So here's my attempt at catharsis. Though a few of these culinary discoveries can't actually be called secrets, all are off the beaten path-tucked inconspicuously into the city, or worth a trek to suburbia. I feel better already. Tables wear traditional Russian shawls, emerald green and fringed, and the three crystal chandeliers drip with nostalgia. As I inquire about the menu, my waiter explains that when he came from the Ukraine last year at the age of 19, he had eaten in a restaurant only once.
People eat at home in Russia.
The St. Petersburg salad is a traditional dish, a mound of chicken, eggs, and potatoes, mixed with cucumbers, pickles, and carrots and garnished with purple leaves and black olives. I know beet borscht is common in Russia, and here the excellent peasant stock is served with flaky, buttery pirozhki and a dish of sour cream that the waiter insists I empty into the soup. I notice a couple by the window, smooching and drinking from delicate frosted glasses filled with pink liquid. When I ask if Russians drink coffee or tea, the waiter smiles. So I submit to the house cocktail of cranberry vodka, which surprisingly was quite the match for blintzes filled with sour cherries.