Congratulations! What Did you Bring Me?

Ahhh, the Russians. They aren’t that different from us, are they? Sure, there are small indicators of stylistic differences all around Moscow. For example, people don’t really smile unless they’ve got a good reason. The first answer to a request is usually no, but they don’t really mean it. However, I’ve run up against a behavior so at odds with my background, that its thrown the better part of my world view into disarray. I’m talking about Russian birthday parties.

Its always somebody’s birthday at the office - or at least it seems that way – so I’ve had a healthy amount of opportunity to analyze the differences. To begin with, the person celebrating the birthday does all of the treating. The celebrant brings cakes and invites everyone to partake, while close co-workers might respond with flowers or wine. Thus, our coffee room is constantly full of tortes and chocolates.

Frankly, it’s a miracle that everyone in the office isn’t fat. Quite to the contrary; everyone is thin no matter how undeserving. As I was making tea this morning, two of my more attractive co-workers were chatting and finishing off yesterday’s torte.

Upper-level staff birthdays are celebrated in a more formal fashion. The birthday boy/girl hosts a huge spread of zakuski (hors d’oeuvres) and beverages and desserts in the conference room at the end of the day. The quantity of the spread seems to move along the scale of seniority. The birthday feast for our head of fixed income investments, for instance, was a scene of nearly obscene plenty including red caviar and other local delicacies.

Once everyone is served wine, the most senior executive proposes a toast. A Russian birthday toast is no trifling affair. Its usually really long, very detailed, highly emotional, funny, and floridly extravagant in its praise of all the toastee’s attributes – both personal and professional. The birthday boy/girl then walks through the crowded conference room and clinks glasses with each person.

The next most senior person gives the next toast. The long toasts are dragged out by rowdy interruptions from the rest of the guests. And this cycle keeps going until everyone who wants to gets a say.

Usually, there’s hard alcohol on the table that has been presented as gifts to the birthday boy (women aren’t given gifts of alcohol). I haven’t seen it get opened, however, at any of the parties so far. Wine only.

Birthday parties outside the office are the same. The birthday celebrator treats all the guests, even in a restaurant or bar. The toasts proceed very much the same way, too. The big difference is that the hard alcohol starts to flow at these types of parties. Well, it does when I’m there anyway. (Moskvichi don’t drink nearly as much as you may think, by the way. I feel somewhat confident in saying that Manhattan is a boozier atmosphere among working professionals.)

So that’s the upside-down world of birthday celebrations. Call me cheap, if you like, but I plan on being in America on my birthday.

A post-script: Gifts from colleagues and vendors have been flowing in for one portfolio manager this week. He asked if he could store things in my office since he’s quite convinced that our colleagues will steal them if he leaves them in his own. “They’ll be too afraid and too ashamed to steal from you,” he said. So here I sit surrounded by bottles of wonderful scotch and expensive cognac. Fox. Henhouse.