By Marina Wolf
THE NIGHTS ARE COLD, my job sucks, and cabbage is the freshest thing in the produce aisle. Don't bother me. I'm having a Russia moment. They come along every winter, when I look up and remember that good tomatoes are at least six or seven months away. It might be just another case of seasonal affective disorder, or SAD, except I have a place and time to attach to the feeling: St. Petersburg, 1992-93. I'm simply homesick.
Why I should have warm feelings for this winter wonderland of food shortages is not immediately clear, even to myself. This was a place in which sugar disappeared from stores for weeks at a time, and the best price for fish could be found in the back of a dirty truck. Aren't I just romanticizing a state of anarchic malnutrition?
Yes and no. Yes, my experience was rosier than the reality for most Russians. My companion and I were earning dollars, which meant that the farmers' markets, with decent produce at exorbitant prices, were a viable option. And there were two of us to stand in lines, plus a Russian roommate who was happy to schlep shopping bags and make Turkish coffee in exchange for his share of the rent.
In spite of such luxuries, however, the pursuit of food demanded a significant expenditure of time, money, and energy, so we learned to appreciate the thrill of the hunt. There was always something on the street, melons from Moldavia or soy sauce or British crackers. One December we feasted for three weeks on mandarin and blood oranges, which had entered the country as aid from Italy and "fell off the back of a truck" at prices well below market value. If that's not a humanitarian act, I don't know what is.
The deli shops had their moments of excitement, too. If you could see past the smudged showcases and cats dozing on the scales (hey, at least there weren't any mice!), there were some real finds, like imported Dutch cheese, instead of the chalky domestic stuff. As for the kielbasa counters, well, charcuterie would be too posh a term for the coarse-grained, thick-skinned bologna, but when meat prices soared, we looked.
It's a long drive for what is essentially dry-cured pork fat, but the smell of it, salty and rich, takes me back to a little shop near the Mayakovskaya metro station. There the hurried shopkeeper pulled a small piece of salo out of a barrel of salt, brushed it off, and wrapped it in plain waxed paper, as expertly as an origami artist.
Our Russian roommate showed us how to cut it into bits, fry it crisp, and crack eggs over the whole greasy mess. Traditionally, though, salo was eaten raw on bread spread with fiery mustard.
I have the mustard; at the back of my cupboard, all that's missing is the salo. And yes, I know about cholesterol and trichinosis, but I don't care. I just need a break from here and now, and a taste from then and there might help.
From the January 11-17, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.