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sommé) from carpenter’s glue appeared. Soviet cuisine was perhaps simple-spiri- ted, but in no way simple – no one knew what had fallen into the “table” cutlets, where “fishy ingredients” used to swim, what kind of fauna was used to prepare a “tourist breakfast”. A real patriotic menu is turned towar- ds eternity, a good part of which is covered by aspic jelly, which has a recipe that inc- ludes the especially intriguing instructi- on: “After six hours, remove the foam aga- in”. Rich shchi (a cabbage soup) is cooked for two days in three broths. The mush (a thick porridge) is stuffed into skin, and ste- amed. To cook dumplings we should wait for winter. The fastest dish to cook is a spe- cial thick soup from live fish, but for that you need a hook. That’s why I don’t know how to tran- slate “fast food” in my native language. And it’s no wonder that Russian food has had no success abroad. It's like Cyrillic: on the one hand it is too unique, but on the other it isn’t exotic enough. The best of it was stolen by our neighbours (Swe- dish “Absolute”) or it has been (like black caviar in America) outlawed. Everything else is replaced by the universal garnish - balalaika. Reconciling that with somet- hing which is inevitable, a Russian restau- rant in a foreign country usually speaks with a Caucasian accent. se petoletka ispunila za četiri godine, poja- vile su se pihtije od stolarskog tutkala. So- vjetska kuhinja je možda i bila prostoduš- na, ali nikako prosta – niko nije znao šta je to dospevalo u „stolne“ kotlete, gde je to običavao da pliva „riblji sastojak“, od ka- kve faune se spravljao „turistički doručak“. Pravi patriotski jelovnik okrenut je ka večnosti, čiji dobar deo zaprema gotovlje- nje pihtija, u čijem receptu posebno intri- gira uputstvo „posle šest sati ponovo ski- nuti penu“. Bogat šči se kuva dva dana u tri bujona. Kaša se utrpava u kožuh i pari, kao da je nazebla. Da bi se napeklo pe- ljmena, treba sačekati zimu. Najbrže se kuva osobita čorba od žive ribe, ali za to vam treba udica. Eto zašto ja ne znam kako da preve- dem „fast food“ na maternji jezik. I nije ni čudo što ruska hrana nije imala uspeha u inostranstvu. Ona je kao ćirilica: s jedne strane suviše samosvojna, a s druge ne- dovoljno egzotična. Ono najbolje od nje su ili ukrali susedi (švedski apsolut ) ili je (kao u Americi crni kavijar) stavljeno van zakona. Sve ostalo zamenjuje univerzalni garnirung – balalajka. Pomirivši se s onim neizbežnim, ruski restoran u tuđini obič- no govori kavkaskim akcentom.
re mnogo godina, brkajući no- stalgiju i mamurluk, Petar Vajl i ja napisali smo kulinarsku knjigu primerenog naslova. U emigraci- ji je prihvaćena kao istorijski ro-
ded with the culinary wildness of the New World. And I always saw the same thing: Russian cuisine, like the Slavic soul, does not lend itself to foreigners. And that is to be expected. Just like our speech, our cu- isine is also bubbling with euphemisms and ellipses, which can only be translated with belches. Of course, the Russian table prefers that which flows, but is not limited by that. A great selection of snacks and an unprecedented offer of soups ensure that Russian cuisine is not poorer than its li- terature. The trouble is that they are both difficult to translate. Our cuisine is toug- her to understand than to simulate. Let’s start with the fact that the essential in- gredient of Russian cuisine is - time. You can save on everything else, except that. For a thousand years Russia hasn’t rushed anywhere, and when they started making a frenzy over it, in order for the five-ye- ar plan to be fulfilled in four years, aspic jelly (a dish where ingredients are set into a gelatin made from a meat stock or con- A great selection of snacks and an unprecedented offer of soups ensure that Russian cuisine is not poorer than its literature mažu jakovu mast, i u pekinškoj Moskvi , gde pomodari razblažuju džin kvasom, i u mnoštvu lažnih Maksima , koji su pre- plavili kulinarsku divljinu Novog sveta. I uvek sam video jedno te isto: ruska ku- hinja, kao slovenska duša, ne podaje se strancima. Što je i bilo očekivano. Baš kao naš govor, i naša kuhinja vrvi od eufemi- zama i elipsi, koje se mogu prevesti samo podmigivanjem. Naravno, ruska trpeza preferira ono što teče, ali se time ne ograničava. Nevi- đen izbor zakuski i nečuvena ponuda supa čine da ruska kuhinja nije siromašnija od njene književnosti. Nevolja je što se obe teško prevode. Našu kuhinju je teže razu- meti nego simulirati. Počnimo s tim da je osnovni sastojak ruskog jela – vreme. Na svemu možete da štedite, osim na vreme- nu. Hiljadu godina Rusija nikuda nije žuri- la, a kada su počeli da je požurkuju ne bi li Neviđen izbor zakuski i nečuvena ponuda supa čine da ruska kuhinja nije siromašnija od njene književnosti
Many years ago, confusing nostal- gia and a hangover, Peter Weil and I wro- te a culinary book. In emigrat circle it is accepted as a historical novel, in Ru- ssia as sci-fi reading, and only in the bu- siness-minded East did they find a practi- cal application in Russian cuisine-in-exile and translated it into Japanese. Thus it is understandable that I trave- lled to Tokyo with a gastronomic halo. To mark this event, the translator selected a restaurant with (for him) an unpronoun- ceable name: “Volga”. Carefully putting down the hieroglyphic menu, I left the se- lection to my host. It wouldn’t be difficult to guess that he ordered borscht for us. A waiter dressed as a Matryoshka doll imme- diately brought up chopsticks. Noticing my confusion, he shook his head in disgust and brought a knife and fork. Not a tra- ce of a spoon. Though, admittedly, not of borscht either. They brought it later, and in parts: on a square plate lay meat, in an oval one - beetroot, and in a bowl – cream. After the third glass of Italian brandy, which in my youth was called bad rakija, since that is what it was, the conversation perked up. I had a chance to eat - I justified “Vol- gan” cuisine - in the Nepalese “Red Squ- are”, where on black bread they smear grease, and in Beijing’s “Moscow”, whe- re waiters dilute gin with yeast, and the extremely fake “Maxim”, which they floo- man, u Rusiji kao naučnofantastično štivo, a samo su na poslovnom istoku u ruskoj kuhinji u izgnanstvu otkrili praktičnu pri- menu i preveli je na japanski jezik. Otuda je razumljivo što sam u Tokio doputovao s gastronomskim oreolom. Da bi obeležio taj događaj, prevodilac je oda- brao restoran sa (za njega) neizgovorivim nazivom Volga . Oprezno odloživši hijero- glifni meni, izbor sam prepustio domaćinu. Nije teško pogoditi da nam je poručio bor- šč. Konobar kostimiran kao matrjoška od- mah je doneo hohlomske štapiće. Prime- tivši moju nedoumicu, gadljivo je klimnuo glavom i doneo nož i viljušku. Od kašike ni traga. Doduše, ni od boršča. Doneli su ga kasnije, i to u delovima: na kvadratnom ta- njiru ležalo je meso, na ovalnom cvekla, a u činiji pavlaka. Posle treće čašice italijanske rakije, koja je u mojoj mladosti zvana brlja, pošto je to i bila, razgovor je živnuo. – Imao sam prilike da jedem – prav- dao sam „povološkog“ kuvara – u nepal- skom Crvenom trgu , gde na crni hleb
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