Cloudy with a chance of meatballs
I love to forecast food trends. It’s a mode of thought that whets my appetite, stokes my ego, and encourages vigilant research.
In this vein, it’s strange to me that Russian cuisine hasn’t been capitalized/communized in recent years (quarters?). Contemporary art has never been so popular, and the primary collectors seem to be formally impoverished proletarians-turned-oligarchs. It’s odd that, considering their purchasing power and “cultural investment,” the Russians haven’t influenced gastronomical life here in the States much. 
The range of Russian cuisine is vast; the spectrum contains both infamous leanness and notorious opulence. Personally, I could eat like a Baltic peasant for the rest of my days: cabbage, cured fish, and unleavened dough. No problem. But I could also dine at the Russian Tea Room each night without complaint. 
Here’s what I propose: a Russian restaurant, open for both lunch and dinner, with two menus, one for the proletariats and one for the oligarchs. The price difference would be obvious but not jarring enough to prevent a little class mobility (both ways). We would be booked months in advance for our Easter brunch. 
The choice order? A Fabergé Egg of course! Soft-boiled, in a glass egg cup, inlaid with different varieties of jewel-toned caviar in ornate patterns. Side of hemophiliac blood sausage. Shot of vodka.
По-русски
—Alice
