Taster’s choice
The president’s failure to come up with a winner this past week meant that dining in the cafeteria was a dismal affair the entire five days. More and more items on the Candidate’s Choice menu became unavailable as the week progressed, to the point where on Friday everything was crossed out except Yushka, Krucheni, Mystery Meat, and a Tart. Oops, I lie. On Tuesday, one new item was added: Salo Suslov. Nobody, not a single man, woman or deputy, touched it – a remarkable feat of self-control for all those hearty khakhly in our Rada, but even they weren’t willing to stoop that low. That item was crossed off the board even before Tuesday’s lunch hour was over. With horilka long gone, more than one deputy was heard to mutter “Chto to takoye, nyet gorilky?” and the company became morose and long-faced. Some took to sneaking in a bottle of Chernihivske from the VR kiosk, but they had to be careful that Lena of the SS (Supervision of Smuggling) did not see them. Well, at least there is a starter, an entree and a dessert, I thought, as I took up my tray on Friday, flicking off a stray sprig of parsley in the process. I placed a big bowl of Yushka on my tray and went straight for the Mystery Meat, ignoring the Krucheni. Who ever knows what kind of spicing they use to keep that stuff from rotting, I thought. It was then that I noticed a change in the fine print of the dessert item.
Today’s Dessert Special – Sweet Tarts
Ukrainian poppyseed tart
Jewish apple tart
Russian sweet pelmeni pie
Aha! This certainly looks like a promising hint of things to come, I thought, a candidate for everyone’s taste. As much as I love “mak,” I didn’t want my teeth peppered with poppyseeds before a heavy date and I doubted that a sweet pelmeni would be as tasty as a sweet potato, so I made my choice. Besides, I’ve always had a fondness for apples.
PS: The special guest that evening on “U nich na subotu,” a late-night talk show on Mr. Kuchma’s own channel, made a very personable presentation as a family man and one-time banker, and spoke quite creditable Ukrainian with only the occasional “dazhe” thrown in. Still, I have a feeling that we could be living on Yushka for a while to come…
Presidents in love
This week witnessed a delightful love-affair that started in romantic, historic Kyiv and ended on the Black Sea shore off the coast near Odesa. The dashing oriental billionaire flew into town on his private Boeing 737 – there’s a big new market out there, in case the Seattle company hasn’t noticed – and lavished a bouquet of 10 rare manuscripts that exhuded a heady whiff of petroleum on his blushing redhead companion. The two sat tête-à-tête in the charming parqueted interior of Marinskiy Palace and pored over the fine print. A pre-nuptual agreement promised the bride many billions of gallons of black gold for five years, negotiable for up to 10 if they were both satisfied with each other’s eating habits and obscure relations. In return, the redhead had to persuade a number of retainers to roll up their sleeves and dig ditches in the oriental suitor’s back yard. Piece of cake, really, given that they needed the black gold to keep their own affairs from going down the tubes. Having done the hard part, the second day of their whirlwind courtship was dedicated to sightseeing: Five black minibuses pulled up to whisk the two away.
“For me?” said the oriental. “Why, you shouldn’t have…”
“I didn’t,” answered the redhead. “Four of them are decoys.”
“Decoys?” asked the oriental in astonishment. “Why, are we in any danger?”
“Not really. My spouse is out shopping for orphanages.”
“Are paparazzi a problem?”
“No.”
“Then what…”
“I just wanted to impress you,” the redhead blushed. “After all, do you know of any head of state who doesn’t have an entire attack squad covering his back at all times? You wouldn’t want me to do any less by you, now, would you?”
“Do I get to pick?”
First on their list of special viewings, accompanied by the very proud Mayor of the capital, was the famous “mezhdu zhopamy” as Russian-speaking locals so delicately put it: the area between the slender backside of Lesia Ukrainka and the titanic one of Rodina Mat, where the luxury hi-rise complex known as Tsarske Selo is undergoing expansion. After an exhaustive tour of four more major construction sites, they drove to Chubynske, where a farm show was underway.
“Did I tell you I was once a dairy maid?” asked the redhead coyly.
“How utterly charming!” the billionaire replied. “I will be happy to buy a herd of cows from you and maybe even a tractor or two. Are they American-made?”
After making a public declaration of his love, the oriental took everybody for lunch, and they all flew off to Odesa for a quick dip in the sea. As the two, the fair Ukrainian and the dark Turkmeni walked hand-in-hand along the sandy beach towards the newly opened Ilichivsk Container Terminal, the bride asked, “Do you promise to be true to me?”
“How can you ask such a question, my little cabbage cake?”
At that point, the microphone began to register a tremendous amount of interference and all that could be heard was “…Russki… nafta… Putin … blin… Amerikantsi…” and then it went dead altogether. Now the world will never know what sweet nothings were whispered as the sun dipped below the horizon. The question is, will they invite the nextdoor neighbor to the wedding? •
–from the notebooks of Pan O
No comments:
Post a Comment