One block off Texas Street, it was dusk and the sign was in Russian, so we passed it before realizing it was our destination. We parked a block away and walked up from the side street. The sign read "Pektopah" in Cyrillic writing (translated into English as "the Pomegranate").
An elderly gentleman, his aproned paunch resting on his knees, was seated outside on a rustic wooden beach next to an open-fire barbecue. We rounded the corner and entered. The ceiling was hung with Christmas lights intertwined with cheery red-chili lights (purchased perhaps from a now-defunct Mexican restaurant?). The white ceiling and walls were covered with graffiti. The aroma from the kitchen hinted of stews laden with paprika, cardamon, and onion.
The hostess (and waitress), an attractive and petite Russian woman with blonde hair, approached and asked if we had a reservation. No? Then we must sit here, in the high seats near the window because the restaurant would soon be full; it was popular, it was Saturday night, and one usually made reservations. We felt fortunate that we hadn't been placed next to the bathroom.
I looked around. A man who vaguely resembled the young Baryshnikov was eating Beef Stroganoff and drinking a bottle of dark Russian beer at the table nearest the door. Behind us a divorced man was dining with his two young daughters. He too was drinking Russian ale. His blonde daughters were slurping big spoons filled with a hearty red soup.
Each table contained an intricately painted and colorful Samovar for tea. The waitress brought brought us menus and lit the candle at our table. We asked her about a corkage fee. It was $14 and she discouraged us to open our own bottle of wine; it was important for them to sell their own wines which were very good. We asked her for the wine list. There was none; they sell Chilean reds by the glass and Georgian wines by the bottle. She described the Gerogian red wines as dry, admonishing us that grapes in Russia are different than California, but that this particular wine (which we chose) was like Pinot Noir.
As we waited for the wine, we perused the menu and the graffiti (both in Russian and in English). Above us someone had written, "Abandon despair, all ye who enter here!"
The waitress brought us the wine and uncorked it. She set down two thick water glasses for the wine. I reached to pour some wine into the cup and she slapped my hand. "Wait," she said. She proceeded to unravel a napkin and roll it into long strip which she tied around the wine bottle. "Now," she announced, "you can taste it." I sipped the wine; it was vinegary and acidic; perhaps it would improve after breathing. We ordered.
The wine did not improve with breathing and we debated whether or not to continue drinking it or to insist that the waitress uncork the bottle I had brought. She passed nearby and I hesitated to stop her. I took another sip of the wine and flagged her down. Could we have our own bottle uncorked?
Didn't we like the Georgian wine? She was surprised. No one had ever complained about it before. Begrudgingly she took that bottle and our bottle, and disappeared into the kitchen.
We waited. And waited. While we waited, the restaurant began to fill up. The waitress, not making eye contact with us, questioned each couple as they entered, "do you have a reservation?" Most said no, yet they were given desirable tables. Why had we been relegated to the high table in the window? Was it because we were two women (and one African-American)?
After 15 minutes the waitress finally returned with the bottle of wine I had brought (a prize-winning Rhones de Robles). She slapped the open bottle onto the table and walked away. I guess we were supposed to use the glasses that were still half-full of the Georgian wine. We had to empty them into the planter nearby.
Our order arrived. We had chosen a sampler plate of traditional Russian salads to start. The waitress, kinder now, explained to us how to eat the salads and in which order. 1-2-3-4-5 she pointed them out and then explained that these two salads were strong tasting and should be saved for last.
The salads were delicious -- there was a beet salad, a carrot salad, a kind of slaw, and various other dishes. Each one was freshly prepared and unusual.
For the main course I had ordered the Borscht --a Russian soup comprised of beet roots, potatoes, cabbage and other vegetables and meats, simmered for hours to produce culinary magic, served with a dollop of sour cream. Pam had ordered the
Schi -- a Russian peasant soup. According to the menu, it was served with black bread on the side and was a secret enjoyment of nobility. Both soups were excellent (Pam never received the black bread).
We enjoyed our bottle of wine and our food. I overtipped and we left to complete our Slavic evening with a viewing of the dance troupe, Betontanc, in Wrestling Dostoievsky.
The next day, in recounting our culinary experience, a friend reminded me that the waitress had probably placed us in the window seat so that people driving by would see that the restaurant had customers. It wasn't where we were seated that had mattered -- it was her implication that we were being punished by having to sit there for not having a reservation. If she had said as she seated us, "Lucky you two, getting the best seats in the house," our perception would have been far different.
I will go back; the food is excellent; but I'll drink the ale.
