How can I describe this place? Well, it was an interesting blend of old-Russia opulence and Vegas nightclub, designed perhaps by someone who had watched Dr. Zhivago and Casino Royale too many times.
There was a big, horseshoe-shaped bar in the rear with a partial view of the ocean, and a better view of the patrons. I made my way through the cocktail tables and squeezed myself in at the bar between a beefy guy in an iridescent suit and a bleached blonde lady who was wearing her daughter's cocktail dress.
Most of the male patrons at the bar were dressed in outfits similar to mine, so I was not in a position to be critical.
Anyway, my attire notwithstanding, I don't think I look particularly Russian, but the bartender said something to me in Russian-or was he a Brooklyn native and did he say, 'Whacanigetcha?'
I know about six Russian words, and I used two of them: 'Stolichnaya, pozhaluista.'
He moved off and I looked around the cocktail lounge. Aside from the slick suits, there were a lot of guys with open shirts and multiple gold chains around their necks, and a lot of women who had more rings than fingers. The no-smoking law seemed to be observed, though there was a steady stream of people going out to the boardwalk to light up.
I heard a mixture of English and Russian being spoken, sometimes by the same person, but the predominant language seemed to be Russian.
My Stoli came and I used my third Russian word. 'Spasibo.'
The bartender asked, 'Runatab?'
'Pozhaluista.' Can't go wrong with 'please.'
I could see the restaurant section through an etched glass wall, and the place was huge, holding maybe four hundred people, and nearly every table was filled. Boris was doing okay for himself. Or Boris had done okay for himself before Asad Khalil cut off his head.
At the far end of the restaurant I could see a big stage where a four-piece band was playing what sounded like a cross between 'YMCA' and 'The Song of the Volga Boatmen.' The dance floor was crowded with couples, young and old, plus a lot of pre-teen girls dancing with each other, and the usual old ladies out on the floor giving the hip replacements a workout. In fact, this scene looked like any number of ethnic weddings I'd been to, and I had the thought that maybe I'd crashed a wedding reception. But more likely this was just another night at Svetlana.
I should say, too, for the sake of accurate reporting, and because I am trained to observe people, that there were a fair number of hot babes in the joint. In fact, I seemed to recall this being the case the last time I was at Rossiya with Dick Kearns and Ivan.
Anyway, the lady next to me, who might have been one of those hot Russian babes fifteen years ago, seemed interested in the new boy. I could smell her lilac cologne heating up, and without sounding too crude, her bumpers were hanging over my Stoli, and they could have used a bar stool of their own.
She said to me, in a thick accent, 'You are not Roosian.'
'What was your first clue?'
'Your Roosian is terrible.'
Your English ain't so hot either, sweetheart. I asked her, 'Come here often?'
'Yes, of course.' She then gave me the correct pronunciation of 'spasibo,' 'pozhaluista,' and 'Stolichnaya'-I was stressing the wrong syllables-and made me repeat after her.
Apparently, I wasn't getting it, and she suggested, 'Perhaps another voodka would help you.'
We both got a chuckle out of that, and we introduced ourselves. Her name was Veronika-with a k-and she was originally from Kansas. No, Kursk. I introduced myself as Tom Walsh, and I briefly considered giving her Tom's home number. Maybe later.
I bought us another round. She was drinking cognac, which I recalled the Russkies loved-and at twenty bucks a pop, what's not to love? And I couldn't even put this on my expense account.
Anyway, recalling Nietzsche's famous dictum-the most common form of human stupidity is forgetting what one is trying to do-I said to her, 'I need to see someone in the restaurant, but maybe I'll see you later.'
'Yes? And who do you need to see?'
'The manager. I'm collecting for Greenpeace.'
Veronika pouted and said, 'Why don't you dance with me?'
'I'd love to. Don't go away.'
I told the bartender, 'Give this lady another cognac when she's ready, and put it on my tab.'
Veronika raised her glass and said to me, 'Spasibo.'
The tab came, and I paid cash, of course, not wanting any record of this on my government credit card, or on my Amex card, where I'd have to explain Svetlana to Kate.
I promised Veronika, 'I'll see you later.'
'Perhaps. Perhaps not.'
I made my way through the cocktail lounge and into the restaurant. It really smelled good in here and my empty tummy rumbled.
I found the maitre d's stand and approached a gentleman in a black suit. He regarded me for a moment, decided I was a foreigner, and addressed me in English, asking, 'How may I help you?'
I replied, 'I'm here to see Mr. Korsakov.'
He seemed a bit surprised, but he did not say, 'Mr. Korsakov had his head cut off just last night. Sorry you missed him.' He asked, 'Is he expecting you?'
So, Boris was alive and here, and I replied, 'I'm an old friend.' I gave him my card, and he stared at it. I assumed he read English, and I assumed, too, he didn't like what he was reading-Anti-Terrorist Task Force and all that-so I said to him, 'This is not official business. Please take that to Mr. Korsakov and I will wait here.'
He hesitated, then said, 'I am not certain he is in, Meester…' He looked at my card again. '… Cury.'
'Corey. And I'm certain he is in.'
He called over another guy to hold down the fort, and I watched him make his way toward the back of the restaurant, then disappear through a red curtain.
I said to the young guy who was filling in for the maitre d', 'You ever see Dr. Zhivago?'
'Please?'
'The scene in the restaurant where the young guy shoots the fat guy-Rod Steiger-who's been screwing Julie Christie.'
'Please?'
'Hey, I'd take a slug for her. I took three for less than that. Capisce?'
A group came in and the maitre d' trainee escorted them to a table.
So I stood there, ready to escort the next group to their table.
Meanwhile, I looked around the cavernous restaurant. The tables were covered with gold cloths on which sat vodka bottles, champagne buckets, and tiered trays filled with mounds of food, and the diners were doing a hell of a job getting that food where it belonged. The band was now playing the theme song from From Russia with Love, which was kind of funny.
The wall behind the stage rose up about twenty feet-two stories-and I noticed now that in the center of the wall near the ceiling was a big mirror that reflected the crystal chandeliers. This, I was certain, was actually a two-way mirror from which someone could observe the entire restaurant below. Maybe that was Boris's office, so I waved.
Three female singers had taken the stage, and they were all tall, blonde, and pretty, of course, and they wore clingy dresses with metallic sequins that could probably stop a.357 Magnum. They were singing something in English about Russian gulls, which I thought strange, and it took me awhile to realize they were saying, 'Russian girls.' In any case, they had good lungs. Kate would like this place.
I guess my attention was focused on the gulls, because I didn't see the maitre d' approaching, and he came up to me and said, 'Thank you for waiting.'
'I think that was my idea.'
He had a big boy with him-a crew-cut blond guy with a tough face who wore a boxy suit that barely fit over a weight lifter's body.
The maitre d' said to me, 'This is Viktor'-with a k? — 'and he will take you to Mr. Korsakov.'
