A Taste Of The World

The above picture is a street in St. Petersburg, Russia, my son’s first stop on his seven-week semester studying abroad this past spring and summer. Notice the signs for American fast food chains (there are two—see them?) But for most of his time in Russia he stayed with a host family in Volgograd, where there are over one million people and only one McDonalds.

So Scott experienced food the way Russians experience it. Lots of bleenies, tiny Russian pancakes. Lots of cabbage, which Scott didn’t mind since “Russians know how to cook it.” Not everything he liked. Leftover fried fish for breakfast? Hmmmmm, that was a bit hard to swallow.

But Scott says only once did he secretly dispose of his meal when his Russian mother’s back was turned. He tried to sample everything. Eventually, he did buy a bottle of American catsup, so he could flavor some of the blander elements of home-cooked Russian food.

Then something strange happened. Scott’s catsup began disappearing very quickly. It was as if someone in his Russian family was liberally using it themselves with their own meal (his Russian family ate at a different time than he, so he wouldn’t know). Possibly they were even drinking it. Either way, within four days his catsup was gone. Empty.

So Scott found another way to get a more familiar meal. He volunteered to cook some American hamburgers for his Russian hosts. Hamburgers were something they had never had.

Scott himself bought the ingredients. Then he cooked up old-fashioned American hamburgers with all the toppings, fried potatoes on the side. And unlike Russians who tend to overcook meat, Scott grilled his hamburgers only medium well, just like I barbecue them at home here. When his Russian sister protested that the meat needed to be cooked “ten more minutes”, Scott assured her that’s the way hamburgers are cooked back home.

I asked Scott if perhaps Russians cook their meat longer to kill all the germs, knowing the butchering, meat packing and meat inspection in Russia has a long way to go. He pondered that for a second, then admitted, “Possibly.” Well, no worries. His Russian host family were all alive and well when he left them.

Next stop after Volgograd was Prague in the Czech Republic where Scott bypassed the restaurants in favor of a local pub (his Michigan State University influence kicking in here). Taking a seat by the bar, he used hand signals as he slowly pronounced “Men-U.” The waiter casually tossed him one, saying “Here ya go, buddy.” Prague being an international destination was more likely to have customer service in English than Volgograd.

He ordered the “fried onions”, figuring that a basket of onion rings would hit the spot. But onion rings wasn’t what he got. He got exactly what was on the menu—fried onions. He wasn’t home yet.

Back at home, Scott changed chef’s hats and prepared the classic Russian cold soup okroshka for me, Wendy and my parents. For this, he chopped up boiled eggs, potatoes, cucumbers, sausage, and sauteed onion, flavored it with dill, and served it with Kvass, usually a Russian beverage but which serves here as the soup broth.

Scott bought a bottle of Kvass to bring to the USA, but his Russian mother made it herself. There's a jar of it fermenting in her kitchen window in the picture below. The recipe for it includes rye bread, water, lots of sugar and a little yeast.

The commercial Kvass is carbonated and tasted to me like Coke heavily flavored with rye bread. If anyone would like a taste, we still have half a bottle in the refrigerator.