Monday, February 21, 2011 - en route from Moscow to Atlanta
I’m sure you are wondering what dinner and tattoos have to do with each other. In America, nothing. In Moscow, everything.
You see, Friday evening, Amy and I went out to dinner with Umberto and Kitty, some colleagues of ours from Italy and Belgium, respectively. We sat at the table nearest the kitchen, where all the servers and wait staff hung out.
Each of us ordered from the hotel restaurant menu. In fact, Umberto, Kitty, and Amy each ordered the same thing. And each of us pointed to our menu item, which was listed in both Russian and English, just in case the waiter did not understand English.
Approximately 30 minutes later, Umberto received his meal. Umberto ate his meal. The ladies watched Umberto eat his meal. All by himself.
Some time later, when Umberto was scraping the last bites off food from his plate, my dish arrived, but was set down in front of Umberto. After some discussion about this new item that Umberto did not order, the four of us determined that it was actually my meal that had been placed on the table in front of my companion.
I ate. All by myself, while the others watched and wondered where their food might be. By now, all of us have flagged down the waiter and attempted to ask where the remaining meals were. Were they actually catching the cows before they could cook the steak? The waiter did not understand this question. He did not speak a word of English nor did he recognize any of the English menu items listed on the hotel restaurant menu, the place in which he worked as an employee. None of us spoke Russian.
After much signaling, asking, demanding, and repeating, Kitty’s meal finally arrived. So Kitty ate. All by herself. By this time, we had been sitting at the front table, nearest the kitchen and server station, for nearly 1 ½ hours. Two of us have completed our meals. One is now eating, and the other is still waiting. We literally asked for Amy’s meal about 25 times. Still no meal. No explanation. Nothing.
By this time, all of the wait staff are now ignoring us on purpose. Like maybe if they don’t look at us, we won’t really want that last meal. Umberto, being the man of the table, acted gentlemanly and went to the counter to see about Amy’s meal. Still no meal. Some time later, a man we have not seen before comes to the table and says, “I’m sorry, but he did not understand what you ordered.” And then he leaves.
In order to prevent having to explain to Amy’s husband and children why she is still behind, in Moscow, in prison, I took her upstairs to our room where she ate a biscotti in a wrapper. Not entirely equal to a steak, but food nonetheless.
The next evening, we experienced a nearly similar dinner event. At this point I am just waiting for someone to jump out from behind a fake tree and shout, “SMILE! You’re on Candid Camera!” But no one ever did.
On the third evening we did things a little differently. Amy rolled up her shirtsleeves. You see, Amy has a tattoo on each arm. And on her trip to Russia (via the later plane because of a missing passport) she learned from a fellow passenger that tattoos in Russia are typically a sign that the wearer is either in the Russian mafia or has been in prison.
We wondered how a Russian mafia member or convict might be treated in our little hotel restaurant where good service was seemingly non-existent. We found out within minutes the difference a tattoo makes!
Amy not only received her meal, but she received it rather quickly. And she was offered cigarettes and an ash tray by other patrons as well as a box of fruit juice by the coach of the Russian football team who was clearing out the last of the team’s belongings after a big buffet meal served exclusively to them. Whatever Amy asked for she got. And then some.
Next year I’m getting one of those 5 or 6-day tattoos. Either on my hand or my neck, so it will be visible all the time. Amy is taking shortsleeved shirts to wear to dinner.