Chorny chai s limonom...

A wise man (or, as some believe him to be, a nutter taken far too seriously) once said that "Man shall not live on bread alone". And this is a great truth. To be, perhaps, a tad too pedantic, there are other forms of nutrition essential to his health, but I don't think Jesus really meant, "Why not try the Atkins diet?"; for one thing I don't think he was a dietician (although managing to get five loaves and two fishes to go round five thousand could imply otherwise).

So, to be serious just for the briefest of moments, and in doing so ignore his further recommendation that we cut down to nothing but "the Word of the Lord" (bibles are high in stodge but there's not a lot of substance there), what do we need other than food to live?

Well done Timmy. Drink. Have a biscuit.

Drink is, of course, a highly treasured part of every cuisine world-wide. Go anywhere you like and you will find traditional beverages of which nations are fiercely proud, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic: in Japan, the sweet, rice-based drink 'Saké' has been used to mark special occasions ranging from business meetings to weddings since the year 712; Mexico gave the world 'Tequila', a drink uncultured students took, added some salt and lime and turned into a drinking game, but is in fact drunk by connoisseurs with orange and cinnamon and comes from the juices of the agave cactus; and 'Maté', a non-alcoholic but nevertheless potent drink brewed from the yerba maté herb, is drunk by groups of friends from a common gourd through a metal straw in various nations of South America. In fact, you only have to travel around the UK to see how important drink is in forming an identity; anywhere you go you'll find pubs selling local ales by the barrel, with such exotic names as 'Fiddler's Elbow', 'Moose Drool' and (my personal favourite tipple) 'Snecklifter'.

Russia is, of course, famous for one beverage and one beverage only. And that is Vodka ('Водка').

Ahhh vodka! It is a word that brings a knowing, gleeful and yet slightly ashamed smile to the face of every student in the land. It greases the cogs of conversation, washes away our inhibitions and, more often than not, leaves us with a hangover the following morning that feels as if our head is being repeatedly beaten by a two year old with a Thomas the Tank Engine toy. It has the remarkable property of being near tasteless when mixed with some other beverage, yet ten times as potent as your average beer, causing you to wonder why on earth you're bothering to drink this expensive water whilst sitting in a skip, wearing nothing but a traffic cone for a crown and a broken shower head for a sceptre, singing 'Sing a song of sixpence' at the top of your lungs. It's also one of the most famous things about Russia. Take a random member of the British public, ask him to say the first thing to come to mind when talking about Russia and, if it's not "bears on unicycles" (thanks for that 'Family Guy'), it'll most likely be vodka. The question is, do the Russians deserve this stereotype?

Yes and no is probably the best answer.

Certainly vodka plays a major part in Russian culture. Walk into any reasonable sized shop or supermarket and there'll be a wall of vodkas that is easily bigger than the wine selection, ranging in price from a matter of pence (although drinking that might cost you your pancreas and your nearest and dearest) to upwards of £20. On the whole, it's not expensive to buy a decent bottle. Where, in my first year of university, £5 bought you a bottle of 'Drops', a vodka that had been nowhere near any Slavonic nation, let alone the Motherland, and had to be taken off the shelves due to reports that it was turning some people blind, here the same amount will buy you a very reasonable brand. And the Russians aren't afraid to drink it in large quantities; the standard shot glass in Russia dwarfs those we're used to in the UK, and, since it would be an abysmal crime to us a mixer, the only option is to pour it straight down and prepare yourself for a re-fill.

Yet I do not think that vodka can truly be considered the national drink of Russia, beyond the fact that it is one of its most famous exports after oil and nuclear missiles. For one thing, one half of the population doesn't drink it; where, amongst British students, vodka is often more often associated with girls, here it is a drink almost exclusively drunk by men. In a nation where there is a stronger traditional view of femininity, it is seen as unladylike, meaning that, often, women will not even be offered a glass. And there is also the fact that, in all honesty, Russians do not drink vodka as much as their reputation would suggest. The availability of poor-quality vodka at obscenely low prices certainly makes it affordable to those for whom alcohol is a refuge and escape, arguably fuelling Russia's serious problem with alcoholism, but go out to the bars and cafés and you will seldom see trails of shot glasses left from a heavy night's consumption unless a group of bawdy British students has been in. Russians simply (and understandably I feel) prefer drinks that are more pleasant to enjoy and less likely to make you feel very ill the next morning.

So, if not vodka, then what? There are a whole host of beverages, both alcoholic and soft, that all arguably vie for the privileged position as Russia's national drink. Beer ('Пиво') is probably the most popular drink amongst men when out at a bar and, as with many things that are gloriously bad for you in Russia, is similarly cheap. Those available tend to be produced in Russia (imported brands are expensive) and are generally lagers that are far more palatable than the mass produced, overly carbonated varieties so popular in the UK. Most venues will have their own variety of beer which is often the tastiest and the cheapest, making for a surprise at every venue. Beer also does not suffer the same gender stereotypes as vodka, and women can be seen drinking from half glasses (a full 0,5 l is still considered too much for their delicate constitutions) and often, bizarrely, through a straw. Wine ('Вино') is also becoming increasingly popular, and, whilst the preference tends to be for imported foreign varieties, there are various very pleasant wines produced within Russia itself or by its neighbours to the South. How the Ukranians get away with calling their fizzy white wines Champagne ('Шампанское') but, at a fraction of the cost, it certainly isn't bad.

Russia can also boast a variety of interesting and unique soft drinks for those not seeking intoxication. Kvass ('Квас') is a popular drink, which you are told is made from bread (conjuring up images of old crusts floating in a demijohn), but is in fact produced by fermenting a simple dough, diluting the substance produced with water and adding different fruits and berries and spices such as ginger or mint to give each brew a unique and interesting flavour. Mors ('Морс') is drink somewhat similar to cordial where berry juices are diluted with sweetened water, and is again very tasty and very popular.

Yet none of these quite rival one drink in terms of popularity. And Russia's most widely consumed and popular drink might come as a bit of a surprise. Tea.

If you think the Brits are good when it comes to tea ('Чай'), the Russians certainly give us stiff competition. If you go round to visit someone's house, a cup of tea usually ends up in your hand whether you like it or not. Out in the cafés, it makes the often more expensive coffee green with envy as it flies of the shelves and into the cups of happy customers. And, whilst the Russians use teabags just as readily as we do, there is certainly more time here for the finer arts of tea connoisseurship, and a dainty tea set, fashioned out of delicate china or beautiful glass, is a must-have for any self-respecting Russian home.

Traditionally, tea is prepared in Russia in a two step process. First of all, tea leaves are added to a tea pot, topped up with just enough boiling water to produce a tea concentrate and then is left to brew. Once the tea is ready, a small amount of tea is poured into the cup, it is then topped up with fresh boiling water from a Samovar ('Самовар') (a sort of urn that keeps the water at a constantly boiling temperature, and not a musical instrument as I once foolishly stipulated in an attempt to hide my ignorance) to the required strength. Russians do drink their tea differently to ourselves; the key difference is that tea is usually taken black, usually with sugar and often with lemon, and that milk is usually considered a treat rather than the norm.

But, for a tea lover such as my self, it is comforting to know that I won't be gagging for a decent brew at any point during my time here.

Priatnovo Appetita!

A phoenix rises...

No it's not Mr Berlusconi , returning to once again stand over the economic mess as if it were a dropped plate of bolagnaise, holding up his hands and declaring, "I know nothing". Loaded with stereotypes, but you'll forgive me on the grounds of amusement.

It is in fact a long forgotten blog, plucked from the top of a metaphorical bookshelf, dusted off and opened wide to receive the musings of a humbled and penitent blogger who has long neglected his duties, swanning around with short stories and songs that stole away his attention and caused him to be unfaithful. Let's try again shall we, dearest blog?

It is perhaps criminal, underhand or at the very least a tad slack of me, ten weeks into my time in Russia, to try and catch up on two month's worth of stories and adventures. Needless to say it has been a very busy two months, during which Old Father Time, in that way he so often does, whisked me along at such a pace that, by the end of the journey, I can hardly remember what I saw along the way. Needless to say, however, this blog was never intended to be a diary in the traditional sense; I wanted to write about a nation, its people and its way of life, and perhaps I could claim that having taken the time to immerse myself, to dive right to the bottom and pluck out only the choicest of pebbles was the best way to do so.

Or perhaps I should just get on and write the damn thing, chastened and bowed.

One of the first things we think about when we think of a nation, or, more specifically, of what defines that nation is its cuisine. The Italians, for instance, mentioned only a few moments ago, are currently most often in the news on account of their serious economic problems, but are cemented in the world's imagination for the deliciousness of their national dishes. Pasta and pizza grace every corner of the planet, their restaurants can be found within walking distance in any British city and they are famed for such dishes as 'Lasagne', 'Carbonara', 'Margherita' and even the humble garlic bread (described by Peter Kaye's father as 'a taste sensation').

The French have a similar reputation for their haute cuisine. The 'Continental Breakfast', often profferred by hotels who wish to disguise stinginess as culture, could, in its true and generous form, more accurately be called a 'French Breakfast', with its favouring of delicate pastries and well brewed coffees to a cuppa and a bowl of cornflakes. Their national menu is a reflection of their attitude to life, a monument to finesse, quality and excess, and the ingredients used are luxurious, pain-stakingly prepared and, sometimes, downright mad; lobster, snails, frogs' legs and foie gras to name just a few of the most famous. So luxurious is their cuisine that their language relating to food has become synonymous with quality, and around the world you can visit 'cafés', 'patisseries' and 'restaurants' to partake in 'hors d'oeuvres', followed by the 'soup du jour', all served by a genial waitor wishing you 'bon appétit'.

Needless to say, Russia does not enjoy such an international reputation. Never has an individual said to his girlfriend, "Why don't we try the new Russian that's just opened up on the corner?" Such a sentence would have connotations of a very different nature. Nor has a family ever arrived at a Friday, the working week done, the weekend ahead of them and the traditional takeaway tea to look forward to, and had a long argument over whether to order from the Chinese or the Russian. Simply put, Russian cuisine is almost unknown in the UK; certainly I have never seen a Russian restaurant and I doubt that this entirely due to a shortage of Russians living on British soil. According to official figures, there are around 400,000 Russians living in England, yet that number is comparable to that of the Chinese (430,000) and a Chinese restaurant can be found in almost every village that has more than a pub, a church and a post box.

Russia's culinary reputation in the UK is, if anything, a bad one. Before moving to Russia, food was one of the things I was most worried about, simply because the little I had heard about Russian cuisine had not been particularly promising. Most infamous perhaps were the soups, the famous shchi ('щи') and borscht ('борщ'), made of cabbage and beetroot respectively, and both had me shuddering at the thought of thick, unpalatable pulps being drawn from a cauldron-like vat by a woman called Olga. The thought of caviar ('икра') also had my stomach churning. That I eat on a very regular basis something that comes out of a chicken's vagina, yet was entirely opposed to the equivalent from a fish, did not occur to me as a little hypocritical, I simply feared for my nutrition during the months that lay ahead.

As with many fears I had before arriving in Russia, this proved unfounded. Russian food, it turned out, was just fine. In fact better than just fine, it was tasty, and perhaps what struck me most in my first few weeks was how similar our cuisines actually are. On reflection, this shouldn't have surprised me; whilst I cannot claim that the British climate is as harsh the Russian climate (we make up for it in a variability that most nations lack, which distinguishes us as a people who can have a twenty-minute conversation solely concerning the type of rain we are currently experiencing), both Britain and Russia, or at least Northern Russia where I live, are Northern European nations with mild summers and cold winters, whose climatic conditions are conducive to a very particular diet.

I specify Northern Russia because it is, of course, important to note that, as the biggest country in the world, covering one eighth of the world's land area and spanning nine time zones, it is impossible to narrow down Russian food to a small selection of dishes; indeed, even the region where I live has it's own, indigenous cuisine, influenced greatly by its proximity to Finland, and at a local Karelian restaurant I had the fantastic opportunity to try Elk, which proved to be delicious. Yet, since 78% of the Russian live in European Russia, I feel I can talk about its cuisine, not as an expert, nor with a great deal of experience, but without representing a minority as a majority.

Thus it was that both shchi and borscht turned out to be absolutely delicious; shchi is wonderfully salty, borsht has a certain spicy bitterness to it, and both are well flavoured, nourishing and lack the thick stodginess that so often plagues the soups we find in Britain. In fact, I was to discover a very rich tradition of soups, all tasty, unique and providing that much needed winter warmth so crucial to such a famously cold nation. Main courses have much in common with British meals, consisting of meat and carbohydrates, and can take the form of typical meats we know and love in the UK or the famously Russian 'kotlety' ('котлеты') which is a sort of burger or rissole made with pork or beaf that is then pan-fried and is delicious, with a side of pasta, rice, potato or something similar. 'Shashlyk' ('шашлык') is a type of shish kebab that is far tastier and far better for you than our own, stomach-churning favourite, the doner. And for puddings, Russians have a variety of cakes and pastries as wide as any other country, and a particular favourite is 'blini' ('блыны'); small round pancakes eaten with jam all year round but particularly at the time of Maslenitsa ('Масленица'), a week-long festival at the beginning of lent that makes our pancake day feasts look like a ryvita with a thin spread of philadelphia by comparison. All in all, Russia has a lot to offer.

This is not to say that I enjoy every aspect of Russian cuisine. It is undeniable, I think, that the quantity of fruit and veg consumed in Russia is lower than what most Westerners would be used to. This is entirely understandable; restaurants will offer you all the variety that you would find in the UK but, given the proportionally high prices on imported goods in supermarkets, most of what you eat around the home has been sourced from a family's dacha and is home grown. Given that the climate of Northern Russia isn't conducive to the growing of many types of fruit, this does make the selection somewhat limited. Thus it is that easy-to-grow, hardy vegetables such as potatoes, marrow and cabbage are used extensively, and any supplements that can be collected from the nearby forests that cover this area of Russia are harvested to their full extent, so that mushroom picking is something of a national past time.

It is also a nation that obsesses over one herb and one herb only: dill (the dreaded 'укроп'). Lord how I have come to despise it. Don't get me wrong, there are of course herbs that are hugely favoured in other cuisines. To return once again to the Italians, their particular favourite is oregano, which can be found in almost every dish to a greater or lesser extent and is a flavour that is integral to their culinary heritage. In fact, I do not mind dill; in Russian dishes, used with a sense of finesse and subtlety, it can be absolutely delicious. What I resent is the Russians' over exuberant use of the herb, not just in select dishes, but in absolutely every savoury meal you can imagine. Fancy a salad? Expect it to come liberally sprinkled with dill. Fajitas? A not so delicious layer of dill awaits you. Pizza? Dill, dill and more dill whilst oregano sits on the shelf, angrily feeling that its rightful place has been violated. So enthusiastic are the Russians about dill, that there is a Facebook group entitled 'Dillwatch' which seeks "the reclassification of dill from herb to weed" in an attempt to curb its "inappropriate" use in all parts of the Russian diet.

Other aspects of dislike are more personal. Smetana ('Сметана') is a type of soured cream that is used extensively, both in sweet and savoury dishes; it can be found added to soups, smothered on pasta or complimenting jam on blini. Grechka ('Гречка') or buckwheat is also popular, boiled and eaten in a similar way to rice, often mixed in with some butter. Personally I am not a huge fan of either, but it would be unfair of me to suggest that my opinion was universal amongst Westerners, and I am in no doubt that there are many features of British food that have foreigners gagging.

I think, therefore, it is fair to say that Russian food is tasty, appetising and certainly does not deserve the reputation it is sometimes given. Certainly any visitor to Russia should look forward to trying lots of new and exciting flavours and dishes. And yet I miss British cuisine, and it is not simply specific dishes that I pine for (although if anyone fancies cooking me toad in the hole I'd be grateful). What I miss most is the variety, and in particular the variety of different types of cuisine that are available and eaten on a regular basis. Within the space of a week at home I might eat foods from five or six different cultures (indian curry, thai curry, chilli con carne, spaghetti bolagnaise, risotto... just naming them has me drooling!) and Russia lacks this cultural diversity, both in its population and in its cuisine. Restaurants will offer you dishes from around the world, and sushi, served in almost every cafe or restaurant, is hugely popular, but around the home other national dishes have not become such a part of daily life. Russian cuisine, whilst surprisingly exciting, delicious and enjoyable, can quickly become repetitive, and it is perhaps the diversity of food at home that I miss most about life in the UK.