Taming the Russian Bear with Snacks

Before traveling to St. Petersburg, I had heard many Cold War- and pop culture-generated rumors about Russian culture: the weather is cold, the people are cold, and the vodka flows freely, to name a few. Bottles lining the shelves of every corner market gave a nod to this last trope, but what proved more interesting than Russia’s national drink was its obligatory chaser, a far cry from the Gatorade and Diet Coke I knew well.

Many Russians follow their drinks with a bite of zakuski, which loosely translates to “snacks.” Zakuski can take the form of anything from a pickled tomato to a gutted, dried fish—as long as it’s salty, it counts. Although nibbling on seasoned marine life didn’t quite entice me at first, I soon discovered that its salty crunch softened the burn of vodka better than any soft drink I’d ever tasted. Still, my loyalty to zakuski rested not on their throat-soothing properties, but rather on their ability to bring to light a communal, friendly side of Russian culture previously unknown to me.

Zakuski bring Russian social life around the kitchen table, where snacks sit on small plates that encircle one or more bottles, setting the scene for gatherings of family and friends. After-drink snacks make these parties more like meals than wild ragers, but after a series of toasts (a necessary element of any Russian party), a jovial atmosphere will certainly prevail. Converging around a table makes such gatherings intimate, a stark contrast to the brusqueness one can encounter on the street. They show the softer side of Russian private life, reminding us that sitting around a kitchen table provides a universal comfort. So if your travels take you to a Russian locale, break open a package of dried fish and crack out the bottle of vodka for a night in—you just might find some real Russian hospitality in it.