Nikita Druzhinin

March 21 2024, London

It is at the crossroads of cultures that one finds the ultimate elegance of culinary arts. Tapestries of colors, odors, and textures clash in an allied wrestle to win the, essentially benevolent, spectators favor. The dishes are set out in an impulse of intuition; they line up the trembling in excitement, awaiting their turn and chance to become the eater’s victor. All the while we sit back, up there in the astral, loose of the “mind forged manacles” that he cannot hear anymore.

Just like somewhere at the outskirts of western Ukraine one would discover Austrians, Ukrainians, and Czech, Romanians, Hungarians, and Slovenians, Poles, Italians, and the Jews, sharing one barrack, occupying one saloon, discussing the afternoon maneuvers, betting in schnapsen, cutting up the kolache, drinking the damned schnaps, gently out of discreet fear rather than respect rattling with their saber hilts and buttons, gossiping the social gathering, lazing in the tender breasts of fille de joie (she owns the saloon) all while wearily glancing at the Kaiser’s portrait; oh he hears all right but he does not listen for there is a fly on his nose. The gramophone plays the Strauss here, not him the gramophone.

And here we are all gathered in a similar fashion. But we are not in Galicia, we are in Nanjing. Our table is decorated rather than served with Russian salmon tartare paired with avocado, nested on plates graced by Van Gogh’s illustrious works. Next, Eastern spices in harmony, while the traditional main course kindles a sense of home and wonder in the children.The glasses of Georgian wine stand guard to our synthetic luxury, casting beams of light that they have captured from the ceiling lamp. For afters, we have Fromage and Käse that comfortably compete with homemade tiramisu, meticulously crafted by a native of Bergamo.  

Despite the international fare, we remain distinctly in China. I am adorned in a new qipao, its elegance demanding a gait and careful attention to one’s posture, due to its deep slits.

The dinner table hosts a salad of cultures: a German family (Irina, Sasha, and Andrey) who are our gracious hosts, alongside an Austrian couple (Ira and Nikita — ourselves), native Italians, and a British lady Sue. Our conversations, circling around our experiences with COVID, helplessly come back to our beloved topic of art.

“I wish I were in the sixties” Nikita proclaims with a usual unquestionable confidence like a true foolosopher. “The Doors are the best, The Beatles fine too, ye. Of course, let there be some love for Queen or Pink Floyd” he adds, casting a graceful glance my way, “but in my view, the 60s-70s are the zenith of music!” Sue interjects with fervor, “That’s not the end of music! For example rap. It combines both art and poetry and it is very rhythmic!” The debate, which hardly is a debate at all, warmly embraces all-present-all-past and all future, with each of us contributing with zeal. Though I keep my judgment safe, recollection of terms like “rap battle” and the names Oxymoron and Gnoiny flicker through my mind as Sue fends of Nikita’s ridicules. The victor of our spirited exchange remains undecided. Meanwhile, the background hums with the cozy strumming of a guitar. It’s a curiosity, indeed: Nikita is but 12, and Sue, the sage voice of over 60 years. 

And just like one casts his thoughts back to Greek philosophers, gathered in a “kindergarten” of noisy orators all fighting over how to rearrange the letters in a common word to prove its absence, with a benevolent smile of condescending superiority – we cast back our thoughts to this synthetic corner of Galicia that we sculpted. 

I will not mention war for the bodies scattered across sunflower bedding will not hear me. I will not mention poverty for I am bankrupt of words. I will mention plague for my words have rotten away. I will only say that nothing is left of our cozy corner but Sue; a slit in the grim reality through which we are able to catch a glimpse of the past. A glimpse of what the barbaric slaughterhouse once known as humanity used to be. And for this reason we cherish sue and drink in her name once again and shall do ever so more.

Happy birthday, Sue Northcott! We love you.