by Misha Bell
Twat.
With a barely perceptible headshake, the Ruler of Darkness says, “Last but not least, this is my mother, Natasha, and the birthday boy himself, Boris.”
Boris and Natasha? Huh. They even look like the cartoon characters by the same name.
I catch Fanny grinning—I bet she’s thinking the same exact thing.
Before I know what hits me, the mother is hugging me and kissing me on each cheek.
Well, that’s a bit too friendly.
As soon as Natasha is done with the smooching, I receive the same treatment from the patriarch—that is, until the Devil clears his throat. Aggressively, I might add.
On my end, I can feel Boris and Natasha’s saliva on my cheeks, and I make a mental note to tell Gia that she can never date a Russian. She wouldn’t survive such a greeting.
When Boris finally disconnects from me, I dig into my purse, take out the jar with caviar, and thrust it into his hands. “I wish you many happy returns.”
He looks at the jar, then at me. Exchanging an impressed glance with Natasha, he booms, “Thanks, Holly. Thank you very much.”
He pronounces my name almost like “holy,” and like his wife, he sounds just like the cartoon character who shares his name.
“Sit, everyone,” he says. “Drinking must commence.”
The Devil catches my gaze and pulls out a chair. “Sit here.”
Who knew the Evil One would bring chivalry back from the dead?
I sit.
He takes the chair next to me.
I smell that yummy scent of his—and recognize that it is, in part, that heavenly tea he gave me.
A tea cologne? I may come on the spot.
Snezhana ends up across the table from us, next to Tigger, but neither of them seems interested in each other. Tigger checks out other women in the room like a total rake, while she ogles my fake date.
A very popular UK word that starts with a “c” is on the tip of my tongue.
Natasha looks at Vlad. “I get the first toast. Pour, please.”
Vlad grabs a giant bottle of vodka and starts filling the shot glasses in front of everyone’s plates.
“Watch how much you pour for the non-Russians,” Snezhana says. Her voice turns out to be smoky and melodious, her accent annoyingly sexy. “Can’t expect them to keep up.”
Tigger’s lips quirk. “This non-Russian can drink anyone under the table.”
“I meant Americans,” Snezhana says, looking right at me.
Boris grins at Tigger. “That sounds like a challenge I’ll gladly accept.”
“Bring it on, birthday boy,” Tigger says good-naturedly.
Boris waves at the passing waiter and says something in Russian.
“Don’t,” Natasha growls.
“It’s my birthday,” Boris snaps.
“Fine,” she says sharply. “But don’t complain to me tomorrow.”
The waiter comes back with two glasses the size of flower vases.
“Pour one for me and one for my soon-to-be-drunk friend,” Boris says.
With a disapproving look, Vlad pours the two vases to the brim.
“You sure about this?” Dragomir asks his brother.
With a cocky smile, Tigger takes a pickle from a nearby assortment and places it on his plate.
As Vlad continues with the vodka distribution, the Devil leans toward me and whispers, “When he gets to you, tell him to stop before your glass is full.”
“Why?” I whisper back.
“It’s the custom to drink until you can see the bottom of the shot glass, and since it’s my dad’s birthday, he’ll want everyone to do that. However, no custom says your glass needs to start off full.”
Interesting. Now that he’s said it, I notice that Fanny is already aware of these peculiarities—her shot glass is only a quarter full.
When Vlad gets to me, he pours slowly while looking at me, clearly expecting me to stop him early. Unfortunately, Snezhana is also watching, and her superior expression makes the contrarian in me allow Vlad to fill my glass to the brim.
According to a DNA ancestry test, I’m a mix of English, Scottish, Cornish, and Irish. Some of these ethnicities are as famous for their drinking prowess as the Russians—so there.
Eyeing my shot glass disapprovingly, the Devil puts a pickle on my plate.
Is this symbolic of the pickle of a situation I’m in? No, it must be another custom—Snezhana and everyone else get a pickle also.
“I will make my toast now,” Natasha says as soon as Vlad is done with his vodka duties. “I dedicate this poem to my beloved husband and soon-to-be proud grandfather.” She looks very pointedly at me.
Blimey. Does she know something I don’t? Is the Antichrist supposed to come about via immaculate conception?
Done making me uncomfortable, Natasha looks at Fanny next—I guess as another source of a soon-to-be grandchild.
Fanny’s cheeks pinken with a mighty blush.
Skipping Snezhana, Natasha levels an even pointier stare at Bella. Then she returns her gaze to her husband—which is why she misses Bella’s eye roll.
“My poem is in my mother tongue,” Natasha continues. “So, I hope those of you who don’t speak it, bear with me.”
Snezhana looks triumphant.
Seriously?
I launch the translation app on my phone—I can use modern technology to follow along.
Hopefully.
Natasha begins her poem, and the app tries to keep up.
My support.
Okay, good start.
My master.
Hmm. Hopefully a mistranslation.
My soulmate.
Cute.
My protector.
How many of these “my” bits will this poem have?
My defender.
Okay, we get it, lady. He’s a lot of things.
Ever faithful.
Hey, at least the list of “my” is over.
Ever eager.
TMI?
Ever ready to please.
More TMI?
No woman has been as grateful as I to obediently serve at the side of a man.
Is this another mistranslation, or has feminism not reached Russia yet?
The poem goes on in the same vein, so I quit following the translation and just wait for it to be over—which takes what feels like another hour.
“Now for our American friends,” Natasha says when she’s finally done. “A shorter toast.”
Another one? I’ll believe the brevity when I hear it.
“What is the difference between a faithful and an unfaithful husband?” Natasha asks.
Everyone stays politely quiet.
“Huge,” Natasha says. “The faithful sometimes feel remorse.”
As one, we all politely chuckle.
“So,” Natasha says. “Let us drink so that remorse does not torment this faithful husband.”
I’m confused. Does she want him to be a sociopath?
Everyone grabs their shot glasses/vases, and I do as well.
Until now, I’ve only imbibed wine, beer, and cocktails, and rarely at that. I don’t like the loss of control that alcohol and drugs bring with them, so I’ve never really indulged in either.
Well, at least this will be a new experience.
Natasha sniffs her pickle, downs her shot, and eats the condiment with great enthusiasm.
Looking at me challengingly, Snezhana gulps her vodka down without any pickle-sniffing or eating—which must be the more hardcore way.
Tigger and Boris down their gallons of vodka as though it were water.
Okay. How bad can it be?
Sniffing the briny pickle for shits and giggles, I down my vodka.
Holy bollocks of fire!
The magma travels down my esophagus and explodes in a mushroom cloud in my stomach, filling it with unwelcome warmth.
Is this the expected result?
If so, why would anyone do this to themselves?
&
nbsp; Desperate to ease the pain, I devour the pickle.
Nope.
Though salty, the pickle isn’t an ice slushy, which is what’s needed at this juncture.
Is that the look of schadenfreude on Snezhana’s face?
Schooling my features, I say as evenly as I can manage, “That was nice.”
Boris smacks the Devil on the back approvingly. “That one’s a keeper.”
Snezhana narrows her eyes and stands up. “The time between the first drink and the second ought to be short.”
Natasha frowns at her, but Boris grins excitedly. “Indeed,” he says. “Out of the mouths of babes.”
“How about we eat something more substantial than a pickle first?” Natasha says.
“After the second one,” Boris says. “Traditions must be followed.”
Natasha gives Snezhana a glare that seems to say, “That’s the last time I invite you,” and I feel a little schadenfreude myself.
This time, Tigger pours the vodka, and because Snezhana stares challengingly at me again, I let him fill my shot glass to the brim.
Bella stands up. “My toast. To Dad: May you have health above all and happiness.”
Are Russians allowed to make a toast that short?
Seems so. Everyone starts downing their shots.
Okay. I guess I have to do this again.
I sniff the pickle and knock back the vodka.
Chapter Nineteen
Surprisingly, this shot burns only a fraction as much as the prior one.
Is this why the break between the first and second had to be short?
“You should pace yourself,” the Devil whispers in my ear, his warm breath sending goosebumps down my arm. “Say ‘stop’ sooner the next round.”
Excuse me? Is he telling me what to do? He’s not the boss of me. At least not in this restaurant.
“Here.” He grabs a bowl of something that looks like potato salad and deposits some on my plate. “Eat something.”
Since everyone else is digging into the food also, I taste the offering.
Yum. Unlike regular potato salad, a dish I don’t care for, this has meat, green peas, and (of course) chopped pickles, which might be why it’s so good.
“What’s this called?” I ask.
“Oliver salad,” Natasha says with a smile. “You like?”
“It’s amazing,” I say, in part because I mean it and in part because they own this restaurant and have “pulled out all the stops with the menu.”
As we eat, the music comes back on. The new song reminds me of the opera the blue alien was singing in The Fifth Element, right before things turned too violent for me to watch, except the pudgy singer’s testicles seem to be in the way of him hitting the high notes.
Dragomir pours the next round of shots, and I stare defiantly at the Devil as my glass is filled to the brim again.
The third shot goes down even smoother.
They might make an alcoholic out of me yet.
The waiters bring out a hot dish of small dumplings.
“That’s pelmeni,” Natasha explains. “It’s a simple food, but my pookie loves it.”
The Devil puts some pelmeni on my plate and adds a dash of what he calls smetana, which turns out to be sour cream.
The combo is so good I moan in pleasure, which causes the Devil to eye me with a strangely intent expression.
Swallowing the deliciousness, I gush compliments to the chef.
“I have to agree with my husband,” Natasha says to the Devil with a grin. “This one is a keeper.”
“You have to teach me how to make these,” I say earnestly. “I’ll eat it instead of ravioli.”
Natasha is beaming with enthusiasm as she tells me how to make the dish. Then she turns to the rest of the table. “While we’re talking restaurant-related things,” she says, “your father and I have an announcement to make.”
She waits until every one of the Chortsky offspring gives her their full attention.
“We’ve decided to leave The Hut to the first of you who gives us a grandchild.”
With that, Fanny, Bella, and I receive a new round of pointed stares that seem to say, “Are you ovulating yet?”
Snezhana looks on the verge of Hulking out from jealousy. It makes me wonder if it’s not my fake date that she wants but this restaurant. She does work next door, after all, and at least according to Hannibal Lecter, we covet what we see every day.
Bella groans. “Mom, please. You know we all have successful businesses of our own, right?”
The Devil and his brother nod, and Vlad says, “When you’re ready, we want you to sell this place and enjoy the money yourselves. You’ve earned it.”
“In any case, we’re not going to engage in a fuck race for your sake,” Bella says, not bothering to lower her voice.
Fanny’s cheeks turn crimson.
“Sorry you have to witness this,” the Devil whispers into my ear.
He thinks this is bad? He should spend some time with my family.
“Such language!” Natasha appears on the verge of throttling her daughter. “You’re going to upset your father. On his birthday.”
Actually, Boris doesn’t seem interested in anything but the vodka bottle—he keeps eyeing it like it’s a naked woman dancing.
The Devil seems to pick up on this. Grabbing the bottle, he states that he’ll pour the next round and fills Tigger and Boris’s vases again.
Damn. Didn’t I read somewhere that a liter of spirits could kill you?
“To the brim for me,” Snezhana says huskily when he gets to her shot glass. “I can handle… all of it.”
Is it the vodka that’s making me want to scalp the blonde?
No wonder there are so many brawls in bars.
When the Wicked One gets to me, he only pours me a drop—as though I’ve told him to stop.
Snezhana looks at my measly vodka level with triumph.
Oh, yeah?
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I tell my fake date and pat his upper arm—only to feel my breath catch at the hard, sinewy muscle under the layers of cloth.
Damn. The Devil is built.
He gives a slight start at my familiarity but recovers quickly and plays along. “No problem, kroshka.”
Whatever that word means, the result is a double whammy. Natasha looks clam-happy, while Snezhana gulps down her vodka without waiting for the toast.
I lock eyes with her, take the Devil’s fully filled shot glass, and knock it back.
“Holly,” he exclaims.
Everyone turns his way.
“It’s not the custom to drink before the toast,” he says lamely.
Ha. So stealing someone’s vodka is okay?
“I’ll fix this.” Boris grabs the vodka bottle and refills the two shot glasses in front of me, then hands one to his son.
I notice he didn’t give Snezhana any, but I don’t want to be a snitch.
Putting the vodka down, Boris declares, “I’ll make the next toast. Sorry, it will be in Russian.”
I ready the app, and while I’m at it, I check the meaning of kroshka.
Breadcrumb?
Okay, fine. Then I’m calling him breadcrust—or Crusty for short.
Boris starts speaking.
A wife is the most wonderful invention since the discovery of the wheel.
Great. Is this another poem?
A wife is a man's best friend.
Isn’t that a dog?
A wife is—
The next part sounds like slurred speech, which might be why the app translates:
—how much is a kilo of kielbasa if you bite off a screwdriver from a locomotive?
I don’t follow the rest. I’m suddenly feeling very nice, all warm, relaxed, and eager to party on.
“To my wife,” Boris concludes and downs his gallon of vodka.
Tigger looks a bit more apprehensive as he downs his.
I knock back my shot on autopilot—and there’s zero burn this time. H
as someone switched out vodka for water?
The music starts up again. This time, the singer butchers a familiar song: “Hips Don’t Lie” by Shakira.
Doing my best not to think too much about the pudgy dude’s hips, I devour the remaining pelmeni as everyone focuses on the countless other delicacies that keep coming to the table.
“Will there be more pelmeni?” I ask the Devil when my plate is sadly empty.
Grinning, he calls over a waiter and tells him something in Russian.
“Why don’t you try something else, dear?” Natasha asks me. “There’s so much other food.”
I hiccup. “When I find something I like, I tend to stick to it.”
Natasha glances at her son with a grin. “Admirable attitude when it comes to men, but I’m not sure it’s transferable to food.”
“It is,” I assure her. “We make countless decisions every day. Why add to that stress with unnecessary food choices?”
Before Natasha can argue, Tigger picks up the vodka bottle. “My turn.”
Is it me or is his hand a bit unsteady?
“I think the ladies have had enough,” the Devil says sternly.
“That’s sexist,” I say.
His cerulean eyes narrow. “It’s biology.”
“Well, I want one more,” I say stubbornly, and it’s true. According to my mental count, I’ve had four.
I can’t end on a four. Five is much better.
Bugger. How many pelmeni did I eat? Also, is that the plural of—
“I want one too.” Bella winks at me. “I know we look dainty and frail and all, but we can handle ourselves without a man’s supervision.”
I’ve got to hand it to Dragomir. He nods approvingly at her words.
“I wasn’t being sexist,” the Wicked One mutters. “Not on purpose, anyway.”
“I’ll have a little more too,” Fanny chimes in. “Also, I volunteer for the toast.”
Natasha nods approvingly, and Snezhana says something incomprehensible… maybe in Russian.
“Your wish is my commando,” Tigger says. “I mean, commander. I mean, command.”
Dragomir shakes his head at his obviously buzzed brother but says nothing.
Once everyone has their shots, Fanny stands up, her cheeks red. “I wanted to salute our hosts, Natasha and Boris. Thank you for creating such wonderful children.” She looks adoringly at Vlad. “And thank you for being so welcoming. Amen.”
