Bite-size Stories

Italians grew up with ai frutti di mare ; the French with boeuf bourguignon . My iron-curtained past is personified by Herring in Fur Coat -  a pickled herring dressed in seven layers of pungent veggie swagger. Nothing embodies the kitsch of Soviet life - the outrageously tacky, overdone ways - better than this playful dish. Its taste and colour stood in stark contradiction to the drabness of daily life. Naively optimistic, desperate to inject brightness into the grey Comi-collage, people served this magenta salad as the centrepiece of any gathering or celebration. The Empire may be gone, but this souvenir from the Motherland endures. From communal flats in Kiev and Moscow to New York, Melbourne and Monte Carlo - where the people go, Herring in Fur Coat goes too. You may think your palate isn’t ready for the experiment. But baked beets, mixed with grated waxy potatoes and carrots, boiled eggs, and homemade mayonnaise, all layered over pickled herring laced with onion and dill, ...

You kept asking me why I want to go. You’d say I always leave you, and I’d remind you: I always come back. I will come back again. I just have to go and see where the Champs-Élysées flows into the Arc de Triomphe, and sit under the chestnut tree. When I return, I’ll bring you all my stories and we’ll laugh together. You know me - such a tragic case, always stumbling into ridiculous situations, unprepared, naive, childlike. Maybe that’s the reason I go: to travel, to learn, perhaps even to grow up. When I return, I’ll bring gifts from rolling lavender fields and the Côte d’Azur. My skin will still carry the salty sea air and the taste of wine baths. My stories will be sweet and cheesy. French stories always are - pastry stories, golden with butter and dipped in chocolate mousse. There will be wine too, in glasses, bottles, and barrels. And a bottle for you and me will go so well with the sweet and cheesy.

For most, it’s just an odd-looking beetroot soup. For me, it’s much more than that. Kiev - the old town perched high on its steep hills, clasped by the river. In summer, its narrow streets are drenched in lilac and chestnut blossom, generous under the sun. In winter, snow falls in heavy flakes, turning the city shiny, grim, and mysterious in the dark. Kiev is grandma’s borsch. Flushed pink and pungent, impossible to forget, impossible not to return to. At twenty-three, I crossed Australian border security with two hundred dollars, a suitcase, a new husband, and a baby bump. Who needs more to start a life? What I didn’t know was that beetroot soup came too, undeclared. It was the most important of all possessions. Decades later, it still is. Because the most important possession is who you are.

These small, sweet pancakes were my favorite growing up. I remember whole apple slices being browned in the still-sizzling pan. Fond memories of the place where I grew up, in the country that doesn't exist.  I often think I have two lives. My first twenty years spent on steep hills above Dnepr. Heavy chestnut tree blossoms and heady lilac flood the streets as you climb back up from the river. Kiev. The next twenty-five are coming to an end in sunburned, windswept Melbourne.  One day, there will be a pen, sharp and witty, factual and insightful, that will tell the whole story. Chaotic, intense, and often agonizing times that pushed a whole generation away from home.  And I, for now, just keep my food memories to connect what I had been with what I have become. 

Cashmere coats and Armani suits abound. Office people uphold their importance with expensive good looks on the classy side of Collins Street. They rush around the Mamasita sign, treating their afternoon meeting agenda like a life-time commitment. Me too, very important. My meeting agenda included a salt-ringed glass of margarita and char-grilled corn cobs in melted cheese, paprika and mayo. Keen Melbourne crowds queue just to get that. The word on the street is that Mamasita is an adventure. No, I do not like to queue, but I am always up for an adventure. I trick the crowds, and get in just before lunch time. Braised goat tostada, a few margaritas and an icecream covered in popcorn. We do not need an agenda to have a killer of a meeting Mamasita and I.

Going out for breakfast is one of those luxurious things I can only afford when life is not spinning out of control. When Monday does not bump into Friday, and a briefing session in March does not turn into the morning meeting in July. I stretch my hand out to get the coffee. Slowly, the aroma fills me with such happiness. Life is best lived in adagio. Carlisle Street in recent years has picked up the vibe from its neighbours along St Kilda beach, offering a whole bunch of places where breakfast, lunch or dinner is a treat. Where you want to take your time and savour the food. We are at the Grindhouse. A small courtyard covered with grapevines. Corn and herb pancakes, beetroot and lime–cured salmon with avocado. Spanish scrambled eggs with chorizo. And coffee. The aroma still lingers in my mind. Breakfast in adagio always smells like coffee.