A Gentleman in Moscow

The book is inadequately summed up in the blurb. Inadequate, because no manner of words can really sum up the book other than, perhaps, the word: joyous.

So, the blurb: 

On 21 June 1922, Count Alexander Rostov – recipient of the Order of St Andrew, member of the Jockey Club, Master of the Hunt – is escorted out of the Kremlin, across Red Square and through the elegant revolving doors of the Hotel Metropol.

Deemed an unrepentant aristocrat by Bolshevik tribunal, the Count has been sentenced to house arrest indefinitely. But instead of his usual suite, he must now live in an attic room while Russia undergoes decades of tumultuous upheaval.

Can a life without luxury be the richest of all? 

The final rhetorical question suggests the non ‘spoiler’ answer: yes and triple yes.

The Count is imprisoned in the hotel and out of boredom and talent finds employment as the  maitre d' hotel and,  over the years, finds a lover, a series of rich friendships, and two young girls who give meaning to his life. 

I’ve picked out three short passages that exemplify the unaffected humour and, because food is a central part of my own life, his poetic depiction of food. 

The context of the first passage is a surprise party for Sofia, a girl he now sees as a daughter. The celebrants are crowded in his tiny attic room.

From the manner in which Vasily asked the question, it was clear that he wished to take the Count aside. But as the Count’s study was but a hundred foot square, they could only step about three feet away from the others in which to secure their privacy—an action that was immediately rendered inconsequential when the other four members of the party moved a similar distance in a similar direction. I sighed with pleasure at the rhythm and the simple but careful choice of words.

On an earlier occasion, before he finds employment at the hotel, the Count is in the restaurant, observing a desperately shy young man trying to impress a diffident young woman. Scanning the menu, the young man’s panic is evident but, by sheer good fortune, ‘in a stroke of genius,’ he orders the Latvian Stew, and the Count is ecstatic.

‘While this traditional dish of pork, onions, and apricots was reasonably priced, it was also reasonably exotic; and it somehow harkened back to that world of grandmothers and holidays and sentimental melodies that (the two) had been about to discuss when so rudely interrupted.’ (by the supercilious waiter.) 

But there is another hurdle: the wine list, and the Count is both outraged and appalled when he hears the waiter recommend the Rioja. 

‘The Rioja? Now there was a wine that would clash with the stew as Achilles clashed with Hector. It would slay the dish with a blow to the head and drag it behind its chariot . . . besides, it clearly cost three times more what the young man could afford.’

Here, the Count is forced to intervene.

 “If I may,” the Count interjected. “For a serving of Latvian stew, you will find no better choice than a bottle of Mukuzani . . . The Georgians practically grow their grapes in the hope that one day they will accompany such a stew.”

The Count orders Latvian Stew and a bottle of the Mukuzani too. ‘And just as he’d suspected, it was the perfect dish for the season. The onions thoroughly caramelized, the pork slowly braised, and the apricots stewed, the three ingredients came together in a sweet and smoky medley that simultaneously suggested the comfort of a snowed in tavern and the jangle of a gypsy tambourine.’ 

At this point I was forced to google Latvian stew and to my surprise a whole sub thread was devoted to the mystery of Latvian stew. I’m determined it will be served at our next dinner party. Mukuzani wine too- more readily available.

The final example of fine food writing focuses on Emile the Chef spending an inordinate amount of time tracking down the ingredients for the finest Bouillabaisse—a herculean task in Bolshevik Russia. At last he succeeds, and the three friends congregate in the kitchen for a midnight feast.

Aware that Emile the Chef is watching their responses, the Count raises his spoon and closes his eyes

How to describe it?

One first tastes the broth—that simmered distillation of fish bones, fennel, and tomatoes, with their hearty suggestion of Provence. One then savours the tender flakes of haddock and the briny resilience of the mussels, which have been purchased on the docks from the fishermen. One marvels at the boldness of the oranges arriving from Spain and the absinthe poured in the taverns. And all those various impressions are somehow collected, composed, and brightened by the saffron—that essence of summer sun which, having been harvested in the hills of Greece and packed by mule to Athens, has been sailed across the Mediterranean in a felucca. In other words, with the first spoonful one finds oneself transported to the port of Marseilles —where streets teem with sailors, thieves, and madonnas, with sunlight and summer, with language and life.

The Count opened his eyes. 

“Magnifique”, he said. 

I was reasonably content with tinned Bouillabaisse before this.

So, buy or borrow the book and enjoy its wisdom and humour, and the satisfaction of a perfect conclusion.