Russian soup for the soul: how cooking helped me love again | Boris Fishman
Novelist Boris Fishman shunned his heritage until a fiery internship in the kitchen of a New York restaurant
In 2014, a Russian eatery named Moscow5 7 opened near my apartment on New Yorks Lower East Side. Manhattan was full of Russian restaurants, both classics such as Samovar and parvenus such as Mari Vanna; but the main distinction, as I insured it, was in their flavours of poshlost kitschy nostalgia and arriviste vulgarity, respectively. And now places like these had set up shop on my stroll to the metro. I started taking the other side of the street.
I had grown up going to Russian restaurants. In 1988, when I was nine, my family immigrated from the former Soviet Union to Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, where the Italians were slowly giving way to Chinese and Russians. My only wish was to transform myself from Boris to Bobby and shed every sign of my heritage, but I was too young to say no when my family packed off to places like the National Restaurant in Brighton Beach, the heavily Russian neighbourhood in Brooklyn, for somebodys birthday.( Someone had a birthday all the time .) There, seated at banquet tables worthy of Rabelais, we gorged on fried potatoes with morels, sturgeon, quail and duck liver, and watched elaborated floor show dancing girls, attires, smoking stunned by the food and the sight. Id had enough for a lifetime.
By the end of high school, I was passing well enough that I was ripe for reclamation: a high school reading of Ivan Turgenevs Fathers And Sons hacked down my little Berlin wall, leading to a Russian literature major at university and a journalism career that never strayed far away from Russians, whether there or in the Russian diaspora. My poor Jewish parents, abused by the Soviets into disdain for that place and those people, wished I hadnt been so quick to shed my self-loathing, but they maintained going to the National, and I stopped. I stopped ensure them, too. Otherwise, how was I to save myself from their trauma?
One rainy late springtime Sunday night in 2015, a friend and I induced our route through three rounds of cocktails in a neighbourhood bar and, gin in my head, I forgot to cross to the right side of Delancey Street when we strolled past Moscow5 7. My friend was a Russian non-Russian like me, and we likely supposed the same thing: whatever affectation wed discoveries at Moscow5 7 would at least share nothing with the studied scruffiness of a Lower East Side cocktail den circa 2015. Also, Russian food soaks up booze really well.
It was beautiful inside. Blood-red walls, soft light, decorative chaos: pressed-tin ceiling, blocks of mirrors, photographs hung up with clothes pegs. And the menu was both familiar and not: blinis, but also cucumber and pomegranate salad; borscht, but also pistachio and fenugreek shrimp. The eatery felt like nothing but itself, an elusive commodity in the city that has everything. To reach our banquette, we had to squeeze past a woman belting Little Girl Blue with the help of a small band; when she finished, she strolled up to us and introduced herself Ellen Kaye, one of the owners. Her parents had run the Russian Tea Room on 57 th Street, hence Moscow5 7. Then she took a swig of honey and returned to the mic. It was everything Id always wished to find in a Russian eatery: warmth rather than pomp. I started walking on the Moscow5 7 side of the street.
That spring, I was disoriented. The previous year, after years of rejection, I had published my first fiction to all the reception a first-time novelist dreams of. So much so that I went on a reading tour that mortals like me must leave to the Coldplays of the world: nine months and more than 100 appearances. Telling the same thing every night while attempting to seem sincere had induced me feel like a sociopath. I was once a social animal but trying to engage with readers had drained any longing for human contact from me. In the middle of it all, a woman I loved left me. So, during my last months of readings, Id sit against the wall of my hotel room for hours before rising to go out and on autopilot talk, attain gags, and ask and answer questions for three hours.
I was desperate to shut off my brain, but I could scarcely leave my bed. One night at Moscow5 7( one of the few places I could stand to go to ), I joked to Ellen and Seth Goldman, one of her business partners( two of the few people I could stand to consider ), that Id always wanted to work as a waiter, perhaps because, food having been scarce in the Soviet Union, for many Russians the prospect of serving it to another can be almost erotically fulfilling.( My grandmother, a Holocaust survivor who ate potato peelings as she hid out with guerrilla fighters in the Belarus woods, would move her mouth along with mine as she watched me eat .) Plus, I was good with people or so I had once supposed. Maybe Ellen and Seth would let me serve food now and then? Id do it for free. Serve? he said. You dont want to intern in the kitchen?