Fine Dining

GUM shopping centre

6am again today, and the jetlag shows no sign of abating. Annoying. It does give me a chance to enter a few more thoughts, though, as it's sure as hell unlikely I'll get around to it when I'm back in London. Yesterday, we spent anther day strolling around Central Moscow, but I'm getting more of a feel for the place. Before I say more about that, though (in the manner of a slightly camp fashion corespondent), I simply have to tell you about last night.

There were two things that left me slack-jawed and staring in wonder last night. The first of these was the gypsy cab'. Rachel had booked the three of us (she, Dex and I) a meal at a restaurant called 'Turandot' last night (and I shall get on to that in a minute). It was a fifteen-minute brisk stroll along the main road, but she said we'd get a 'gypsy-cab'. I simply assumed this was the local ex-pat slang for a taxi, and Rachel seemed to concur. What I didn't realise is just how they work. So, we stroll out of the apartment, nip under the subway to the other side of the road, then Rachel steps on to the road and sticks her hand up. A knackered hatchback stops, with a smoking, bearded man at the wheel. After some negotiations in Russian, in we get and off we go. A private cab, just like they have in London.

Only it wasn't. It wasn't at all.

So, after we came out of the restaurant (which I will come back to, believe me), we decided to call it a night and get another gypsy cab home. We cross the road, Rach sticks her hand out and another car stops instantly – instantly! Another car pulls in behind to see if there's any other business to be had, but after some more negotiations, off we go again. 'Quite lucky there are so many cabs around on a Monday night', I thought. The driver was wearing a shirt and tie, and there was a jacket hanging in the back, together with a few other bits and bobs. The penny dropped. These aren't licensed cabs. They're not unlicensed cabs. They're not even private drivers who go out to make a few quid at night. What they actually are are people on their way home from work! Essentially, these are guys who've just left the office or building site, or suchlike, who see an opportunity to make an extra couple of quid on their way home and will simply pick up anyone that sticks their hand out. I couldn't believe it. Apparently, the system (which is at best unregistered, and at worst downright illegal) is basically self-regulating, and as long as there's no trouble, everyone's a winner. They make a few quid (literally two quid each way in our case), and we get a cheap and convenient ride. There have been instances of single ex-pat girls having issues late at night, but by and large, the whole thing works. Rachel, being a bit of a linguist, speaks some Russian, but reckons if she were actually Russian, she'd have the journey down to a quid each way. Unbelievable.

'Spat-zee-ba bolsh-woy' means 'thank you very much', incidentally.

So, that was that. Turandot, though. Frankly, I'm gutted I forgot to bring my camera. We went in through some rather ornate doors, guarded by two suited doorman. Wandering through a few corridors, we eventually found the entrance to the restaurant, with a reception desk beside it but no receptionist. One soon appeared. I looked at Rachel and said, 'Seriously?', not for the last time that evening. The receptionist was decked out from head to foot in full 17th Century costume. The only thing missing was a wig (which they ;tend to leave off in the summer as it's a tad hot;, explains Rachel. That's a relief). We were led into the restaurant.

'Seriously?', I said.

We had walked on to the set of 'Amadeus'. Well, actually, I think we'd walked on to the set of 'Amadeus' before the director saw it and told the set designers they needed to calm down a little. We were in a circular pillared room. In the centre, right by our table, was a raised circular stage. This was very slowly rotating. There was also a balcony level running the circumference of the room, with more tables overlooking. Everything was covered with ornate gold carvings, patterns and cherubs. The domed ceiling was painted sky blue with a few white clouds. The waiting staff – men and women – were all in costume. I had never seen anything quite like it in all my life.

Rachel told us it was the most expensively-designed restaurant in Moscow. Browsing through the menu, I could see that the prices reflected that. It was also a strangely eclectic menu, with Modern European, but also a lot of sushi and dim sum. Apparently, sushi has taken off in Moscow in a big way.

Oh yes, the stage in the middle had on it, variously, a mock piano/harpsichord, a harp, and seats for a violinist and flautist. 'They're not going to actually play up there, are they?', I asked.

''Uh-huh', said Rachel'
'Seriously, though', I said.

The musicians appeared and took their positions on the stage, all wearing costume and wigs. They launched into Bach's 'Badinarie', all the while gently rotating. Oh, above them, in the centre (although, really, it's so obvious I don't even know why I'm mentioning this) there was a large metal peacock. It was reminiscent of that clockwork owl in Clash of the Titans, and every ten minutes or so, it's metal tail fanned out. One can only speculate as to how that design discussion went:

'Hey, wow, the whole place looks fantastic! I love the costumes, those pilasters are great, and the ceiling is wonderful. You've done a great job, seriously. But...hmmm...'

'What? What is it?'
'Well, there's... there's something missing. I'm not sure. I'm thinking it needs...'
'Clockwork metal peacock?'
'Oh, you read my mind.'

So that's Turandot. Have a think about what you're envisaging, then take a look at the photos here to see if you're even half way there.

I have to say, the place fitted in very well with what I knew of the Russian stereotype. It was utterly over the top in terms of gold and opulence, and they simply wouldn't get away with it in London. I can only imagine A.A. Gill's or Giles Coren's thoughts on such a place. it reminded me a little of the 'Blue Elephant' Thai restaurant in Fulham, in that it was so OTT it almost approached parody. It was fantastic, though, and for the first time since I landed in Moscow, all the food arrived on time and in the correct order.

Wait! Ha! Seriously, I just remembered that Rachel ordered some extra dim sum, which didn't turn up. Oh well, scratch that last sentence.

(An NY Times profile of Turandot here, if you're interested.)