“Well then, we’ll tolerate even guests like these,” my mother-in-law sneered in front of everyone. But the evening did not go according to her script at all.
My mother-in-law always said my lineage smelled of manure, while hers smelled of French perfume and true blue blood.
Too bad she failed to account for one small law of physics: blue blood freezes just as quickly as ordinary blood in the cold, and expensive perfume turns unbearable in pouring rain.
Especially at the moment when security politely but firmly throws you out onto the street from a restaurant which, as it suddenly turns out, belongs to my “uncouth” father.
But let’s start from the beginning.
My husband, Eduard, considered himself an intellectual in the fifth generation. His mother, Eleonora Genrikhovna, worked as a deputy director at an insurance company, but behaved as if she personally reviewed military parades on Palace Square.
My parents, on the other hand, had lived in Siberia all their lives. Yes, they are farmers. Only for some reason Eleonora Genrikhovna had decided that a farmer meant a man in a padded jacket pitching hay with a fork, not the owner of the largest agricultural holding beyond the Urals, exporting grain to three dozen countries.
I never flaunted my parents’ money. I came to the capital, got my education, found a job as an analyst, and married for love. Or rather, I thought I had married for love.
Edik courted me beautifully, recited Brodsky, and seemed like a sensitive soul. I found out only after the wedding registry office that this “sensitive soul” was incapable of paying the utility bills without his mother’s approval.
There was no lavish wedding. Edik, being a truly elevated spirit, had no money for a restaurant, and I, in the foolishness of youth, decided to spare his fragile masculine ego and insisted on a modest civil ceremony.
My parents could not fly in at the time — a snowstorm was raging in Siberia so fiercely that the airports were closed for three days. They transferred us a substantial sum as a wedding gift, but when Eleonora Genrikhovna saw the number, she merely gave a contemptuous snort.
“Well, imagine that — they scraped together the last crumbs from their vegetable patch so they wouldn’t embarrass themselves in the capital.”
It never even crossed her mind that this was half a day’s income from my father’s holding company. And Edik never once flew out to visit my homeland: at the very word “taiga,” my mother-in-law would start taking Corvalol and wailing that her precious boy would surely be eaten by bears there.
From the very first day of our marriage, Eleonora Genrikhovna set about eradicating my “peasant” origins.
“Alinochka, who cuts cheese like that?” she would sigh, letting herself into our apartment with her own key, of course, early on a Saturday morning.
“It’s obvious that in your taiga backwater, no one has ever heard of gastronomic culture. Brie must be sliced in a fan, not hacked apart like firewood!”
She stood in the middle of my kitchen, lifting her chin so high it seemed she could have scratched the ceiling with it.
“Eleonora Genrikhovna,” I replied calmly, without taking my eyes off the coffee machine, “historically, in France, peasant farmers broke brie with their hands, right in the fields. The custom of slicing it into a ‘fan’ appeared in Soviet restaurants out of simple product-saving. Read some culinary archives sometime — it’s fascinating.”
My mother-in-law bristled; her perfectly drawn eyebrows shot upward, her lips trembled, but she had nothing to say in return. She gave the silk scarf around her neck a nervous tug, muttered something about “the ignorance of modern youth,” and retreated to the living room.
And Edik, instead of supporting me, only chuckled sheepishly from around the corner, puffed up like a turkey that had been forgotten at feeding time.
“Oh, come on, Alin, why are you like this? Mom means well, she’s trying to introduce you to higher culture…”
The conflict kept slowly but steadily gaining momentum until Eleonora Genrikhovna’s юбилей arrived. Fifty-five years old. It was decided that the celebration would take place at the “Grand Imperial” — the most pompous, expensive, and pretentious restaurant in the city. Golden chandeliers, stucco moldings, waiters in tailcoats.
“I invited all the right people,” my mother-in-law proclaimed over the phone as she paced around our apartment.
“And, all right, Alinochka, let your parents come too. They should at least once in their lives see how decent society relaxes. Just tell them to leave their felt boots back in Siberia.”
I only smirked. My parents, Ivan Stepanovich and Nina Andreyevna, were simple and easy in conversation, yes — but their “felt boots” came with a personal driver and custom-made suits in Italian wool.
On the day of the banquet, the restaurant sparkled. The whole local “elite” had gathered there: middling чиновники, Eleonora’s bosses, and some pale women wearing diamonds that had clearly been rented.
My parents arrived right on time. My father — tall, dignified, with thick mustaches and a sly squint — hugged me warmly. My mother smiled with her gentle, understanding smile.
But when we entered the hall, I froze.
Eleonora Genrikhovna had seated the guests according to her own internal hierarchy. My parents’ table was in the farthest corner, in the back row, right between the kitchen door and the passage to the restrooms. Drafts carried over the smell of garlic and the clatter of dirty dishes.
I spun toward my husband.
“Edik, what is this?”
He scratched the back of his head foolishly, avoiding my eyes.
“Well, Alin… Mom decided they’d be more comfortable there. Closer to, so to speak, the working atmosphere, so they wouldn’t feel awkward among the intelligentsia…”
I wanted to make a scene right then and there, but my father gently laid a hand on my shoulder.
“Leave it, daughter,” he whispered, and in his eyes there flashed a dangerous steel glint. “The view is better from here. Let’s give the intelligentsia a chance to show itself.”
We sat down. The celebration went on. Expensive champagne flowed like a river, false toasts were made. Eleonora Genrikhovna fluttered from table to table, collecting compliments like a hungry bee gathering nectar.
And then came the climax. My mother-in-law took the microphone. Silence fell over the hall.
“My dear friends!” she began in the tone of a prophet descending from Mount Sinai.
“I’m so happy to see here the very flower of our society! The true elite!” She paused theatrically and cast a sideways glance toward our table by the kitchen.
“And, of course, our guests from the… deep provinces. You know, I sincerely regret that some people still do not know how to hold an oyster fork and would probably prefer a pitchfork instead.
“But we, as true metropolitan интеллигенция, are condescending toward country bumpkins. We are willing to tolerate them at our side, so that we may bring them the light of civilization!”
A restrained ripple of laughter moved through the hall. Edik, sitting beside me, smiled smugly, like a polished copper basin in which no jam had ever been cooked.
“Mom’s really on fire tonight, isn’t she?” he whispered to me, without even thinking of objecting…
Continuation is just below in the first comment.
My mother-in-law always said that my lineage smelled of manure, while hers smelled of French perfume and true blue blood.
Too bad she failed to account for one small law of physics: blue blood freezes in the cold just as fast as ordinary blood, and expensive perfume smells absolutely dreadful in pouring rain.
Especially at the moment when restaurant security politely but firmly throws you out onto the street from a restaurant that, as it suddenly turns out, belongs to my “uncouth” father.
But let’s start from the beginning.
My husband Eduard considered himself a fifth-generation intellectual. His mother, Eleonora Genrikhovna, worked as a deputy director at an insurance company, but behaved as if she personally reviewed military parades in Palace Square.
My parents, on the other hand, spent their whole lives in Siberia. Yes, they are farmers. Only Eleonora Genrikhovna, for some reason, had decided that a farmer meant a man in a padded jacket tossing hay to cows with a pitchfork, not the owner of the largest agricultural holding east of the Urals, exporting grain to three dozen countries.
I never flaunted my parents’ money. I came to the capital, got my education, found a job as an analyst, and married for love. Or rather, I thought it was for love.
Edik courted me beautifully, read Brodsky, and seemed like a sensitive soul. It was only after the wedding registry office that I discovered this “sensitive soul” was incapable of paying utility bills without his mother’s approval.
There was no lavish wedding celebration. Since Edik, as a truly elevated spirit, never seemed to have money for a restaurant, and I, in my youthful foolishness, decided to spare his fragile male ego, I insisted on a modest civil ceremony.
My parents couldn’t fly in then — a snowstorm was raging in Siberia so fiercely that airports were shut down for three days. They transferred a substantial sum to our card as a gift, but Eleonora Genrikhovna, seeing the amount, merely snorted contemptuously: “Well, look at that, they scraped together the last crumbs from their vegetable patches so they wouldn’t embarrass themselves before the capital.”
It never crossed her mind that it was my father’s holding company’s income for half a day. And Edik never once flew out to visit my hometown: at the very word “taiga,” my mother-in-law would start taking Corvalol and lament that her precious boy would surely be eaten by bears there.
From the first day of our marriage, Eleonora Genrikhovna set about eradicating my “peasant” origins.
“Alinochka, who cuts cheese like that?” she would sigh when she came to visit us (with her own key, of course) early on a Saturday morning.
“It’s obvious that in your taiga wilderness you’ve never heard of gastronomic culture. Brie should be sliced in a fan shape, not hacked apart like firewood!”
She stood in the middle of my kitchen, chin tilted so high it seemed she could scratch the ceiling with it.
“Eleonora Genrikhovna,” I would reply calmly, without taking my eyes off the coffee machine,
“historically, in France, farmers broke brie apart with their hands right in the fields. The tradition of slicing it in a ‘fan’ shape appeared in Soviet restaurants as a simple way to economize on product. Read some culinary archives — it’s quite interesting.”
My mother-in-law would bristle, her perfectly drawn eyebrows climbing upward, her lips trembling, but she would have nothing to say in reply. She would nervously tug at the silk scarf around her neck, mutter something about “the ignorance of modern youth,” and retreat to the living room.
Edik, instead of supporting me, would only giggle guiltily from around the corner, puffed up like a turkey that had been forgotten at feeding time.
“Oh come on, Alin, Mom means well. She’s trying to introduce you to higher things…”
The conflict was slowly but steadily gaining momentum until Eleonora Genrikhovna’s юбилей arrived. Fifty-five years old. It was decided to celebrate at the Grand Imperial — the most pompous, expensive, and pretentious restaurant in the city. Golden chandeliers, ornate moldings, waiters in tailcoats.
“I invited all the right people,” my mother-in-law announced over the phone, pacing around our apartment. “And, fine, Alinochka, let your parents come too. They should at least once in their lives see how decent society relaxes. Just tell them to leave their felt boots back in Siberia.”
I only smirked. My parents, Ivan Stepanovich and Nina Andreevna, are simple and easygoing people, but along with their “felt boots” came a personal driver and handmade suits of Italian wool.
On the day of the banquet, the restaurant was gleaming. The whole local “elite” had gathered there: middling officials, Eleonora’s bosses, pale ladies wearing diamonds that were clearly rented.
My parents arrived on time. My father, tall and broad-shouldered, with thick mustaches and a shrewd squint, hugged me warmly. My mother smiled her gentle, understanding smile.
But when we entered the hall, I froze.
Eleonora Genrikhovna had seated the guests according to her own private hierarchy. My parents’ table was in the farthest corner, in the back, tucked neatly between the kitchen door and the passage to the restrooms. Drafts carried the smells of garlic and the clatter of dirty dishes there.
I spun around sharply to my husband.
“Edik, what is this?”
He scratched the back of his head stupidly, avoiding my eyes.
“Well, Alin… Mom decided they’d feel more comfortable there. Closer to, so to speak, the working atmosphere, so they wouldn’t feel awkward among intellectuals…”
I wanted to make a scene right there, but my father gently laid a hand on my shoulder.
“Leave it, daughter,” he whispered, and in his eyes there flashed a dangerous steel glint.
“The view is better from here. Let’s give the intellectuals a chance to show themselves.”
We sat down. The celebration went on as planned. Expensive champagne flowed like a river, false toasts were made. Eleonora Genrikhovna fluttered between the tables, gathering compliments like a hungry bee collecting nectar.
And then came the climax. My mother-in-law took the microphone. Silence fell over the hall.
“My dears!” she began in the tone of a prophet descending from Mount Sinai.
“I am so happy to see here the flower of our society! The true elite!” She paused theatrically and glanced toward our table by the kitchen.
“And of course, our guests from… the deep provinces. You know, I sincerely regret that some people still don’t know how to hold an oyster fork, apparently preferring a pitchfork instead.”
“But we, as true metropolitan intellectuals, are indulgent toward country bumpkins. We are prepared to tolerate them beside us in order to bring them the light of civilization!”
A restrained chuckle rolled through the room. Edik, sitting next to me, smiled smugly like a polished copper basin in which no jam had ever been cooked.
“Mom’s really on fire tonight, isn’t she?” he whispered to me, not even thinking of objecting.
That was the limit. I felt everything inside me boil with icy rage. But before I could open my mouth, my father calmly stood up.
Ivan Stepanovich unhurriedly dabbed his mustache with a snow-white napkin, placed it on the table, and walked with firm steps toward the center of the hall. He did not go to my mother-in-law.
He approached the pale, sweating maître d’, who was standing by a column, and quietly said something to him, pulling a business card from the inside pocket of his jacket.
The maître d’s eyes widened so much they nearly fell into someone else’s salad. He began bowing frantically. The live music stopped instantly, cutting off mid-note.
My father calmly approached the stunned Eleonora Genrikhovna and carefully took the microphone from her.
“Good evening, esteemed representatives of the ‘elite,’” my father’s voice was deep, velvety, and heavy as a Siberian frost.
“I would like to make one small correction to tonight’s menu. The oysters here are indeed subpar. And that is a shortcoming of my agricultural holding, which, as it happens, is the sole owner of both this historic building and the Grand Imperial restaurant itself. And also the principal creditor of the company where our esteemed birthday lady works.”
Such a ringing silence fell over the hall that you could hear bubbles bursting in the glasses. The smile slid off Eleonora Genrikhovna’s face.
“Unfortunately,” my father continued without raising his voice, “the banquet is over. We ‘country bumpkins’ are very particular about cleanliness.”
“And this establishment has accumulated far too much… toxic mold. The restaurant is closing for full sanitary treatment right now. I ask everyone to vacate the premises.”
Eleonora Genrikhovna was struck speechless and looked as though the world had suddenly stopped obeying her commands.
“What… how dare you! This is outrageous! Edik, say something to them!” she shrieked, losing every trace of her aristocratic polish.
Edik jumped to his feet, blinking in confusion.
“Alina! Your father’s gone mad! Stop him!”
I slowly stood up, feeling an incredible, intoxicating calm. I slipped my wedding ring off my finger. It glinted in the chandelier light and dropped with a melodic clink straight into my mother-in-law’s half-finished glass of champagne.
“Bon appétit, Eleonora Genrikhovna,” I smiled.
“Just be careful — metal is heavy. Don’t choke on your way toward the light of civilization. And you, Edik, don’t bother seeing me out. I’ve developed an allergy to your breed.”
Five minutes later, sturdy, impeccably polite security men were escorting the outraged, flustered guests toward the exit.
My parents and I left through the VIP entrance and got into a warm car. And as we were driving away, I saw a magnificent picture through the tinted window.
A downpour had started outside. Eleonora Genrikhovna stood on the sidewalk trying to catch a taxi. Her elaborate hairstyle had collapsed, mascara streamed down her cheeks in black rivulets, and beside her hopped Edik, soaked to the skin, futilely trying to shield his mother with his ridiculous designer scarf.
At that moment there was not a drop of aristocracy left in them — only the pitiful, bewildered spite of people whose cardboard pedestal had been kicked out from under their feet.
The next day Edik was fired from his company, which, as it turned out, had indeed been staying afloat only thanks to contracts with my father’s holding.
My mother-in-law took early retirement to spare herself the humiliation of facing colleagues who had learned about the spectacular fiasco. And I filed for divorce, packed my things, and moved into my new, happy life, where there is no room for someone else’s arrogance.
And if someone tries to humiliate you with their “noble origins” and loudly proclaims their elitism, you don’t need to cry or sink to marketplace brawling. Don’t try to shout louder than a pompous fool. Because more often than not, those who shout loudest about their crown are living in a castle that belongs to the “peasants.”
