A Tale of Three Cities
Pardon my French
A few years ago I happened to be in Paris. It was a remarkable experience, but on the last day of the voyage I had twisted my ankle, an incident, that coerced me to spend a few idle moments on a bench in a shadowy park. Soon after my friend had left to get me some water, a tolerably looking guy had materialized out of nothingness and made a polite attempt to offer me a cigarette. In French. My multilingual nature had saved me this time as it usually does, when, recruiting all my poor vocabulary, I rejected the cigarette as well as all potential gestures this subject might have intended to make. He landed on the next bench, squinting in my direction from time to time, which might have made me feel uneasy on another occasion, but not this time: the ankle has steadily reminded me of its painful existence. When my water-carrying friend had approached, the Frenchman’s mobile phone rang and we both heard him speaking pure Russian. Being a Russian immigrant myself, my ex-compatriots never stop surprising me by the fact of their multi-dimensional existence, spread worldwide like debris of what used to be the “mighty” Soviet Union.
“Never underestimate the power of denial” (American Beauty)
Speaking of that time when I found myself in this bizarre place called “Havana club” (Bratislava, Slovakia), I would rephrase the quote: “never underestimate the power of low alcohol resistance”. It doesn’t happen to me very often. In fact, I could easily count these occasions on my fingers. Being inexperienced with cocktails in particular and alcohol in general, I, nevertheless, ventured some unknown mixture of intoxicating liquids with a luring name of strawberry-something… Who could have thought it would be a monstrous solution of pure alcohol and a reddish fluid with a distant reminiscence of the flavor of strawberry. Like they promised, indeed. The very first drops ruthlessly found their way into my “thinking authority department”, made me press into the nearest wall and stay there. Inertly watching the rhythmic jerking of unattractive bodies has drastically diminished marginal value of every passing moment. Scientifically speaking, ehh… I wanted to get out of that place as quickly as possible, but, being quite handicapped, had to wait for my moderately sober friends in high spirits to have their good time. The rule of seeing the bright side of everything in life did not save me: the evening was ultimately and completely ruined. The rest of it was spent myself standing bluntly in the rustic hall, trying to ignore the emanated vapors and the cacophony of sounds and attain some equilibrium in my deranged mind.
Rules are made to be broken, and life errors are made to be put down to experience, aren’t they? There is one thing that brings me consolation: the prudent doll (from “Guys and Dolls”) who was taken to the pub in Havana drank a lot more.
What makes RUBY TUESDAY so unique?
It’s Rolling Stones.
It’s my food (unlimited salad bar).
Is there any justification for other restaurants in the world besides RT?
The green empire offers a perfect and what’s more important – endless menu for lettuce addicts. Its perfection lies in its endlessness. I just hate seeing my food fade away, knowing there will be no more of it. If you begin feeling uneasy, waiters watching you refilling your plate for the fourth time, cut the first sprouts of discomfort . Use the opportunity to foster a skill of ignoring whoever rains on your parade. Just smile back vacuously when the super-nice waitress smiles at you. This is your green party.