Ah, the Russians. They really know how to drink/eat/make bad techno-dance music.
It was a spooky Halloween (Shay’s birthday). I decided to take her to Moscow on the Hill.
On the way I totally saw my favorite costume that year: a nine year old boy dressed as Flava-Flav. BOOM!
Not only does Moscow on the Hill have THE best stroganoff in town,
but they also have like, Nine Million kinds of Vodka from around the world (obviously right up Shay’s alley).
While enjoying a free shot of in-house distilled cherry vodka, I contemplated my master plan.
After cramming down some kind of amazing meat, cream and mushroom dish, not to mention a few more cocktails, I decided it was about time.
Shay will remember just as well as I will that I was acting weird. I didn’t drop to one knee, 1: because I think some traditions are kind of hokey. I didn’t want it to look like an act from a crappy play and 2: because I had just forced about two pounds of Russian food into my gut. I probably would have split my pants or ripped one….or both.
I wanted it to seem genuine. I reached across the table and took her hands. Then I babbled. Some people would prepare for this kind of thing. Not me, I wing that shit. I know I meant everything I said and that’s what really matters anyway. Obviously she said yes or I wouldn’t be writing this post.
The waiter was kind enough to bring us yet another round of free drinks (a combo of champagne and their cherry vodka). A small, fat Russian man with an accordion approached our table and said what I took to be: “I play for you now.”
It was pretty awesome, even if he could barely play the thing. Though there was an incredibly drunk middle-aged hippie lady who was throwing twenties at him like he was the greatest thing since The Rolling Stones.
So, among the sour cream, Russian mobsters, and enough vodka to pay a Soviet Union teacher for 15 years, I sealed the deal. It could not have been better……