Borscht, Borodinsky Bread...Bonding
A celebration of comfort food and connection
I’ve been told my face lights up when I talk about food. I’m not surprised, since I adore all kinds of food and often have an out-of-body experience when I think, talk, dream about it or cook, order, see it. It’s that bad; it’s that good. I especially love when others join in my revelry. I love connecting with others over food - sharing, learning, reminiscing, salivating. Significantly and disappointingly, I’ve had to work very hard to find balance between food obsession and my mental health (mainly, sugar. We’ll cover that another time - trust me).
In the early 90s, after canvassing my college neighborhood for a place to wait tables, I was hired at a 20-table Russian gem called Petrushka. I had never tried Russian food, so this would be an adventure. Before transferring to this university, I had worked at the same California cuisine restaurant for almost 3 years while attending a community college. There I had really expanded my small-town palate with whole roasted garlic, walnut/apple/gorgonzola salad, roasted red pepper soup, linguini with chicken and pinenuts, and fettucini with scallops. We had a killer garlic burger that would leave one reeking for days.
At Petrushka, I learned a whole new food vocabulary. literally and taste-wise. I had never tried pickled herring or black (Borodinsky) bread, nor had I tasted caviar or borscht. I didn’t know Russian cuisine involved many regions (Soviet Russia at that time) and included influences from the Meditterranean. Our menu had a Greek moussaka (a layered eggplant dish with bechamel sauce) and a salmon/spinach/fillo delight we called “salmon schpinatom.” I fell in love with pelmeni, a glorious dumpling and broth soup. A distinguished older Russian gentleman delivered these homemade morsels to our restaurant in Ziploc bags daily.
This is one of those moments when I wish I had kept the menu. Despite online sleuthing, I can’t find it. Truth be told, it wouldn’t have survived my purging frenzies of recent years anyway, but still.
So here was a typical day: bike from school to my shift (empty stomach), arrive around 4 pm, inhale intoxicating aromas upon entering, ladle up steaming borscht, drop in some sour cream, sprinkle with dill, snatch some black bread (preferably the heel), smear with butter, dive in. (Swoon). Often, I’d grab a scoop of olivye salad - so simple yet so exquisite. Ours had diced potatoes, pickles and carrots, peas, green beans, boiled egg, bits of ham, and a delicious mayonnaise dressing. This Russian food had become my comfort food, my sustenance, my much anticipated reprieve from scholarly angst.
Recently, I was reminded of these days while getting a manicure. I go to a Russian salon, and I love their meticulous approach. The appointments take longer, cost a bit more, and don’t involve hot soaks or a languid hand massages or uncomfortable chit chat (my social anxiety…). I don’t speak the language, though I hear others chatting happily who do, so aside from conveying relevant information, there’s a peaceful silence. I’ve grown accustomed to it, but this time was different.
I don’t even remember how it came up, but I mentioned that I used to work at a Russian restaurant. My tech, a beautiful young woman the age of one of my daughters, perked up. She’s been actively working on her English by taking classes, so conversation is great practice for her. No one needs to twist my arm to talk about food!
She’s from Ukraine, and she noted that the most traditional borscht is from her country. As I explained how the borscht was made at the restaurant (and how I made it a few times at home), she nodded enthusiastically. Meanwhile, other workers were joining in, as well as Eastern European customers. I had never known that the black bread was called Borodinsky bread - so happy to learn that! I was told of an excellent market, not far from me, where I could procure some. I wanted to leave my nails that second and go.
We talked about pelmeni, the old man who delivered them, and olivye salad. I know my face lit up—and it was so great to see everyone else’s face light up, too! As much as I love learning about different types of food, I love that shared experience even more. Food is a great connector, a transcent joy when shared enthusiastically and passionately. It breaks down barriers and connects to those deeper parts of ourselves, even when we don’t speak each others’ languages. On this day, I loved being reminded of these things. Whatever stressors I might have been experiencing…gone in that moment. I wished I spoke Russian, just to connect even more. (So many languages I wish I spoke…). And I know next time I’m there, we might talk about food again! Looking forward to it.
Someday soon I will be buying a loaf of Borodinsky bread, making a pot of steaming borscht, and savoring the memories. So grateful for the reminder.
Note: if you’d like to see my Ode to Chocolate, written in 2003 (when I didn’t need to worry about its effects on my body), click here:
