Russian Samovar

Walking in the rain at eleven o'clock, the soft light and piano music coming from the Russian Samovar on 52nd Street right off Broadway was too enticing to pass up. Just the name of the restaurant sounded warm. A cup of steaming tea was just what my friend and I and my teenage daughter needed after a day in New York. We were certainly not disappointed.

As we entered, the owner welcomed us from behind the bar. We took a seat at a table close to the white grand piano at the end of the dark wooden bar. The waitress greeted us and gave us menus to consider while she set up her tray with hot glasses of tea served with lemon and cherry preserves.

I noticed their long list of flavor infused vodkas before I realized that they did the infusing themselves. In tapped glass jars behind the bar were about a dozen vats of vodka. For something completely different, I selected the coriander vodka, which seemed to please the waitress. I learned, after my first taste of the vodka, that coriander is the seed of the cilantro plant. I love cilantro in dozens of dishes. I could not, however, drink it in my vodka. I tried. I even poured in on ice. The waitress seemed disappointed with me.

“The coriander is...special,” she explained in a Russian accent. I wondered if she was hesitating on the word “special” because English was not her native tongue or because she was searching for the precise euphemism for “too-authentic-for-a-suburban-tourist.” I decided it must be the former and ordered instead something safe, the cranberry. I asked about the hat on the coriander vodka keg. She explained that it was a hat from the Soviet Army. The cranberry was perfect.

We did our best not to fill up on the crusty dark bread while waiting for our borscht and mushroom soups to arrive. When the door opened to admit another patron, the damp wind blew the red fringe on the lamps illuminating the tables. I was glad for the tea and vodka. Nearby a table of 20-somethings argued amiably in thick accents with a limited range of American expletives. Further back in the restaurant a table of business men repeatedly clicked small glasses of vodka together. I felt like I was further from home than New York.

Another blond waitress with a Russian accent delivered our first steaming course. The silver on her Vegas t-shirt glittered under our red lamp. My friend's Porcini mushroom and barely soup was an earthy ambrosia. My pungent borscht was served with a scrumptious meat pirozhok that I reluctantly shared with my teenager.

She made up for it later by sharing her beef stroganoff. I had to pull the menu back out to find more information on the beef. It was so tender that you barely had to chew. I thought maybe it was veal, but apparently it was just a great cut of quality beef cooked perfectly.

My friend's seafood blini in a sour cream saffron sauce was delicious. I regretted the earlier bread basket when I realized how full I was getting halfway through my mouthwatering wild mushroom vol-au-vent. Although it was savory, the pastry made me feel like I was eating dessert. It was fabulous.

You can read more about the Russian Samovar at their website. For example, I learned there that Mikhail Baryshnikov is an investor in the restaurant. They have had quite a few famous guests, although we saw no celebrities near midnight on a rainy Wednesday. That's OK. The temporary transport to Russia was a delicious adventure.
http://www.russiansamovar.com