When there was a tureen in our services
Perhaps, you remember, in each table service in 60-70 years. was the tureen? The touching memories of the time that has gone, and with it, things that have been inextricably linked with that era have gone out of use. But the memory keeps a lot.
In the last episodes of the story entitled “Moscow Doesn’t Believe in Tears,” I watch Alentova pour Batalov’s soup from a tureen. It happens in the kitchen. A woman, a responsible worker, who can not cook! And suddenly the tureen. I whisper to myself: "I do not believe." Thinking. Pour one hundred grams of mulberry. Sigh. I drink. I sit in the chair. Sadly I look at the keyboard. Perhaps, remember, in each table service in the 60-70 years. there was a tureen.
We had a Czech service for 12 people, with such thin yellow flowers and green and gold leaves. Parents married in the sixty-sixth and immediately bought it. Yes, and here is the tureen in the Czech service, too, of course, was. And even there was, by the way, a butter dish with a lid, salad bowls, a dish and various sauceboats.
In general, Mom immediately changed the whole household with her father at home.Dad was thirty-six years older than my mother. But youth won.Photo: Andrey Bugaysky
She threw away the old furniture. An old pre-revolutionary walnut set went into the stove. I found only the dining table from him, on legs in the form of lion's heads. But the table was gathering dust on the veranda, at the dacha. No one really took it seriously. On it in August, mushrooms were cleaned, and at the rest of the day they put up any rubbish. Lions sadly lived their lives among country ruins.
And in the city apartment bought new furniture. Polished. It is with pride, you know, pronounced: "Polished furniture!"
A polished secretary was bought (sticks, modern children do not already know such a word). That is, it was such a bookcase with glass sliding doors. Behind the doors stood the classics, mostly in the form of multivolume collected works. At first, I remember, Alexey Tolstoy and Walter Scott pleased me there. Later, I found Ham and Jack London there.
And there was also a wooden door that opened downward, forming a table at which to work. He, in fact, was called "secretary". Dad kept behind this door black “Underwood” with chrome, reprinted on it in the evenings his poems and hopeless letters in the editorial office.
"Tuk-tuk" clicked "Underwood" on a blue ribbon, "tuk-tuk-tuk."
- Ilya, do not touch the typewriter!
Bought two chairs with polished wooden handles. Brilliant such pens! With clearly drawn right angles!
Later, when they gave me a penknife, the first thing I did was cut several deep chipping on these sharp, polished corners. At that moment, it was the only opportunity to immediately test the sharpness of a new knife.
Bought at the same time a sideboard (another word that goes into oblivion). The sideboard, of course, also polished, in which behind the same glass doors on the glass shelves stood the same service. The sideboard also had a wooden hinged door. But smaller and taller.
Behind it was a mysterious area, the walls of which were decorated with mirrors. The mirrors reflected wine bottles and crystal wine glasses. Wine father usually bought vintage fortified, in green bottles with colorful labels with gold embossed medals.
Cognac is Armenian five stars and also with medals. A bottle of Stolichnaya. Bottle of "Posolskaya". Champagne. In general, there were always a dozen bottles or more. And all this, and bottles, and wine glasses, played and sparkled in the light. Sparks were also reflected in mirrors and bottles.
This mysterious area was called the "bar". And she was connected in my childhood mind always with a holiday. Parents without an occasion there did not climb. If the bar was open, then the guests will come. There will be interesting conversations and delicious food. Very tasty food.
- Ilya, help me chop the salad!
My parents also bought a polished trellis in the hallway and a polished closet in my room. The perfume “Red Moscow” stood on the dressing line - a smell that seemed to me to be the best in the world.Photo: pravmir.ru
And no cosmetics, imagine, it did not happen. Laughing father told his mother, as friends said to him in the ear:
- Ah, Aaron Zakharych, you found a good wife, modest. Young, but does not ruin his eyes.
This is about trelyazh. But in the polished closet hung a new astrakhan fur coat, in my childhood perception pretty lost to my mother's old fur coat from a rabbit. The rabbit was fluffy, it was nice to stroke. And on the shelf was a box with Czech jewelry. Mom never put these things on. But more beautiful than those Czech diamonds in gold, I tell you, I have never seen it anywhere!
I remember that when my mother's relatives, grandmother with grandfather, aunt or uncle came from Omsk, the wardrobe turned into a “wardrobe”, the trellis - into a “pier glass”. Wine glasses in the cupboard became “fushores”, and the sideboard itself became a “buffet”.For me, a six-year-old Leningrad snob, it was a complete game. Only the eternal threat of mother's cracks made me silent.
- Ilya, it is better to remain illiterate than to make comments older. More terrible than this to think of nothing!
And the table was then bought into a large polished room. Such a sliding dining table filled with a thick layer of varnish. Terribly shiny as a mirror. And I wandered around him for a long time, defeating temptations. But one day, still not won. Scribbled the word "fool" on it with a needle. Because on such a brilliant it was impossible not to scratch.
- Ilya, here stand in the corner and think!
It was a historical corner, in the corridor near the toilet. Oh, how many there was changed my mind.
And behind this sliding polished table, family dinners were arranged on holidays or just on Sunday.
Came relatives, friends.
An old father came to me, comrade Lev Iosifovich, with his young wife Katya. Well, that is, Lev Iosifovich was at sixty. He was the same father. But he was small, bald, and therefore an old man. And Kate is forty-five years old. She was in trousers (oh!), And her hair was red with henna and curly from hair curlers.I did not understand why Katya whispered everything young.
According to me, my mum at her twenty-four was young, and Katyna forty-five — that was already perfect old age. But adults argued that she was young and stuck.
Father’s chief came, a Georgian, Zurab Shalvovich, short, dense, with an amusing melodic accent. He has been with his family - Natella's wife and son. Their son was also called Ilya. Zurab Shalvovich taught me to say “hurray” in Georgian. Since I couldn’t get the letter “p”, I really wanted to shout at the demonstration, sitting by my father’s neck, he advised me to shout “yours!” In Georgian. I still do not know whether this is so or not.
How much has met the Georgian since then, all the time forgot to ask.
- Ilya, well, say "your-aaaa"!
Father's sister Aunt Berta, who came from Chisinau, was tall and beautiful, like father. Aunt Bertha categorically disliked this story about Papa's fifty-five and her mother's eighteen. Categorically. Each time she looked at my face with suspicion, studied it in detail, but, in the end, handed down an acquittal verdict:
- No, still very similar to Aronchik. Poured dad!
The son of Aunt Berta, also Ilya, came to his thirty-five years - Doctor of Physics and Mathematics. To become a doctor, he managed to change the patronymic name "Isaakovich" to "Ivanovich" in the documents. It helped. Ilya Ivanovich lived in St. Petersburg and came often. With dad, they played chess.
Dad's eldest son Boris came with his wife and daughter, my brother by father, older than me by twenty-five years. Because of the problem with the letter "p", I called him "Uncle Bol, my fuck". Everyone for some reason laughed.
Borin's father-in-law, Samuel Maksimovich Zalgaller, was handsome, broad-shouldered, with gray hair brushed back. He did not even come, but came, on a captured black with a chrome BMW motorcycle with a stroller. In my childhood impressions, something related to him, this bike, with Daddy's "Underwood." Something they had in common.
- Ilyusha, take the leggings from Samuel Maksimych.
And I carried these rough leather motorcycle gloves to the nightstand, smelled of gasoline, wind and sweat. And I thought that I would never be such a fool to ride a motorcycle.
Another came my mother's friend Rasechka with a friend Arkasha. Raya was tall, steep-brained, with a chignon and a stockade of black prickly pins.And Arkasha was a puny, petrified one, with a big nose and obeyed her in everything. He then left for Israel, but Razhka remained here, came alone, cried.
In the house, in general, often there were people, gathering feasts. Guests were welcomed, guests were welcome, they knew how to cook tasty and good-quality, and loved guests to regale. This concept too, in my opinion, is gone, or is leaving. Not just "I'll fry the meat for you," for example, or "pour tea." But I will cook you a lot and different things and from the heart, and I will be happy all night to treat you to it.
You know, I remember those leisurely people of the seventies. Slow speeches. Leisurely smart toast. Leisurely homemade such jokes.
These were the people of the special leaven. They grew up in the hungry twenties. In the early thirties, they went to universities, because they knew that the only way they could rise out of poverty.
Then the war came and broke all their plans. They were not special heroes. But a quarter of a century ago they won, lost almost all of their loved ones, and they themselves remained alive, which they were very surprised about later. All this time after the war, they worked hard and honestly and were confident that they now deserve a good life.
You know, they had some kind of special.They were tightened. They danced well. They skillfully looked after women. They, by the way, had a surprisingly correct intelligent speech, despite their provincial origins.
And all these multivolume collected works, by the way, they honestly read. Could at the table recite Lermontov, Yesenin, or Nekrasov. Simonov was his, his poems were part of their lives.
They came dressed well. In suits men. Their wives - with high hair, in nice dresses. The men moved their ladies to the chairs and seated them. Then they sat down themselves, settled behind the polished sliding table, where, under the tablecloth, there was a “fool” scrawled at the corner. They put the tablecloth in their lap. We tied napkins.
There were three plates on each table: wide, with salad on it, and deep on top. And next is another pie plate.
And next to the plates lay heavy nickel silver devices, which I had to polish before the arrival of the guests soda to shine. A spoon lay on the dining room to the right and three knives. And on the left - two forks. These were equipment for salads, for hot and another knife was fish.
And linen napkins lay for each guest, the same color as the linen tablecloth.Glasses and wine glasses were crystal. Crystal salad too. And the children were not allowed then for the adult table. Because it was not useful for them.
- Ilya, what are you doing here? Go read the book!
And now I remember how my mother served soup in the soup tureen. When the lid was removed from the tureen, everyone understood that it was chicken broth, steaming chicken broth, with homemade noodles, roots and an egg.
We only yesterday kneaded with my mother a steep dough, rolled it out with a wooden rolling pin on thin sheets, and after cutting the noodles in wide strips. No non-paste pasta compares to those homemade noodles. None
And to the broth, by the way, still served small pies with meat and cabbage. Two pies were pre-laid out for each guest on his cake plate.
And I remember how a little bald Lev Iosifovich Bron, drinking a glass of "Ambassadorial", jammed it with a spoon of hot, fragrant soup with noodles and eggs, leaned over to dad and, preparing to send a small patty in his mouth, whispered deliberately loudly:
- Oh, Aronchik, and the mistress is your Lucy! Oh, and mistress.
And winked mom.
And it was evident that it was extremely pleasant for the Pope, and it's nice for Mum, too, but Katya, Lev Iosifovich's wife, is not very happy.
- Ilya, go to your room, do not listen to adult conversations!
After the soup, when the deep plates were carried away to the kitchen, everyone started to take salads and snacks. Classic were Olivier and squid with rice and fried onions. And also crabs. I found, you know, the time when a salad with crabs was made, by the way, with crabs. It was delicious.
The fur coat, of course, was also. Mom added a green apple to it. It was such a family secret.
And pickled mushrooms stood on the table. And stuffed with mushroom eggs eggs. Have you ever eaten vodka with stuffed eggs?
And the most transparent aspic of white fish with an egg-eye, a scarlet carrot and green peas yellow in a white rim? Several celery leaflets adorned it.
By the way, horseradish was served, which dad grew and cooked himself. Horseradish was always two kinds: in sour cream and with beets. Each lay in his own jar from the same Czech service. A tiny gilded spoon peeped out from under the cap. Guests took horseradish with a spoon and put it in a thick thick layer on top of the aspic. Thick thick layer.
In general, there was a lot of fish at the table. Dad worked in a food institute.He was the chief economist at LenGIPRoMyasomolprom, which was located at the beginning of Moscow Avenue, and traveled frequently throughout the country. Therefore, on the table was a red fish from the Far East, black caviar and sturgeon from the Volga, halibut and catfish - from Murmansk or Arkhangelsk.
I remember how he flew in from Kamchatka with a huge chinook. It was a saline creature with a predatory toothy maw and, moreover, incredible size, much larger than my height. Dad cut it into pieces, stitched each piece with a string and hung it in the kitchen under the ceiling so that it would fade. Huge chunks of fleshy chunks published some kind of completely nonworldly scent.
It was the smell of distant wanderings, storms and difficult fishing feat. I imagined these rough men, who, in heavy robes, with their hard-worn hands, were pulling multiton nets full of huge, sparkling red scales of chinooks on the deck from the ocean. And the ice wave is powerlessly broken about their determination and courage.
Since then, I confess, I didn’t have anything to try even remotely resembling this dried chinooky. I suspect that you, too.
And still mum baked a pie with a catfish.Dough - layer of onions - layer of catfish - layer of onions - layer of catfish - dough. And this, I tell you, - yes. Catfish cake is yes! It is hardly tasty something happens. And the guests were with me in this always agree.
Also there were on the table the most delicate pate and forshmak. Both dishes were prepared by the father. He did it in the way that his mother, who was probably killed by the woman Sima, was cooking, probably. He did not turn them through a meat grinder, but chopped them for a long time with a pit in a wooden trough. In fact, he cut all the components and, obviously, simultaneously beat them up.
When they were finishing with snacks, the salad plates and devices that were unnecessary were already removed, and the main dish of the feast was brought into the room.
It could be, of course, a goose with apples.
Goose with Antonovka. A?!
Dad kept Antonovka in the country almost until next summer. Before the holiday, we went with him on the train to Mill Creek, from the station we walked along a path past tar-tar sleepers smelling of tar in the sky. Past the fences of neighboring houses empty in winter.
In the frozen house, which smelled of dampened wallpaper, they climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the attic, from where they took out a couple of boxes wrapped in old blankets. Blankets unfolded.Under the blankets, piles of chips were found, into which apples were firmly buried — selective, without a single spot, barely casting Antonovka with delicate greens. Dad took an apple and brought it to my nose by the side where the wand:
- Na-ka, breathe!
Antonovka smells Antonovka. This is the only smell in the universe.
Or it could be a pair of duck stuffed with sauerkraut. Or a large baked pork ham on the bone, thickly stuffed with salt, pepper and garlic. It could also be a leg of lamb, which produced a special aroma of lamb fat, herbs and carrots, with which it was quenched.
The terrible moment came at that moment, silence descended: who would dare to cut the dish brought? Dad took up the case, deftly guided by a big two-tipped fork and a huge knife, laid out the pieces in a circle under the approving lowing of men and the weak screaming of cautious women. By the way, I don’t remember anyone saying at least one word at that table and at that time about figure or calories.
After the hot, they usually danced. Recently, a polished Rigonda was bought again - a fashionable radio tape recorder from Riga VEF factory. Put on her plate.I do not remember listening to our fashion house then VIA. I remember that Oscar Strok was, I remember that there were still Utesov, Mark Bernes.
Dad was like Bernes. I still have my lips twitch when I hear:
Why did not you meet me,
In those years, my distant,
In those years, spring?
The head became white,
What will I do with her?
Why did you meet me
The love of a fifty-five-year-old man and an eighteen-year-old provincial girl. Whose incarnation has become our family. Love that ended after eight years of my father's death.
- Ilya, the boys do not cry! Boys must be men!
While the guests spent their time at the dance, my mother took away the dinnerware and set the table for tea. The cups were the famous Lomonosov "golden daisies". Each cup with a saucer was given the same golden plate and, again, heavy Melchior teaspoons.
What did you eat for sweets?
The king of any holiday - Napoleon and almost always - meringue.
I was attracted to the preparation of cream and meringue: to separate the whites from the yolks, and then to whip the whites themselves first, and at the end the whites with sugar in a handmade cream. She was so called.The word "mixer" was not there. A creamed shawl - it was a liter wide pot, on which a white plastic lid was wound with corollas inside and a handle for twisting from the outside.
After the meringue was baked, it was laid out in a heap, smearing each layer with custard, into which walnuts were added. All this miracle was brought into the room and, to the delight of the men sitting at the table, his name was loudly announced: The Kiss of the Mistress Cake. Men liked it.
They drank tea slowly, praised the very hostess, raised glasses with sweet wine. Men drank brandy.
They finished their tea, began to gather. The hosts tried to keep the guests. The guests rose quietly. Thanked. Diverged.
My dad and I carried the dishes to the kitchen. Mom soap, rang plates. Then there was silence. Mom wiped her wet hands with her apron.
- Ilya, sleep!
Parents behind the wall sat in armchairs and discussed the last evening. Listening to their muffled voices, I fell asleep.
That soup tureen, you know, lasted long afterwards in our family. And even served us some special service. When after a short time dad died,and we stayed with mom almost without any means of livelihood, once, lifting the lid for some reason, mom found in it a hundred rubles - a stash that dad left, leaving the last time from home to the hospital.
I wonder what is going to happen for us to start serving soup in the turem again? Our children, even more hastily than we, will definitely not. Maybe grandchildren?
Now these people from the seventies are no longer alive. Only we remained. Who were themselves children then. Which parents were not allowed back to the table, because it was not useful for us.
And I know, when I receive guests today, no, no, and I'll say a special toast to the children. In the sense that let's drink to them. So that they have something to remember and cry about. Because when we die, they will sit at this table after us.
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