Why should I read Olga Sergienko?
Because she is Russia's answer to Candace Bushnell.



How to spend the dinner money

The beauty and availability of Russian women draws many foreigners to Moscow. Businessmen return to their conventional lives in Manchester and Cincinnati raving about strip clubs and brothels, establishments with names like “Dolls” and “Night Flight.”

Of course, we Moscow girls know that the “talent” at these places is not quite Russian; mostly these venues feature Ukrainian and Belarussian women. But we still have to answer for them.

I met Mark at a steakhouse while waiting for a friend. Mark was having drinks with his business partner and discussing oil futures. As I learned later on, Mark and his partner dealt in oil and natural gas exploration and were preparing to drill in Siberia. So of course I accepted his offer of dinner, especially since he left the choice of establishment to me.

Perhaps it was a mistake, but I picked the restaurant “Gorki” (“The Hills”) on Tverskoi. My girlfriend suggested reserving a table at “The Gallery,” since it was even more expensive, but I’d never been there before and did not want to risk a debacle in uncharted waters

Mark turned out to be a clever conversationalist with a tendency towards an international sense of humor, despite being British. As for me, I can barely tolerate English humor in its spoken form, unless it’s Jeeves and Wooster or Monty Python.

We stuck to the appetizers on the menu; I ate carpaccio, and Mark ordered the “Italian Sausage” for some reason. They brought him a tray with thinly sliced salami that could have fed five.  We drank just about everything. There were martinis, margaritas, wine and vodka. In truth, I prefer grappa to vodka, but Mark said it makes him heave because it reminds him of a bad experience he had had with rubbing alcohol when he was a child.

Either way, everything was going well until they brought the bill. It came to 8,140 rubles (about $290), which perturbed us a bit. Well, Mark mostly, since he was the one paying. I found this a good time to escape to the bathroom. Mark left the restaurant distraught, telling me how the waiter had chiseled him for a tip. Seeing the lowly 800 rubles that Mark put down, the waiter had noted that in this establishment the customary gratuity was 20 percent and not 10. I was embarrassed, and Mark complained that although he had been in Moscow for a couple of months, this was the fourth occasion of the sort. Feeling sorry for him, I suggested we go have a quick drink in the bar around the corner.

 And so, there we were at the counter of the “American Bar & Grill.” Mark was pawing my hand and telling me how much he had enjoyed spending his evening with such a wonderful and, especially, intelligent and witty young lady. The most important thing, he said, was to have something to talk about with one’s female companion. To discuss things, to laugh together…although, he added, for the amount of money he was obliged to spend in the restaurant he could have spent the evening in a rather different way…

“All this talk of money, you and your money…” I tried to interrupt his bitter monologue.

But Mark continued: “I am an international businessman! I can have a dozen girls at my command! For the same money spent at ‘Night Flight,’ I could get this and that [I was distracted at this crucial point and missed the details] and a blow job on top of it!”

I got giddy; “No way!” I said, “that would run you $500!” I was thinking we’d make a joke of it and turn the conversation elsewhere. But no, Mark kept on about the pleasures of “Night Flight” and the array of sexual services it offered. He was trying to imply a compliment; given the choice between a week shuttered in “Night Flight” or an evening with clever little me, he had chosen my witty company. It’s so much better with intelligent, educated women, blah blah blah. I had had enough of these comparisons and dolefully remarked, “If I were sitting here on a date with a Russian guy, we would probably not be discussing prostitutes.”

He didn’t get the hint. I had to get more direct. “Imagine if you met a nice girl,” I said, while gesticulating a heart with my hands to supplement my words, “not in Moscow, but in London, or New York. Would you even consider describing brothels to her? Would you take her to a bar and then comparison-shop the dinner you just had with the pleasures of a brothel, even if they are such a bargain?” I scrunched my face into a sad expression for my grand finale.

Enlightenment struck my Englishman. He flung himself to his knees, begging me to forgive his tactlessness. “Of course I wouldn’t. I would never behave this way in England. I didn’t realize!” He tearfully thanked me for opening his eyes. It was left for me to assure him that he was not such a cad, that it’s our city that’s rotten. The women here have built quite a reputation for themselves.

So it’s rough for Moscow girls, rougher still because they’ve made it so.