Whoa … Take it Easy, Buddy.

This weekend, I had a little lesson in culture, commerce and race relations in Moscow. Like a lot of these lessons, I stumbled into it. This time, perhaps a little more literally than usual.

On Saturday, I went to a party that had a "zombie" theme. The inspiration was not the shuffling, moaning undead but the cocktail version of the same. Of course, by the end of the evening it was anybody's guess as to whether the guests were actually getting into character or falling prey to the brain-eating nature of the refreshments. As you may guess, it plays a large role in the second half of the story.

I was a late responder to the email chain setting up the zombie evening and as such I was assigned the task of purchasing apricot brandy. I spent the better part of the day searching liquor and grocery stores in Moscow, and I feel quite confident in saying that Russia is definitely not a cocktail culture. Wine - which region of which country? Whiskey - what style? Vodka - you're kidding, right?

But mixers - forget it. I only saw triple sec once and vermouth only twice. No doubt my difficulty in finding apricot brandy was compounded by my awkward questions -"Do you have brandy with the flavor of apricots?" And a cultural bias not to look in the right places. That is, I never expected to find fruit-flavored drinks on the highest shelf behind the cash register. Nor did I expect it to cost so much - around $30. Back home, the off-brand (DeKuypers, Arrow) strange-flavored booze is on the bottom shelf near the door to the stock room and goes for not more than $12 a bottle.

When I got to the zombie lab, I heard the tail-end of a discussion on how to synthesize 151 Rum. That is, using so many milliliters of grain spirit and so many milliliters of rum should approximate the proof of 151. The math was sound even if the other elements of rationale simply didn't compute. The idea was abandoned, however, to everyone's relief. Just because we have the technology to do something doesn't always mean that we should.

The zombies were potent. Not exactly delicious. Decidedly lukewarm. But potent.

On my way home, I realized that I may not survive the night without a bottle of water. And potato chips. So I stopped by a new kiosk on my corner. As the vendor finished what he was doing and came over to the window, I eyed the rotisserie chickens slowly revolving in an oven behind him. Despite the zombies, I thought better of getting a street chicken at 3am and decided not to order the desiccated, but wonderfully fragrant, little bird.

I did order 2 bottles of water and a bag of chips. I placed 200 rubles through the window of the kiosk, then took 100 of it back. To be honest, that's the real moment that the rotisserie chicken idea died. The merchant took the remaining 100 rubles and started to struggle with how much change to give me. I asked for 25 rubles back. He looked at me and objected.
"No," he said, in a thick Caucasus accent. "How much money did you give me?"
"200, but I took back 100. So give me 25 rubles change."
"Ahhh, listen," he said hesitatingly. "You don't understand Russian very well, do you?"

I may well be loaded on zombies at 3am, and I may well be considering eating that last unsold chicken in your oven, but that's no reason to make fun of my language skills.

"No, I don't understand Russian well - but I understand math very well." This was not exactly the right thing to say.

"What are you trying to say? Why would I want to cheat you?" he exploded.

Whoa. Whoa. No one said cheat or deceive (obmanoot') to the guy from the Caucasus, the region where men wear long daggers as a part of their national dress. Things needed to calm down, and quickly, before I ended up on the spit with the lonely chicken.

"Listen," I said politely, but zombie-fortified firmly. "2 bottles of water is 40 rubles, and chips are 35 rubles. That's seventy five and I gave you 100. Give me back 25 rubles."

The vendor looked at me, looked at the goods in question still on the counter, looked back at me and calmly said, "You're right."

He handed over the 25 rubles ($0.89 US) and wished me a good evening.

So what lessons to take away from this whole thing?

In Moscow, it's easy to find alcohol that you can drink straight. Finding ingredients for mixed drinks is a lot more challenging.

The horrible reputation that the Caucausus peoples have here in Russia rises to the level of unpleasant racial stereotype. Frankly, I've never personally experienced deceptive treatment from a "black", as they are called. Maybe that's because I look more like a "black" than a Russian. But I do know that with all these folks put up with in terms of prejudice and discrimination, their reputation is no joking matter.

Oh, and if someone invites you over for zombies - tell them you can't make it. Trust me on that one.