We found the restaurant because Dani recognized it from the menu displayed outside.
“This one,” she said, and she heaved the door open.
Someone inside disappeared with our heavy winter coats while another led us through low stone vaults warmed by lamplight and the sound of a piano.
A small brass bell sat on the corner of our table. It had a wooden handle.
“Ring when you’re ready,” our server said.
Then she disappeared.
I thumbed through my menu. It was entirely in Russian.
I looked at the bell.
Dani shook her head.
i squinted at the menu and waited.
Piano music drifted through the halls. The restaurant felt warm. Through the windows, snow had begun to fall in light flakes.
Our waitress returned on her own. She smiled knowingly, and replaced our menus with English ones.
I took my time deciding. Dani did not.
This time, we rang the bell.
The food arrived in courses.
My bowl of borscht was richer than any we’d found elsewhere in Russia, and my beef stroganoff came over mashed potatoes instead of noodles.
Across the table, Dani happily worked through her mushroom soup and vegetables.
Her chicken Kyiv barely moved.
Our server stopped beside the table and looked down at the untouched entrée.
“Oh no,” she said. “It’s so lonely.”
Dani laughed.
“It looks delicious,” she said. “I’m just slow.”
The server smiled and walked away.
Dani slid the plate toward me.
“I only ordered it because you couldn’t decide between that and the stroganoff.” She said.
I looked at her.
“You wanted me to try it?”
She shrugged.
“I knew you’d like it.”
I laughed.
“I ordered the stroganoff because I thought you wanted it.”
For a moment we just looked at each other.