borscht and it instilled in me an undying affection for the beetroot, but I've eaten more blintzes than blini and my default mental image of smoked salmon includes either dark brown bread or a bagel. Most of the meat dishes are unfamiliar to me. I recognize a lot of the vegetable ones by cognate. I'd never heard of two of the soups on tonight's menu at all. That said, I really like the cuisine and I wish I knew where to get it in Boston. The last time I had borscht, I was at Veselka in 2012.
Nasha Rasha is also a vodka bar. They serve something like two hundred different flavors of vodka, house-infused. I do not ordinarily drink vodka that tastes like other things, because usually it is sickeningly sweet and designed to be mixed drink camouflage. Redcurrant vodka, made by people who do not feel the need to put high fructose corn syrup in everything: I need more of this in my life.
Oh, and I got birch juice. Which is exactly what it sounds like. I wonder if they sell it commercially in this country. My husband gives a thumbs-up to his mug of kvass.
Afterward we walked to the Strand, where Rob very nearly bought out their Fred Allen section and I found copies of Jeannette Winterson's The Daylight Gate (2012), which I had been looking for, and Sean O'Brien's Ghost Train (1995), which I had not. My plan for the rest of the evening is to read one of these objects until I pass out, which I expect in more or less short order considering I got up at eight for our exciting adventure with trains. And post this whenever the internet comes back.
So I have still not made scharv, but that's all right, because we went to Nasha Rasha tonight and I got borscht. The atmosphere is not as Soviet kitschy as the website makes it look, although there are historical murals collage-style on the walls (
derspatchel recognized propaganda posters from his high school Russian classroom) and a gigantic red star in neon over the bar; the really important fact is that their food is good. We over-ordered. Next time we'll know to split everything. For the time being, however, I am very content with my half of the "Russian sushi" we shared for an appetizer (lox with cream cheese rolled in blini with salmon roe and caviar on top) and the blini with condensed milk we shared for dessert (HELLO BLOOD SUGAR). In between I discovered that Nasha Rasha makes their borscht vegan, but they brought me sour cream without asking as soon as it became clear from the rest of my order that I was by preference a carnivore; I consumed and regret nothing about an entire order of the house special pelmeni, plump and thin-skinned, filled with soup-dumpling-juicy lamb. Like the Knödel at Bronwyn, Russian restaurants are Food Not Quite of My People—my grandmother made borscht and it instilled in me an undying affection for the beetroot, but I've eaten more blintzes than blini and my default mental image of smoked salmon includes either dark brown bread or a bagel. Most of the meat dishes are unfamiliar to me. I recognize a lot of the vegetable ones by cognate. I'd never heard of two of the soups on tonight's menu at all. That said, I really like the cuisine and I wish I knew where to get it in Boston. The last time I had borscht, I was at Veselka in 2012.Nasha Rasha is also a vodka bar. They serve something like two hundred different flavors of vodka, house-infused. I do not ordinarily drink vodka that tastes like other things, because usually it is sickeningly sweet and designed to be mixed drink camouflage. Redcurrant vodka, made by people who do not feel the need to put high fructose corn syrup in everything: I need more of this in my life.
Oh, and I got birch juice. Which is exactly what it sounds like. I wonder if they sell it commercially in this country. My husband gives a thumbs-up to his mug of kvass.
Afterward we walked to the Strand, where Rob very nearly bought out their Fred Allen section and I found copies of Jeannette Winterson's The Daylight Gate (2012), which I had been looking for, and Sean O'Brien's Ghost Train (1995), which I had not. My plan for the rest of the evening is to read one of these objects until I pass out, which I expect in more or less short order considering I got up at eight for our exciting adventure with trains. And post this whenever the internet comes back.
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And the Strand. So far, a much finer wedding journey than a shuffle off to Buffalo.
Enjoy.
Nine
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There must be somewhere to get it in Boston. I also refuse to believe my city of residence is bereft of all Russian restaurants except that one
And the Strand. So far, a much finer wedding journey than a shuffle off to Buffalo.
We have made no plans to go over Niagara Falls, having learned our lessons early from Arsenic and Old Lace.
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Nine
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As soon as I've read it! We've been running around all day—beyond the first two chapters last night, I've had no time!
(Amazing language, though. I didn't think I liked Winterson as a stylist. But definitely here.)
[edit] I loved it. It's after three in the morning, though, so I'll try to write about it tomorrow.
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Awesome! I shall venture into Brookline, then, and see what I can find.
Sadly, the Polish deli down the block from my house -- which smelled very like my grandmother's coleslaw -- has recently closed, as they would certainly have had it.
I am sorry to hear about the demise of your Polish deli. Your grandmother made good coleslaw?
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She did. Also gefilte fish, and this salad with egg yolk in it. Chicken soup, muhn cookies, and pretty much anything else you can think of that was traditionally Polish and Jewish. My grandmothers were both big on showing love through food.
Also last night I dreamed I went to a half built water park with her and my sister in Greece/Israel (in the dream it made sense).
Good luck finding birch juice. Brookline seems like a good potential source!
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I do not order chicken soup in restaurants because I grew up on my grandmother and my mother's chicken soup and what's the point? Also matzah brei, because I can make it at home if I want it.
Also last night I dreamed I went to a half built water park with her and my sister in Greece/Israel (in the dream it made sense).
Hah. Cool.
Good luck finding birch juice. Brookline seems like a good potential source!
Thank you!
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I like birch beer a lot. It tastes more like root beer than anything else, although whiter and sharper (even when it's red à la Boylan's), more wintergreen. It used to be rarer, too, but it seems to be making a comeback with the other old-fashioned drinks that I'm sure are partly being embraced for their quaintness, but I like how they taste, so I'll take it.
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Do you like other sodas and just not that one?
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I would *like* to like All Things Birch, including birch beer, because my Inner Tree is a birch.
(*purely arbitrary rule: I have a few [ton] of those)
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Bitter lemon is my favorite soda. I couldn't get it for years because of the quinine. It seems to have made a recent comeback as a sort of mixer, à la tonic water; I purchase it from mildly hipster-ish cocktail stores and drink it straight.
I hope someday you find a birch beer that does not taste like antacid.
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Not at all. I'd assume it varies from supplier to supplier like any other juice (or sap, which is what this technically was), but mine was sweet in a mild way and had a kind of soft flavor: much less insistent even than maple, although I suppose that's the closest likeness. It did taste woody. I liked it a lot. I'd never had the opportunity before.
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The phrase "Dumpling House" sold me. (Then they had a nice website.) Thank you! I haven't been to Seattle in a dozen years, but I have friends in Vancouver; I'll have to visit again sometime.
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Thank you!
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I'm not much for vodka of any sort, but I might be willing to give that redcurrant a try myself. At very least I'll make note of Nasha Rasha and its location.
Birch juice sounds fascinating. Is it birch sap, or something like? (Bhuel, Google is my friend. I should go try to answer the question on my own.)
The Strand is always a good place.
A week ago I made a post-concert supper of Korean barbecue with rice and a pork bun in some tiny cramped location not far from there in Saint Mark's Place. I was trying to read more of Sobalsaol (2005), by Pádraig Standún, which is a humourously racy Irish novel, written by a priest, about a hapless soap opera writer, but I ended up spending most of the time listening to the goofy teenagers who were talking one of their number into attempting to eat six pork buns in less than two minutes, with the prize of fame, glory, and not having to pay for the buns.
Which is a long way of getting round the the point of saying that I hope you will not at any point be concerned someone might throw up on you.
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It's birch sap. It comes in a glass. It probably doesn't come from birch trees on the premises, but it didn't taste like it had been sweetened or juiced up; it was a very mild drink, about water-viscosity, and I should have ordered another mug while I was there. Oh, well. When I go back.
The Strand is always a good place.
I can never remember what I want when I'm in there, but I always find at least one wonderful thing I wasn't looking for, so I figure this is just the way the store works.
Which is a long way of getting round the the point of saying that I hope you will not at any point be concerned someone might throw up on you.
It didn't threaten, no.
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It was delicious. I don't usually eat cream cheese in sushi. Next time I'm at a Japanese place, I feel I must scan for a salmon-and-cream-cheese combo with some tobiko at least; I think the blini will be a lost cause.
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Adventures in Russian cuisine sound delicious!
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I don't know, but there were photographs in the second-floor foyer of all the appropriate people—Robert Benchley, Harpo Marx.
Adventures in Russian cuisine sound delicious!
A success!