I Vant Mik Passionate Borscht Vit You

Well, that settles it. I'm probably done for. It's official folks, I'm probably whipped (at least according to my coworkers), and sooner or later I'll have to admit that I do, indeed, love my Colonel Von Butternuts.

Really, I must; for what else would have prompted me to call and make reservations for two at the St. Petersburg Cafe in Brookline - an early Valentine's gift from me to him. And my attempt at rectifying my "Bad Girlfriend" status (half-jokingly attained upon his realizing that in the year and a half that we've been together, I've only talked about it and never actually taken him there). For those of you unfamiliar with the place, there's now a website up for your perusal: http://www.cafestpetersburg.com/ (although the current webpage focuses on their newer location in Newton Center - their original restaurant, and the one to which I've attributed nothing but good memories, is in Brookline Village).

If one were to peruse the menu now conveniently available online, one would notice that there aren't a lot of vegetarian options (I suppose the windy steppes of the Old Country offered little more by way of vegetable matter other than cabbage, cabbage, and more cabbage to its hapless inhabitants). Nor are there really options for the non-adventurous or the teetotalers, which, up until now, have comprised much of my boyfriend demographic - to the point where it seemed pretty much worthless to take anyone out there, regardless of how much I'd enjoy it.

Now, dinner at St. P's is obviously something that you just don't do by yourself. At least, I don't. I haven't yet found a personal occasion worth the money and harrassment from the MBTA's new CharlieCard system (fuck you, Charlie! Fuck you! I have never wanted to put my foot through a piece of electronic equipment more than every time I try to add a dollar and seventy five fucking cents onto my goddamn card! And I work with robotic prototypes, so that's saying something. Oh! So my money's not good enough for you, huh? Eject all my change AFTER you display the "processing" screen. I see how it is. I hope you burn in the hemorrhoidal depths of hell, you bunch of money-grubbing overly-progressive MBTA fucks. Progress my ass, it takes FIVE TIMES as long to add train fare as it does for Christopher Reeves to tie his shoes!) *ahem* yes. Once more, without frothing at the mouth from mention of the T: I haven't yet found a personal occasion worth the money and harrassment from the MBTA's new CharlieCard system to enjoy a multi-course Russian feast all by lonesome. Especially since I hold to the belief that celebration in and of itself is based in sharing your joy with others. That, and I'm so cheap and asian that I almost never do anything nice "just for me."

But I digress. The St. Petersburg Cafe isn't really just another restaurant to me. It's a place I associate with some of my favorite memories - despite having only been there a single time. While some would say that one visit does not define an adequate sample space for conclusion, I would argue that fondness need not necessarily be a product of familiarity, but of singular experiences preserved for later enjoyment (like those times when your boss sneaks a documentation assignment onto your desk during your lunch hour, and rather than getting upset about it, you make-believe that a big steaming bowl of borscht has been placed before you in place of the big steaming...)

The first and only time I've ever been to the St. Petersburg Cafe was as a birthday treat from my dear friend Steve. Then, he and I were just getting to know each other, and moreover, both of us were nearly broke (I, a student, he an artist), thus lending an even more special quality to the evening (take a look at the price list on the online menu, imagine two broke goths in a Russian cafe, and you'll know what I mean). Through conversations we'd discovered that our birthdays were merely 10 days apart, and, amongst other things, he'd also discovered that I enjoyed exotic food and wine, thus concluding that I'd enjoy fancy Russian food most of all.

My experience with Russian food was extremely limited at the time - the last traditionally Russian meal I remember eating was at my friend's house back in the third grade; she and her her family immigrated from the Soviet Union shortly before the collapse - and they had a fondness for pickled herring in mashed potatoes. While I, myself, have since grown quite fond of pickled herring (despite the fact that it makes my breath smell like dog shit), I remember ordering the duck - duck in raspberry sauce, indeed a far cry from pickled fish in starch. At the time, the duck was probably the best thing I'd eaten in 4 months. It probably ranks up there as one of the best duck preparations I've had in my life, but then again, who eats duck regularly enough to be able to compare? I believe my dining partner had the beef stroganoff - though the horseradish vodka did make things somewhat more difficult to remember. It was noted that the night we visited, the horseradish vodka was not quite as strong as it sometimes was - a product of in-house preparation, no doubt (at some point during the evening, I was told that the horseradish vodka was at times so formidable it was better enjoyed by way of inhalation rather than sipping). Though of course, both the house cranberry and house horseradish vodka were overshadowed by the imposing bottle of Kindzmarauli that Steve insisted that I try, as I had made it known that I was fond of port and similarly sweet red wines (is some wine snob here going to call me a philistine for liking sweet reds? If you are, I don't wanna hear it, because I bet you like Pinot Noir from Sonoma County, you asshole). For those unfamiliar, Kindzmarauli is a sweet fortified Georgian wine which can only otherwise be described as "drinking red velvet" and is regarded by some as the quintessential goth wine of choice. Though normally bottled in unfinished clay, that night, the wine arrived in a black bottle with gold Russian lettering - and has since become my favorite beverage above all (and incidentally, the first gift Von Butternuts ever gave me in an obviously successful attempt to impress me beyond all reasonable expectation). Thinking back on it, I'm glad that I was not, at the time, licensed to drive (though coincidentally, that also makes me think that I probably wasn't of legal age to be horfing down glasses of homemade vodka and strong red wine, either, since I did get licensed at age 21).

Over the course of the evening, Steve and I shared stories - lots of terrible stories. Adventures with public transportation, San Francisco bikers, vomiting in churches, every kind of adventure we'd experienced and deemed impressive enough to share with another of like mind. I would say that night was a lot of firsts for me, but I'd probably sum it up as the first time anyone valued my company without obligation. Until that point, for as much as I can remember, all of the friends and company I'd ever had were people that were either involved with me by circumstances beyond their control, or people that hung around me in order to be polite. This really went doubly so for the men in my life, as up until that point, I'd never really been able to carry on a dinner conversation with someone without being looked upon as something of an oddity. Have you ever gone to dinner with someone, brought your A game, your stories, and your uncensored self, only to find yourself in a one-sided conversation where you're afraid you've gravely offended your dining partner through their lack of response, but yet they seem amused? How many of you have heard the phrase "oh, you're something else!" or some other equally backhanded or inane proclaimation of how entertaining you are? Man, it makes me want to take a crap in their after-dinner coffees. It's times like that where you wonder whether you're an ass for dominating the conversation, or if the company you keep really just doesn't have anything to say (in which case, they rely on you to keep things entertaining). It's my impression that about 10% of the population has this problem, and the other 90% are the people they dine with.

Fortunately for me, that was not one of those nights. The night Steve and I had dinner at the St. Petersburg Cafe and talked until the busboys were almost ready to give us the boot, there was some kind of unspoken arrangement of intellectual give-and-take. The kind of give and take that I have learned over the years, really only comes from the kind of relationship you have with your closest of friends - the ones with whom you share a tacit agreement of acceptance regardless of whether or not you fail to impress. For many years, that was the marker upon which I drew the line - the men I was interested in were the ones whom I constantly attempted to impress, and inevitably, the ones who just did not understand the effort. It probably didn't help that they were also dumb (man, they were dumb. And had hygiene problems! And assorted felinoidal delusions!). My friends on the other hand, never fail to impress me, nor I them. There's always the appreciation, acceptance, and the give-and-take, which in my book, has always made me feel far more attractive than any canned contrived compliment like "you're so interesting."

Perhaps that's why taking Von Butternuts to the St. Petersburg Cafe is such a significant deal - it's allowing someone else into my memory of the best intellectual "date" I've ever had (regardless of the fact that at the time both Steve and I were attached to other people) - the first time I felt valued and attractive for the way I was. It's also the first time I'll be attempting to combine the intellectual acceptance I've come to know from my friends, with the kind of acceptance I seemed to so desperately seek from the men I dated before. Will it happen? Fuck if I know, but I'm crossing my fingers that by trying, I won't ruin a perfectly good memory for me.

About 6 vodkas and a bottle of fortified wine in the bag, we stumbled towards the Brookline T stop. I'd like to say I remembered more of the evening after the T, but as alcohol would have it, I often times don't necessary recall exact details so much as that warm pleasant feeling of general contentment and the feeling that all is right with the world that only a belly full of good food and wine and a mind well-exercised can bring. I vaguely recall we took two wrong turns down an alley in Brookline and I ran into a trash can after tripping on a crack in the sidewalk trying to get home. Good times, good times.

I guess I really don't have adventures anymore... not the kind I used to. In a way, it probably makes me boring. A lot less exciting for you readers, I'm sure. It probably has something to do with the fact that the majority of my adventures happened when I was all alone, or otherwise felt some lack of camraderie and kindred spirit. You're always inclined to do the worst things to yourself when you're alone - regardless of whether or not you approach with the intent to hurt. It really is true what they say about adventures - they're absolutely terrible while you're having them, and only really "fun" once you're talking about them afterwards over a case of wine with a couple of your easily impressed buddies (because, truly, that's what you readers are - a bunch of my buddies who are obviously easily impressed with stories I tell you about "the time I horrified the Korean Consulate with my post-fiesta-gastro-rectal-symphonics," and "that one time I danced in the cage at ManRay with Rogue of the Cruxshadows," or perhaps even "the story of how I got registered to vote in Massachusetts"). These are all canned stories that I've added to my repertoire over the years and bring out to share when I'm introduced to new people. I imagine that builds some kind of inflated image of "a party girl with a temperamental colon," but to tell the truth, I often feel my well is running dry as I get older and bond closer to the ever fewer good friends I keep around me. I've cut back on gorging on free Mexican food and Margeritas at the office, which reduces my predilection towards expelling out a Fearsome Crap during my lunch hour. I don't even get out that much anymore to clubs or live shows, and on the rare occasion I do, I'm just not hot enough anymore to cage-dance with the lead singer of any band, nevermind everyone's favorite master of gravity-defying hair. And really... ever since I started dating Von Butternuts, with whom I oft times share a single train of thought and who, more times than not, treats me better than he treats himself, I really haven't felt the need to "go cheating" or "take a break" from whatever douchebag I'm stuck with at the time, let alone "go picking up filthy alumni for one-night-stands after guiding freshmen through underground steam tunnels and over roofs." Besides, I'm already registered to vote in Cambridge, so it's not exactly an experience I can repeat. Not to mention it goes against my strict new "no hippie" policy of dating, to boot. Truth be told, I just don't do most of the things I used to, and it's not for lack of ability, but at this point for lack of inclination and a sense of jadedness that comes with having "done that already."

Perhaps it's true, that being close to someone is really the end of me, in more ways than one. Aside from the "being whipped" factor (nothing says "I'm whipped" like driving your boyfriend to the Alewife T every morning at the asscrack of 6:30 am), perhaps there's something to be said about finding a person with whom you share experiences who is able to appreciate it with equal gusto, such that there's nothing left to be said. After all, an adventure's only an adventure if it impresses someone else, and you can savor the reaction as you recount the tale in all its exacting gory detail. Perhaps there's something lost when you achieve a closeness such that much of the appreciation for an experience is already implied (or the other person is equally jaded), and the act of conveying the tale is rendered unnecessary. How, indeed, would you strive to impress?

Having built much of my default interaction with human beings upon regaling them with tales of the extreme [XTREEEEME POOP!], I find this development completely confounding. Conversely, I suppose, even more confounding is the thought that Von Butternuts has yet to get bored, and I ran out of good stories roughly 2 months after we started dating. This time though, rather than fighting it, I might just embrace it and hope that it's actually a new kind of adventure masquerading as happiness and complacency, since everyone knows I'm far from the type who thrives on kittens, sunshine, and photosynthesis.

I think it was once said that inspiration is steeped in conflict - and in that case, I hope I'm never truly happy, as that might just be the death of my muse :)

I might leave it at that for now. Happy early V-Day to Von Butternuts and myself - may we always keep it "interesting." And thanks too, to Steve, for having given me the memory of an evening of good conversation, wine, and food, that I might now feel compelled to share the experience with someone else who might just appreciate it as much as I did. Happy drinking.

Further bulletins as events warrant.