We were young—it
was Christmas and our anniversary and we wanted to celebrate our very special
day with a memorable dinner. Our pocket s were fairly empty—at that time—chorus
dancers and singers didn’t earn much so we scrounged and saved for a few months
in order to reserve a place at The
Russian Tea Room, a restaurant on 57th Street in Manhattan that
gives it address as “Slightly to the Left of Carnegie Hall.”
After the Russian
Revolution, dancers, musicians and actors—once stars in St.
Petersburg and Moscow—began
to emigrate to New York City and
the Tea Room became a hangout for White Russians looking for a taste of their
former home. In its early days the restaurant had many owners including the
former owner of a halvah factory in Moscow
and it was he who introduced full meals.
The artists were
homesick for the gossip, intrigue, intellectual discussions and the sweets and
pastries of the Czar’s Russia.
Feodor Chaliapin, a commanding Russian opera star and Michel Fokine who introduced
Americans to the Imperial Russian Ballet were among the newly arrived talents
who enjoyed the food and the ambiance.
I don’t know why
I wanted to eat at the Tea Room—it’s still a mystery to me. Though my
grandparents came to America
from Russia,
they came to escape the pogroms and traveled in steerage class. Our family was
poor and my grandfather worked as a shoemaker. They couldn’t wait to arrive at Ellis
Island, study and become American citizens. Perhaps it’s just
something about Royalty that intrigues Americans.
The room’s
setting, warm and welcoming, greeted us with green walls that served as a
backdrop to vivid scarlet leather banquettes that displayed tablecloths and
napkins pink as the first blush of spring wine. Christmas decorations—brightly colored
ornaments that would remain all year—garlanded the room along with polished
samovars that sparkled and ignited my imagination with dreams of tea being
carried by Tartars—nomads who traveled across Asia brewing tea to slake their
thirst. Buffed wood and gleaming mirrors reflecting images of the elegant
clientele seated around the restaurant promised a dinner we would never forget.
The waiters attired
in Red Russian tunics and the busboys in green paid attention to their guests
without being intrusive; we settled down and each ordered a Bloody Mary to toast
our anniversary. A Russian restaurant—vodka was and is a specialty of the bar
We began our
dinner with the Tearoom’s traditional hot borsht made with red beets, shredded
cabbage, and the freshest vegetables of the season. The borsht, flavored with
dill, was crowned with sour cream. Piroshki—little meat filled dumplings made
with puff paste and filled with beef, parsley, onions, eggs and Tabasco
attended the borsht.
The main course,
Chicken Kiev—rich with sweet herbed butter stuffed in a boned and breaded
chicken breast, then deeply fried came next. The dish is thought to have been created
by a French chef at the court of Alexander I.
We lifted our
forks in preparation for the first succulent bite of the chicken than glanced
at each other. We thought we heard a soft whimper. The whimper sounded again and
we looked at the adjacent banquette. The moans came from a sweet, baby-faced
woman sitting on the bench much to the concern of an equally young man who sat
at her side. Soon everyone in the restaurant had stopped eating and began
staring at the couple. From our banquette, I could see the woman was pregnant
and leaned over to ask if there was anything I could do. My only experience was
watching movies where someone always boiled water. A flutter of her hand said,
“Go away.”
The maitre d
escorted a distinguished fellow to the table.
“Madam, I’m an obstetrician.
May I help you?”
“Not yet,” she
said. “Not yet.”
The Tea Room had
grown silent. No sound of a fork, spoon or knife could be heard. No glasses
clinked in tribute to Christmas or the Holiday season.
No one was sure what the proper etiquette was. Does a caring person continue
eating when someone may be about to give birth? The doctor looked as confused
as every other diner in the restaurant.
The young woman
stopped moaning and slowly sank to a prone position in her booth. She couldn’t
be seen and she couldn’t be heard—conversation resumed. We relished each bite
of our Chicken Kiev and ate every last bit of our dessert—Baklava made with sheets
of thin phyllo pastry and sweetly layered walnuts, honey, and cinnamon.
We’ve never
forgotten that Christmas anniversary dinner and I’ve often thought about that
woman. Did she give birth on Christmas? At the Russian Tea Room? A boy? A girl?
And did the doctor finish his dinner?
HAPPY HOLIDAYS
BESTS,
Elise
My Cozy Mystery Scene Stealer is available wherever eBooks are sold.
