Hanging With: Viktor Plotnikov and Roman Rykine
''Solianka has 15 different types of meat," Viktor Plotnikov says, supplying footnotes to those at the table who are uninitiated to Russian cuisine (read: yours truly). The Boston Ballet principal dancer then catalogs some of the 15 carnivorous ingredients in the traditional Russian soup, a staple on the menu at Café St. Petersburg in Newton. He's sitting at a table in the refined dining room in the company of fellow principal dancers -- his wife, Larissa Ponomarenko, and Roman Rykine.
It's a recent Sunday night, and the day has been a long one of rehearsals for ''An Evening of Russian Ballet," which opened at the Wang Theatre yesterday and runs through May 7. The waiter arrives to take soup and appetizer orders, only to return moments later with some disappointing news: no Solianka. Rykine agreeably opts for the borscht.
They examine the menu, which hasn't changed since they last visited the restaurant in its former digs in Brookline Village. Plotnikov announces that he'll be having chicken Tabaka and moves onto a more pressing order of business: the vodka. Stoli and Absolut are fine for mixed drinks, but a crisp, unflavored variety is necessary when it comes to washing down a motherland meal (Plotnikov and Ponomarenko hail from Kharkov City, Ukraine, and Rykine grew up in Ufa, in the southwestern Bashkortostan region).
They peruse the extensive vodka selection, and Plotnikov takes command. He orders Youri Dolgoruki for the table, a brand created in honor of the 850th anniversary of the founding of Moscow. (Dolgoruki is the iconic founding prince on horseback in the monument near the Kremlin.)With theatrical belligerence, Plotnikov does his impersonation of Dolgoruki's warrior-esque pose, then breaks down laughing. ''Every Russian child knows that statue," he says.
When the carafe arrives, chilled, stemmed shot glasses are distributed. A reverential hush falls over the group. Plotnikov breaks the silence.
''You're worried it's going to be too much vodka? It's not going to be enough. It's just going to be a little burn. You're not going to get drunk," he says. He pours a round, extolling the brand's pure, clean flavor as the fiddler in the room, whose violin is rigged up to an electronic sound system, plays a maudlin Gypsy-themed ditty. Glasses clink, and each shot vanishes in a gulp.
The young waiter takes dinner orders, intermittently lapsing into Russian with the dancers. Nobody translates. The appetizers are brought out -- Russian herring, Georgian eggplant, and satzivi. Plotnikov lunges for the satzivi, which has chicken cubes floating in a thick walnut-cilantro sauce, a signature Georgian dish.
''Smell it. It's awesome!" he crows, holding the plate up to my nose before he digs in. Then he looks at Rykine and eyes the carafe. Rykine says Plotnikov never really likes to pour because he has a ''heavy hand," at which point Ponomarenko leaps in to interpret the idiom.
''Supposedly that's why people get drunk -- if the person who pours has a 'heavy hand.' It's not from the vodka," she explains.
Rykine prefers logical strategy over myth and lore.
''You can't take a long break between the first and second drink," he says.
''You have to get buzzed fast," Plotnikov chimes in.
Conversation spins from how Café St. Petersburg's owner, Natan Slezinger, is an ''impresario" who brings Russian superstars to perform in the area to the ironic popularity of potatoes in Russian cuisine (since they can be hard to grow), to elementary culinary prattle. When I comment that the cabbage soup is more of a stew, Rykine remarks that no Russian food is processed. As Ponomarenko puts it, ''Russians cook in chunks."
''I think it keeps the flavor better," Rykine says with an air of expertise that quickly evaporates. ''Actually, we just never had food processors. During Soviet times, there wasn't much to do in Russia, so you'd get together with friends with drinks, and that's where the entertainment was. There were no nightclubs."
''And the TV had one program," adds Ponomarenko, holding up a slim digit.
Just then, the entertainment multiplies: Jakov Jakoulov, a pianist and composer who has taken part in performances in which Plotnikov was involved, has arrived to eat dinner. They greet one another joyously, and then the food shows up. The waiter's deft tableside assembly of the Blini and sour-cream crepe for Rykine commands more attention than Plotnikov's highly anticipated Tabaka.
Only when the violinist launches into a tune from Camille Saint-Saens's ''The Dying Swan," which is part of their ''Russian Ballet" program, does anybody mention dance.
''I'd be going like this," says Ponomarenko, fluttering her hands at her sides like wings. She would, that is, if she weren't on the bench this week with a broken metatarsal in her foot.
''Give me a couple more shots, and I'll show you swans," says Plotnikov, who is staging three of the seven pieces.
''The third shot is always for love," cues Ponomarenko. Another toast and everyone eats approvingly. Ponomarenko's ravioli-like potato Vareniki reminds her of how her parents made them with meat as well. Rykine reminds her of cabbage variety, too, then unleashes an homage to Russian cuisine.
''Now it's not just a few restaurants in Russia. Everywhere you go, it's the best of anywhere in Europe -- or in the world," he says.
''Except I wouldn't want to try sushi in Russia," says Ponomarenko.
''Sushi has a long way to go," he concedes.
