Myth Happens

(Internet at the Algonquin Hotel intermittent. We have not yet seen the resident cat, Matilda III, either. I do not care. Day pretty solidly seized so far.)

So I have still not made scharv, but that's all right, because we went to Nasha Rasha tonight and I got borscht. The atmosphere is not as Soviet kitschy as the website makes it look, although there are historical murals collage-style on the walls (derspatchel recognized propaganda posters from his high school Russian classroom) and a gigantic red star in neon over the bar; the really important fact is that their food is good. We over-ordered. Next time we'll know to split everything. For the time being, however, I am very content with my half of the "Russian sushi" we shared for an appetizer (lox with cream cheese rolled in blini with salmon roe and caviar on top) and the blini with condensed milk we shared for dessert (HELLO BLOOD SUGAR). In between I discovered that Nasha Rasha makes their borscht vegan, but they brought me sour cream without asking as soon as it became clear from the rest of my order that I was by preference a carnivore; I consumed and regret nothing about an entire order of the house special pelmeni, plump and thin-skinned, filled with soup-dumpling-juicy lamb. Like the Knödel at Bronwyn, Russian restaurants are Food Not Quite of My People—my grandmother made borscht and it instilled in me an undying affection for the beetroot, but I've eaten more blintzes than blini and my default mental image of smoked salmon includes either dark brown bread or a bagel. Most of the meat dishes are unfamiliar to me. I recognize a lot of the vegetable ones by cognate. I'd never heard of two of the soups on tonight's menu at all. That said, I really like the cuisine and I wish I knew where to get it in Boston. The last time I had borscht, I was at Veselka in 2012.

Nasha Rasha is also a vodka bar. They serve something like two hundred different flavors of vodka, house-infused. I do not ordinarily drink vodka that tastes like other things, because usually it is sickeningly sweet and designed to be mixed drink camouflage. Redcurrant vodka, made by people who do not feel the need to put high fructose corn syrup in everything: I need more of this in my life.

Oh, and I got birch juice. Which is exactly what it sounds like. I wonder if they sell it commercially in this country. My husband gives a thumbs-up to his mug of kvass.

Afterward we walked to the Strand, where Rob very nearly bought out their Fred Allen section and I found copies of Jeannette Winterson's The Daylight Gate (2012), which I had been looking for, and Sean O'Brien's Ghost Train (1995), which I had not. My plan for the rest of the evening is to read one of these objects until I pass out, which I expect in more or less short order considering I got up at eight for our exciting adventure with trains. And post this whenever the internet comes back.