My last visit to the Russian Cultural Center left me with a bitter taste in my mouth: maybe it was the balsamic vinegar flavored Cabernet, or the Gestapo-style inquisition at the door, but in my book, the place already had two sickle-shaped strikes against it. However, things have changed since my last visit: my friend Kamilla is now an employee (funny how stuff like that works in Russia-land) and when describing Thursday's event she used the magic words:open bar.
It was time for me to give the RCC another chance.
In addition to an open bar, the event also featured a display of Czech artist Pavel Vavrys' paintings. Mr. Vavrys is quite a prolific painter---so prolific, in fact, that the Russian Cultural Center lacked the wall space and frames to display all of his work, so they opted to arrange the excess paintings on the floor in a casual, leaning-against the wall style.
Why the Russian Cultural Center was hosting a display of a Czech artist's work in the first place was slightly confusing (maybe the next event will showcase a sculptor from Georgia?), but in keeping with local tradition and personal custom, I didn't ask a lot of questions and instead headed straight for the bar.
About the bar: For some reason the RCC decided to staff the bar with a geriatric old comrade rather than an actual bartender. Possibly he's the someone's college friend's grandfather who was owed a favor back in the old country and has now conned his way into a job at the RCC and probably even diplomatic immunity. Or maybe he's actually the Russian ambassador and enjoys masquerading as a member of the proletariat in his free time. Whatever his true identity, the man can neither speak nor understand English, and he knows less about cocktails than Laura Ingalls Wilder. When I used hand signals to place my order of a vodka and diet coke, old Igor/ Ambassador Kislyak started at me as if I had asked for a cup of saliva. He finally shook his head woefully, and motioned I should take a shot of vodka and chase it with a pickle. I glanced at the shots glasses, which were the size of Solo Cups, and the pickles, which looked like leftover war rations, and shook my head. We were at an impasse. As I stood at the Berlin Wall of cocktail mixology, I knew what I had to do. I reached into my purse, pulled out a crumpled $1 bill, and dropped it in the tip jar.
No sooner was the coveted drink in my hand did I notice not one but five(!) very cute Danish guys. They claimed to work for the embassy (diplomats! score!) and introduced themselves as Relvfølgeligelvfølgelig, Jæpelvfølgeligpæ, and assorted other (clearly fabricated ) names. To make things easier, I promptly christened all five of them "Skoal," a word I learned at the Moi Moi Helsinki party that means "Cheers" in most Scandinavian languages and "chewing tobacco product" in English. After introducing ourselves, Kamilla and I adjourned briefly to the bathroom to argue over who got the really cute one with red hair. When we returned to our post by the hors d'oeuvres, the boys proceeded to give us a lesson on Denmark's many contributions to humanity. ( Carlsberg? And those gooey pastries known as Danish? Very much Danish! But Vikings? Not so much...)
Just as I was beginning to regret my decision to allow Kamilla to have the redhead, a bell sounded, indicating that the second helping of entertainment was about to be served. In keeping with the evening's theme of cultural confusion, the event concluded with a piano recital by an American born pianist with "Romanian Background." Whether his background included actually living in Romania or merely having sat through the entire Romanian abortion movie was unclear, but it didn't seem to have any impact on his piano skills.
( Full disclosure: by the time the piano-playing occurred, I had downed enough vodka diets that I would have had trouble distinguishing between Chopin and a 3rd grade recorder recital.)
In truth, his concerto went largely unnoticed, as a rumor had begun circulating that the open bar would be replaced by a cash bar following the recital, which sent people scrambling back in line, concert be damned. Clearly, the guests of the RCC know where their priorities are.
Sure enough, as soon as the recital ended, the open bar closed, and someone taped a price list to the table cloth. The sign read:
shots $1
Soft drinks $2
beer/wine $3
Mixed drinks $4
As I joined the line, I mulled over the odd fact that purchasing a shot of vodka and a coke in two separate glasses cost $3, but having them mixed together in one glass cost $4-- apparently old Igor didn't just make the drinks, but also priced them according to Soviet-style logic. Fortunately I never made it through the line, as Kamilla materialized and made her trademark "A Very Old and Creepy Russian Man is Following Me Around" face. I seized the moment (and a few of the cuter members of Skoal & Co) and we headed out of the art-filled foyer of the RCC and into the night.
Final tally:
drinks: 4
creepsters: 1
diplomats: 0
glam factor: low, but largely compensated for by presence of cute boys with accents
has the RCC redeemed itself ?: possibly; largely dependant on outcome of cute boys with accents situation
Previously in I Heart DC:
- 2/14: 101 Reasons To Love DC-Part 2
- 2/13: DC News You Can (Maybe) Use:
- 2/13: 101 Reasons To Love DC-Part 1
- 2/10: DC News You Can (Maybe) Use
- 2/9: DC News You Can (Maybe) Use
- 2/8: DC News You Can (Maybe) Use
- 2/8: Perfect Date Outfits + Outings
- 2/7: DC News You Can (Maybe) Use
- 2/6: DC News You Can Maybe Use:
- 2/2: DC News You Can (Maybe) Use:
God loves a cheerful giver.
It must be Cabernet, not Cabarnet, you fool.
cant wait to drop by one of these when i get back from traveling!
Clearly you are an uncultured vehemouth who cannot understand the limits of drinking at social functions. The fact that you can't even spell the name of a wine correctly, yet think you can criticize every artist and host you encounter speaks a lot about your "schmoozing" abilities. If you had picked up a pamphlet before running to the open bar, you would have realized that the goal of the Eurasia Center is to promote events between ex-Soviet countries and cultures, not just Russia. I hope you end up on the black list of every embassy in town soon.
"vehemouth???"
and you're criticizing her spelling?
right.