I was your typical rebellious Russian immigrant child growing up in Texas. I didn’t drink, I didn’t smoke and I didn’t get B’s on my report cards. Instead, I committed a much greater sin, at least as far as Russian mothers are concerned: I rejected my home country’s cuisine.
The worst was when I would have friends over to my house. My mom would prepare a big Russian spread complete with Salat Olivier, pickled cabbage, caviar sandwiches and radishes for garnish. How embarrassing!
I just wanted to fit in, OK?! So sue me. I would beg my mother nightly to make Pasta Roni for dinner.
Secretly, though, I loved Russian food, and I’d fill up on salty herring leftovers when no one was looking. What’s not to love about it? I’ve always wondered why Italian and Chinese cuisines are mainstream, while most Americans can’t even name one item off the Russian menu. I mean, Russian food is so salty. It’s so fishy. It’s so . . . mayonnaise-y! Oh. Did I just answer my own question?
By my teen years, I came out of the Russian-food closet and began openly enjoying everything my family cooked: pelmeni, caviar and blinchiki, beef stroganoff, borscht — I was in heaven!
But things went bleak when I moved to Manhattan in 2010. Feasts of the motherland were not constantly accessible to me. So, spurred on by the Winter Olympics in Russia, I set out on a mission. Dreading the long shlep to Brighton Beach’s Little Odessa, I was determined to find the food of my family in Manhattan.
The Russian Tea Room (150 W. 57th St.; 212-581-7100) was my first stop. Even the grand atmosphere couldn’t distract from the fact that they were in it to please American tourists more than anyone. The only truly Russian thing in the whole place was our waiter Sasha, who, when my friend said, “I’m good,” to signal she’d had enough on her plate, responded sternly, “You not good,” and continued serving her until the plate was perfect by his standards.
Judging by the sweet flavor in the borscht — a traditionally savory beet soup — this isn’t a restaurant that keeps the Russian palate in mind. I could almost sense my grandpa rolling in his grave when Sasha presented us with what was supposed to be pelmeni — a veal dumpling dish served in broth with sour cream — but was actually a truffle tortellini Alfredo dish you’d expect to see at a homey Italian restaurant.
I moved on to Russian Samovar (256 W. 52nd St.; 212-757-0168), where the crowd was far more interesting than the food, which is actually a good thing. Russian food doesn’t need to be creative to be impressive; if the recipe’s right, you’re golden. And you’re free to focus on the thing Russians appreciate most, and what Russian Samovar does best: entertainment. The live music, the plethora of infused vodkas, and the friendly one-eyed owner will make sure you have a night to remember (or forget, depending on how many vodka shots you’re forced to take). But be advised: The 10 p.m. crowd gets down, even on a Tuesday.
When I stepped into Onegin (391 Sixth Ave.; 212-924-8001) in the West Village, I was slapped in the face with gaudy. And I couldn’t help but notice how empty it was. I later learned from Sergey, the host, that this is because people only go to Onegin at night to party, seldom during the day. He even proved it by showing me rowdy videos on his smartphone from just the night before.
If you’re able to get past the décor, you’ll find Onegin is not any different from your typical Russian human: abrasive at first, but after some time and hard liquor, charming and warm. Once the food arrived, I knew I’d found my spot — or was that the fig- and gooseberry-infused vodka shot that the waiter insisted I take talking? Either way, from the beef stroganoff to the golubtsy (a staple beef-stuffed cabbage dish), this place tasted like home.
It wasn’t until I spent a late Monday evening at Mari Vanna (41 E. 20th St., 212-777-1955) that I knew I’d hit the sweet spot of Russian restaurants — that perfect melding of atmosphere, food and people. The Flatiron spot is so quintessentially Russian, I felt like just being there made up for all of the Russian language lessons I skipped in grade school. My parents would beg to differ.
Striped wallpaper, tilted lampshades and off-white tablecloths made me think I was sitting in my babushka’s kitchen for a second. I was brought back to reality when I saw a girl standing up, dancing aggressively and singing along to a Russian pop song. Everyone else at her 12-person table was sitting quietly, enjoying dinner.
And the dinner was definitely enjoyable. The most memorable dish was the borscht, served on a wooden plank with small bowls of various fixings, like chopped egg, sour cream, onion and garlic. The only borscht I’ve ever had that was better than this was my mom’s, to be honest*.
I didn’t know this before I got there, but Monday is Mari Vanna’s most popular night. Gradually getting louder and darker, the quaint restaurant slowly transforms into a full-blown nightclub. I really don’t know one person who has the kind of job that allows them to rage on a Monday night like this, but if you do, you know where to go.
Needless to say, I had to end my night early**, but I’ll definitely be coming back — probably on a late Saturday night when I can eat my dinner in peace.
*This borscht was better than my mom’s. She doesn’t read footnotes.
**I did not end my night early.