On our first night in Moscow, we found ourselves in a dingy all-you-can-eat establishment. My friend and I took one look around and instantly opted for the vegetarian offerings. My girlfriend made the crucial mistake of asking for the chicken.
“Undercooked” would have been a significant understatement. Any doubts about the soft, slimy pile of pink meat making its way to our table were confirmed after the optimistic first incision (“I’m sure it still tastes alright…”) punctured a blood clot the size of Red Square.
It dawned on us then that our three-word Russian vocabulary (“yes”, “no”, “toilet”) did not extend to “refund”, “salmonella” or “Director-General of the World Health Organisation”, but we put on our most pitiable faces and carried the blood-soaked plate back to the counter, where we were directed to a lone man in a dark corner.
Judging by the black suit, glasses and surreptitious hand-in-jacket, this man was part-time complaints officer, part-time Russian mafia. He glanced down at the bleeding bird and gave us a deliberately blank stare. A further attempt to push the plate closer prompted nothing but a noticeable gripping motion within the jacket.
…We didn’t get the refund.
The vegetarian option was delicious.
