Taste 2021 edition, p.143
Taste: 2021 Edition, page 143
I take yet another sip of wine for bravery. “He thought I was unadventurous.”
Vlad chokes on his water. “Bullshit. You? You’re one of the most daring people I know.”
Whoa. I gape at him. “I am?”
“I’ve seen you do something daring each time we’ve done our testing—and what is that if not adventurous?”
“I guess.” I dubiously survey the nearby tables. “But I haven’t tried the food here.” Or asked him about the perfumed lady.
He waves his hand dismissively. “I bet you could eat it if you wanted to. But why? Food is meant to be enjoyed. If the picker-upper asked you to do something you didn’t feel like doing, that doesn’t make you unadventurous. His labeling you that makes him an asshole, though.”
The waiter brings the food, sparing me from needing to comment on what he said.
He’s not wrong, though. Bob is an asshole. In hindsight, I should’ve broken up with him. But I was busy with my new job at Binary Birch, and I simply didn’t have the mental bandwidth to analyze my relationship. I just kind of went with the flow, even though the sex was at best meh—a situation Bob tried to fix by pushing for ever-more-exotic bedroom acts that I just didn’t feel like doing with him. The final straw was after we came back from Prague, where we’d gone to the succubus show at the strip club—which I’d greatly enjoyed, by the way, due to high production values, topnotch costumes, and great acting. In any case, Bob decided that since I was down for seeing showgirls fist each other on stage, I might be cool with golden showers—and that was a hard no for me. And my hard no pissed off Bob—pun intended—who promptly broke up with me. Though sometimes it seems like he wants me back, because he keeps stopping by my place every once in a while to pick up the few items he left there.
Feeling myself getting riled up all over again—normally, I don’t even like thinking of Bob’s name—I focus on the food in front of me.
It’s the same as last time: yuca and yam fries in bechamel sauce, bluefin tuna fish sticks, quail nuggets, and the fancy cheese quesadillas.
I don’t look too much into Vlad’s selection. As long as it doesn’t crawl from his plate onto mine, I’m happy. In any case, my mind is still churning with unwelcome thoughts of my ex—and more annoyingly, of the mystery perfumed lady.
I really need to do something about the latter before the green monster drives me mad.
“So,” I say when I finish a fish stick and a nugget. “My turn to ask a question.”
Vlad slurps down something I can’t—and don’t want to—identify. “Shoot.”
“Why did your last relationship end?” I ask, pinning him with an intent stare. “Unless… you’re still in it.”
20
I recognize Alex right away and guess that the older couple sitting at the table must be the parents.
The mother’s makeup makes me think of burlesque dancers and drag queens, and her exposed cleavage is so big it probably has a name. Helga, maybe? She’s wearing a skintight purple cocktail dress with a confidence I hope to emulate when I’m her age.
The father sports a heavy mustache and in general resembles the singer on stage—hairy and pudgy but with a unibrow that the singer must’ve plucked.
I again feel a slight stab of eyebrow envy. I’ll never take forehead facial hair for granted again.
Neither of the parents have many features in common with the two brothers, but they both remind me of someone. I just can’t say who.
“Mom, Dad, this is the woman I was telling you about,” Alex says as we approach. “She saved my company the other day, and, as I hoped, has dragged Vlad over here today.”
Each of the parents gives me a grateful nod.
“Oh, I can’t take the credit.” I smile nervously. “Vlad had to convince me, not the other way around, trust me. Nice to meet you both.”
Another set of approving nods. If my goal is to get these people to like me, Alex has clearly given me a head start.
“Mother, Father, this is Fanny,” Vlad says, his expression surprisingly cool.
They both get up. She’s ridiculously tall—a good head taller than her husband. Must be where the brothers got their height from.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Chortsky,” I say, extending my hand.
The father ignores my hand in favor of giving me a scratchy kiss on the cheek.
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.
The water comes out of my nose, and eventually, I resume breathing.
“Sorry about that,” I say when I can speak. “Didn’t mean to mess up your toast.”
“It’s fine, dear.” Natasha sounds comically magnanimous. “I wasn’t finished anyway.”
“Go on, pookie,” Boris says, greedily eyeing his shot glasses.
She nods solemnly. “May my unborn grandchildren be wealthy and joyous. May their mother stay the color of spring and roses. A source of sweet dreams to the man in her life. His attraction and inspiration. May she stay simple yet regal. A princess. The muse to an opera of love. May her days last forever and beyond. To this, we shall drink until we see the bottom of our glasses.”
Amen? I feel like someone should give me an Oscar for keeping a straight face.
With a theatrical gesture, Natasha downs her shot in one gulp, then sniffs her pickle before violently biting into it.
Vlad and Alex follow their mother’s example, while Boris downs one shot, then another, then a third, then a fourth, and so on until they’re all empty.
Not being suicidal, I take the smallest sip from mine that I can.
Fire explodes in my mouth, then spreads through my chest and into my stomach.
Gasping, I try sniffing the pickle like everyone else did.
Nope. That makes it worse.
I bite into it.
Okay, so now I have a salty taste in my mouth on top of the burn.
“So, Fannychka, do you have any Russian in you?” Natasha asks.
If I say no, will she say “do you want some?” and point at Vlad?
After that toast, it wouldn’t surprise me.
“I have no clue.” I cautiously put down the pickle I was still clutching. “My parents call themselves pure-bred American mutts. I’ve been planning to take a DNA ancestry test, but haven’t yet. But you never know.”
My answer seems to please her. At least she looks approvingly at me, then at Vlad.
Boris refills everyone’s shot glasses, including the half dozen of his. When he sees that mine is almost full, he frowns but doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he dramatically rises to his feet and raises a glass. “The time between the first drink and the second ought to be short.”
“Shouldn’t we eat something more substantial than a pickle first?” Natasha hisses.
Before her husband can answer, a familiar scent reaches my nostrils.
Perfume.
The perfume.
I glance behind me.
Yep.
The modelesque woman I saw by our work building is striding toward our table on five-inch heels. Her makeup looks like war paint—perhaps due to the furious expression on her face.
What the fuck?
Did Vlad invite his side piece to a family event?
21
“Ah, if it isn’t the fashionably late,” Natasha says snidely to the woman.
She was also expecting her?
“Parents.” The newcomer’s voice is icy. “Bros.” The voice is a tiny bit warmer now. “Couldn’t wait even a minute, huh?”
Bros?
Whew.
She’s Vlad’s sister, not his lover.
Unless there’s some Game of Thrones crap going on, which I doubt.
Vlad stands up and pulls out a chair for her. “I tried to make them wait.”
As she sits, I sneak a glance. Now that I know she’s Vlad’s sibling, I can see the resemblance: the jet-black hair, the blue eyes, and even the ability to put on that chilly expression.
“Bella, meet Fanny.” Alex sounds placating. “Vlad’s friend.”
The ice queen expression melts as the heavily mascaraed blue eyes swing toward me. “Oh, you’re Fanny? Nice to put a face to a name.”
Face to a name? She’s heard about me?
I guess Vlad could’ve mentioned me when she came to see him this morning. Or Sunday—he did come over smelling like her.
I give her my warmest grin. “Nice to meet you, Bella. You look amazing.”
Her return smile is radiant. “You don’t need to flatter me. I’m already your biggest fan. Your help on—”
“No business at the table,” Vlad says sternly.
Business?
Hold up. What help does she mean? Surely not the testing we—
“Your brother is so right,” Natasha says, wrinkling her nose. “No reason to talk about your work in polite company.”
Huh? Is she a prostitute or something?
Vlad gives his mother a slitted stare. “Bella’s company is the best in its field. They’re about to get a writeup in Cosmopolitan magazine.”
I blink a few times.
Her company.
The Cosmo writeup.
She owns Belka?
If so, I was right a moment ago. She was about to compliment me on my help with the testing.
As in, Vlad told his sister about what we’ve been doing.
I nearly choke again. The snafu with the pump—he was going to tell the folks at Belka they need to get more generous with sizing.
That must’ve been a fun thing to tell his sister.
“Bella shames the family.” Boris’s usually warm demeanor is gone.
“Bullshit.” Bella glares at her father. “You shame the family, with your drinking and—”
“Belka, stop it,” Natasha hisses. “We have a guest.”
Oh, boy. Sucks to be in the middle of a family squabble.
At least I’ve learned something. Besides meaning “squirrel,” Belka also appears to be the diminutive of Bella.
“Can we eat now?” Alex asks, and before anyone answers, he removes the cover from the plate nearest him.
“Good idea.” Vlad does the same to another plate.
“I’m starving,” I lie and join them in uncovering the food.
The parents and sister join us more reluctantly. They still look upset. I make a mental note to steer the conversation somewhere safe if I get the chance.
For now, I examine the food.
Vlad didn’t lie. It’s less weird than the chef’s choice from the restaurant—not that the bar was set all that high.
“Is that a Jell-O made out of meat?” I point at the item standing next to Vlad.
Natasha smiles patronizingly. “That’s holodetz. Try some with gorchitza and hren.”
“She means mustard and horseradish sauce.” Vlad puts some of the holo-whatever on my plate and garnishes it with the two items. “Try it.”
I do it gingerly.
The thing tastes like a really meaty chicken soup but has that jelly texture, which somehow works.
“Yum,” I tell the expectant Chortskys, and as a reward (or maybe punishment), they begin educating me about the rest of the dishes.
The main thing I learn: Russians like to pickle things I wouldn’t even dream of pickling, such as watermelon, apples, grapes, and herring.
Also, there are at least four more shots of vodka and long toasts throughout the lesson. Not wanting to get too drunk, I keep sipping on my one shot glass.
My favorite dish turns out to be Oliver or something that sounds like it—I mentally call it “the kitchen sink salad.” It has chopped potatoes, meat, carrots, pickles, eggs, green peas, and enough mayo to keep Hellmann’s in business for a month.
“She doesn’t want caviar,” Vlad says when his father tries to put a crêpe and some black stuff on my plate.
I smile sheepishly. “I only dislike snail eggs and cricket flour blinis. If this is buckwheat and sturgeon roe, I’ll try some.”
Boris laughs. “I can’t believe they made my joke suggestion at that restaurant.”
“It was pretty good, actually,” Vlad says with a grin.
I try the famous delicacy and enjoy it.
“That’s nothing as exotic as what we had in Ecuador.” Natasha looks at Vlad challengingly. “Did I tell you about cuy asado?”
“Fanny won’t like that story,” Vlad says sternly. Touching my hand, he explains, “Cuy asado is grilled guinea pig. Mother likes to tell that story because she doesn’t like Oracle.”
What? That’s horrible. Monkey shall never hear of this dish—she already acts like I might eat her.
Natasha wrinkles her nose. “A rat is a rat.”
Wow. So many minefields with this family.
Deciding to save the day, I ask, “Can you tell me some Vovochka jokes?”
The parents exchange an approving glance. It must look like I’m more versed in the Russian culture than I actually am.
“I’ll start.” Boris puts down his shish kebab. “In biology class, the teacher draws a cucumber on the blackboard and asks, ‘Can someone tell me what this is?’ Vovochka raises his hand. ‘It’s a cock.’ The teacher storms off. The principal rushes into the classroom. ‘Who upset the teacher, and more importantly, who the hell drew that cock on the blackboard?’”
Chuckles all around.
“I know one too,” Natasha says. “The teacher says, ‘Vovochka, I hope I don’t catch you cheating off your neighbor on the next test. ‘I hope so too,’ Vovochka replies.”
More chuckles.
“My turn,” Bella says. “Vovochka says to his Mom, ‘Where do babies comes from?’ Without hesitation, she says, ‘The stork brings them.’ ‘I know it’s the stork,’ Vovochka replies. ‘But who fucks the stork?’”
Even though his joke was also dirty, Boris gives Bella a disapproving glare.
“Can I go?” Alex asks, and before anyone replies, he says, “Vovochka puts on rubber boots. ‘Vovochka, there’s no dirt outside,’ his mom says. ‘Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll find it,’ Vovochka replies.’”
Again chuckles.
“That one sounds just like Vlad when he was little,” Natasha says to me conspiratorially.
“That’s true,” Bella says with a grin.
Vlad elbows his brother. “This one wasn’t much better.”
“We should have another drink before the show starts,” Boris says and pours everyone another round.
The show? Is that what the stage is for?
Everyone downs their vodka. Upon seeing how easily Bella does it, I knock back a full shot glass.
It must be the function of the buzz I have going already, but the vodka doesn’t burn as badly going down as it did before.
The lights dim.
What I presume to be Russian music begins to play, though to me it sounds a lot like K-Pop.
A bunch of scantily clad girls run out onto the stage. They’re wearing masks from that pre-orgy scene in Eyes Wide Shut, but their dancing reminds me more of The Rockettes.
After they raise their legs for the umpteenth time, the masked dancers depart, and the music changes to that of Swan Lake.
