Cucumbers

‘Do you want some cucumbers?’

Stas and I have been in the restaurant half an hour when Saul arrives, looking slightly flustered.

‘Elvira got back just as I was about to leave,’ he says. He glances furtively around before reaching into his bag and producing a number of fine, green cucumbers. He pushes them across the table towards me. ‘Please take them,’ he says, a desperate look in his eyes. ‘She gave me so many and expects me to eat them by Thursday but it’s just not possible! And she’s going to give me more to take home with me back to England…’ He shakes his head in despair. ‘They’re tasty, though, I promise!’

I take the cucumbers with the feeling that I’m involved in some kind of illicit drug deal (Stas politely declines the offer).

It’s not the first time this has happened. Cucumbers, potatoes, tomatoes… all grow in abundance at Elvira’s dacha, it seems; grown by her Uzbek workers in ‘well-fertilised’ soil (nothing ever goes to waste, nothing – and let’s leave it at that). Elvira is Saul’s hostess, and although I’ve never met her, I’ve heard a lot about her.

‘She means well,’ says Saul. ‘She grew up in Soviet Russia when they had to be careful with food. Waste is unthinkable to her.’

I’m told the vodka is also in abundance at Elvira’s dacha, but none of that ever reaches me.

When I’m not being plied with home grown cucumbers, I have to make do with the local supermarket: a distinctly uninspiring experience. There is very limited choice, and I’ve encountered products that are several months past their use-by date. Still, the honey and (huge) watermelons are delicious (although I can’t help remembering the cautionary words of my Russian teacher in Durham: ‘The fruit and vegetables aren’t naturally that big. It’s radiation. They’re mutated,’ – savouring that final word and delighting in the shock on our faces.)

The discovery of a shop that sells herbs, spices and parmesan came as a very welcome surprise. ‘You’ll never guess what I found!’ Stas said to me one morning at work, and told me about the supermarket that he had stumbled across, half-hidden in a business centre. ‘Now we can cook chilli, curry, risotto…’

At work, everyone in the office takes it in turns to cook lunch for everyone else. Around one o’clock, the announcement is made: ‘Обед готов! Lunch is ready!’ and nine of us sit down together to enjoy the meal – various salads, meat and vegetarian options. Conversation jumps between English and Russian (there are three Brits and six Russians at the table), with the occasional French, German or Spanish word thrown in for good measure; and we discuss the merits of the Dutch language.

Stas and I cook on Fridays. We go to the shop on Thursday after work, no longer such a discouraging experience (although somewhat more expensive). Indeed, the rows of fresh fruit and veg, the newly baked bread – the choice – is enough to lift your spirits.

‘Ризотто – это просто замечательно,’ Masha says, smiling down at the risotto on her plate. ‘Спасибо, ребята.’ The risotto is wonderful. Thank you.

To which the customary response is: ‘На здоровье!’ (Can you taste the rolled ‘r’ on your tongue?) To your health!

We sit back, happy and full. Elvira would be proud of us.

Photo courtesy of Stas 🙂