Plov Love Story

Plov Love Story

Plov

Sophie was a good looking, interesting, and, most important, intellectual girl, but I never felt anything sexual toward her in any way until I saw her voraciously wolf down an Uzbek dish of Plov one night.

        

I was living in Moscow and a colleague of mine, Philippe, called and said he was “making a small party” and invited me over for some drinks and dinner.  I accepted and arrived with a bottle of wine and a good attitude.  There were already a few people there by the time I walked in.  I grabbed a glass of wine from an open bottle and took a seat on his red velvet couch. 

        

There were two others there besides Philippe:  Jean and Anton.  They were all Frenchmen.  Jean was an old friend of Philippe’s who was unemployed but looking for something and Anton was a journalist visiting from Paris to write an article on Moscow’s hedonistic nightlife that proved that freedom was still a viable product that the Russian masses were excessively indulging in.

  

We drank a few bottles discussing everything from circumcision to agnostic beliefs and the ramifications of a potential afterlife when Sophie arrived.  She immediately yelled from the door that she was sorry she was late, which no one paid any attention to, and that she had brought dessert.  I looked up and smiled when she walked into the room and seemed to be the only person that noticed her.  The other guys just went on with the discussion.  Philippe had a large apartment and he often had people crashing there for extended periods and I knew Sophie was staying at his flat at this time. 

I had met Sophie maybe a handful of times- always at Philippe’s place- and we always got along really well, but I would usually leave his larger parties with one of the many local women that always seemed to be coming and going or, I would leave alone and go to a bar in the neighborhood to see what else was out there.  It was very easy in those days to walk into a place and leave with a nice, beautiful girl within a short period of time.  It was the last hurrah of the post-Soviet cultural/sexual revolution, which was a very special time in Russia’s history and one that will not likely be repeated for a long time, if ever.

        

Once Sophie joined us, Philippe called for dinner to be served.  The cook/maid brought out bowls filled with Plov for each of us.  Plov is the national dish of Uzbekistan.  It is a rice dish with beef cubes, onions, carrots, paprika and other spices.  While filling, it’s not that exciting.  What was exciting for me though, was what I saw after I took a few bites and leaned back to have a sip of wine while casually looking over at this Sophie woman.

Sophie was sitting in the chair directly to my right eating.  She was hunched over her little bowl of Plov and was shoveling it in like a murderer throws soil into a shallow grave under a full moon with people approaching.  I could see her spine accented through her black pullover while she wolfed down the Plov.  It appeared that she hadn’t eaten in days.  I had not, and have never since, seen a woman eat like this before.  I was in awe.  From this fascination, my eyes naturally perused her entire body and I then had one of those clear moments of perception.  She was an entirely different person to me from that moment on. 

She was so busy eating; she didn’t even notice me staring at her in my trance-like state as the minutes flowed by.  But observing her in entirety and detail was the upper cut after the body blow of her eating mannerisms.  She had on a worn cardigan sweater thing and a black skirt with black nylons, but I then noticed that her nylons, on both legs, had runners and her skirt needed a washing and was wrinkled and stained in many places.  This strangely infatuated me like you cannot imagine.  I was so used to these perfect young Russian women, with manicured bodies, impeccable make-up and stylish clothes and here, next to me now, I had a French woman, slamming down a bowl of rice and meat like a crack junkie getting her fix in disheveled clothes and runners in both stockings.  I was enraptured by it all.  I wanted her at that moment as much as I had wanted any other woman in my life. 

After a short time, I forced my gaze back to my Plov, which, frankly, was nothing to write home about.  I proceeded to eat it though, while stealing glimpses at Sophie’s devouring whenever possible.  However, she quickly finished her bowl (how could she not?), so this alluring spectacle ended far too soon and I was left with a desire for more.  Naturally, I offered her my half eaten bowl, but she surprisingly turned me down with a hearty laugh.

After dinner, she went into the kitchen and quickly returned with her dessert.  It was little pudding cups.  The Russian version of a snack pack pudding for kids.  My face once again couldn’t mask my shock and strange delight in this woman’s eclectic taste and style and when she saw my reaction, she immediately announced my satisfaction of her dessert choice to the group.  They all looked confused at this.  But, for me, there was no going back- my mind was set.  Later, when things were winding down and Philippe left the room, I followed him and quietly pulled him to the side.

        

“Hey Philippe, I need to ask you something.”  Philippe immediately looked concerned, as if I was going to ask a serious favor of him.  “Is it ok if I ask Sophie out for dinner sometime?  If something is going on between you two, I understand- please don’t worry about it.”  Since Sophie was staying in his flat, I had no idea if he was sleeping with her or not.

        

 “Sophie?” His face changed immediately, “Why yes, of course, I would be so happy if you asked her out.  That would be very good.”

“That’s great!  I just wanted to ask you to make sure you wouldn’t be upset.”

“Mikey, please, I would be very happy for this.”

And with that, I went to Sophie and quietly told her I was leaving soon and asked her out for dinner.  Her reaction was positive and we agreed to meet a few days later at my favorite restaurant (and one of the only nice ones in Moscow at the time).  I said my goodbyes, thanked Philippe and left. 

Over the next couple days, I ran the full gambit of nerves and worry in my mind.  This would be my first date with a Western woman since I came to Moscow and where she lacked against the local girls, I kept telling myself she made up for in intellect.  All the Russians I was dating then lacked a certain intellectual intrigue that Sophie had.  It was part of her upbringing and culture. I convinced myself that this Sophie woman could actually be someone I could develop a real relationship with and was excited.  By the time of the dinner, I was actually nervous going to meet her!

        

I arrived at the restaurant early with a small bouquet of pink baby roses and spoke with the hostess.  We agreed on the exact table we would be sat at.  I then went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic.  Sophie was thirty-five minutes late and, by the time she arrived, I was already on my fourth gin and tonic.  Her tardiness didn’t matter though.  When she sauntered in with her magnetic smile apologizing for being late in her seductive French accent, I could only see an angel before me.

I gave her the flowers and she immediately put them aggressively into her face and inhaled deeply.  I was liking all of it.  I dropped some cash for the drinks and we were escorted to our table.  I immediately ordered a favorite bottle of French wine.  A crisp St. Estephe, which cost a $110/bottle (wine in Moscow at any decent restaurant then was always a minimum of $80).  As the server departed for the vino, we looked over the menus for a few minutes and I then looked at Sophie and asked what she was thinking about ordering.

“My dear Michael, before we get into dinner I want to tell you something.”

“Oh yes, what is it?”

“I think you are so funny, and fun.  I love to be around and talk with you.”  Upon hearing this, my heart beat a bit faster, “But, even though I am single, I am in love with someone else and because of this, I think we should only be friends.  Very good and close friends, but only friends.”

At this exact time the wine was brought to the table and uncorked swiftly.  I managed a weak smile and tried to put on a brave face as our glasses were filled.  I was too dumbstruck to say anything so she then toasted me to “friendship,” and immediately ordered a two-course meal. 

It turned out to be quite an expensive rejection.

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