The Cappucinno Index

Having just returned from visiting the folks in London, I found myself drawn to the infamous Starbucks. I grew a fetish for this chain when working in america as they offered wi-fi for $30 a month and they are kind of  everywhere. The convenience was of course offset by the spend of $300 a month on the coffees. This almost made me seek out convenient cash loans to cover the double shot extra hot skinny soya latte bill.
Anyways, a starbucks latte in London cost the equivalent of 21 gryvnia ($4). But it is quite a substantial size compared to the normal ukrainian cappucinno which is the the continental 2 gulps and gone type. So I have started examing coffee prices here.
Not suprisingly the most expensive is in the Chichikov hotel lobby bar at 20 gryvnia. Though for this price most of it was delivered in the saucer. Next up the rude cafe which I should call now the inflation cafe. Theirs is now up to 15 gryvnia from 12. But 12 gryvnia ($2.40) does remain the common price level for a small coffee. There are some exceptions. The wonderfully bizarre business model at the Zebra Cafe on Pushkinskaya – it opened in spring but still looked closed, had no customers for 3 months before undergoing a 2 month closure (which became 3) for a refit which added a frying pan but alas still no customers – reduced their cappucinno toonly 8 gryvnia, but also lost the pretty girls who worked there in the process somewhat devaluing the experience.Or the omnipresent Blazer cafe, little coffee bars stuck inside shops and banks, where being a franchise operation the price ranges from 4 to 7 gryvnia.
Now if only I could find a tasty coffee. There are times when you just frown when the coffee comes in a glass with a straw.

Lessons I don’t learn #454

The football season is upon us. The Ukrainian teams are on a roll; Dinamo and Shaktar in the Champion’s Liga, and the local team Metallist in the UEFA cup. So last night was Dinamo vs Roma, my girlfriend’s fave team for a reason I do not comprehend. I think it is the manager’s bald head but when it comes to Ukrainian girls I am sure I am wrong. So this funky bar come cinema Pintagon is showing the game on their big screen; a bar you can sit on orange beanbags and watch arty movies can’t be bad. So running late as always; I have no idea where my time goes to; we get a taxi (Lada) to the bar, with me directing as usual (I can always become a cab driver here). Plenty of Lexus 4x4s outside, a good sign! We enter. There’s a band playing ! Who is it? Private party, the scourge of the town. So we need another sports bar. My mind (after the branch incident) plays tricks on me; the sports bar Birja.

I tell the next taxi driver Birja. You know, near Sovietskaya! No he doesn’t know. Beeer-jer. Nyet. Just drive. Then he asks the controller. They say beeer-Jer. Of course he understands now. I was speaking some bizarre foreign language. Ah sometimes I hate stressed syllables and sounds my mother never taught me. I hope you are listening mother.

We get to beer-Jer. No spare tables. What about those ones? No. Reserved. I don’t argue anymore. Girlfriend sits on a horse whilst we wait. After 20 minutes a table comes free. They lead us to another table. One of the reserved ones. Sigh.

The waiter appears. It’s him. The rude bastard. Him of the 20 kopecks. He is still unpleasant. No smile here. He leaves the menus. I talk with Anya; we don’t really look at menus. He returns. A second please. He returns. Not ready. Third time he appears we decide it’s best to order. Ok, a Pina Colada for the sweet toothed Anya and a margarita for me. The blender is broken. Ok, fruit juice. The margarita will take 30 minutes. OK, I’ll try the french wine. How much? A glass. Order a sausage (short) and fries ( I am mortal).

The football is a bit dull. The bar is smoky. Really smoky. The wine arrives. Cold, a miracle, I forgot to ask. Food arrives at the normal random intervals. Not so bad. At 74 minutes played I decide we should ask for the bill. Finally at 88minutes it arrives. 133 UAH. What ! The wine was charged for 4 units, the menu was 12UAH for 75ml. Hmm, that was not 300ml was it? I just want to escape from this hellhole. Put 150UAH. He brings no change. I take out my shotgun and blow the f**ker’s head off.

NEVER IN MY LIFE WILL I GO TO BIRJA AGAIN.

I would rather eat sushi in Ukraine.

Disclaimer: I really like this town.

the broken washing machine

3M went to the swanky glass boxed Sushi restaurant on Lenina. Definitely the place to go if you own a huge 4×4 with tinted windows and/or can muster at least 3 girls on your arm.

Another restaurant where the Ukrainian beer comes in a bottle labelled Stella Artois.

In attempting to be typically japanese they bring round those little hot flannels with which to clean your hands before you eat. Except for us. The second time we went that week (our normal stop before a Misto night), we had finished eating when I noticed another table had just been given their hot flannels. This reminded me that we did not get our hot flannels, today or the previous visit.

Being with a couple of locals (getting the ratio wrong; 1 girl to 5 guys) I asked if they could ask why we did not get the towels. Ukrainians are not the best at complaining so looked distinctly uncomfortable having to ask but I insisted. Well, the waitress replied the washing machine was broken. Just for us? Everyone else has towels? Only broken for five minutes. And two days ago the same. Yes. Oh heavens above. Why don’t they just have a sign outside saying we spit on foreign scum?

And 4UAH to use the soy sauce on the table’s a bit much.

Club Misto

Someone mentioned to us that Club Misto was a place to go to. So after the most expensive dinner we could muster at a glass box Sushi restaurant (confusingly glass boxes seem to be the in thing for restaurant design in Kharkov; must be a ready supply of window cleaners) – a dinner incorporating a lot of sake, we head outside and decide what to do. We recall the Club Misto suggestion. Stop a taxi and just say Misto since we have no idea where it is. The driver sagely nods. We know we are onto a good thing.

So what is Misto? A casino, bowling alley, bar and a disco stuck permanently in the 80s! What more fun could three 30 somethings want?? Probably three 20 something girls on our arms but failing that a fistful of chips for the tables.

I am not a gambler; well, not since I had to sell my parents to that Chinese gambling syndicate. But Mike and Max like to play and the drinks are free at the “high roller” table. And the best bit is whenever you want a drink a croupier rings a bell in a most flamboyant fashion to attract the waitresses’ attention. So the fun to be had miming the bell ring whenever your glass runs dry. Of course, too many free drinks on top of copious sake does not help one’s ability to count to 21.

Upstairs the disco is rocking. Well, the girls employed by the club to dance and look pretty are rocking. At least with Russian dancing there is less need to be a good dancer. So plenty to watch and admire there.

The bowling prices knocked us over; when you get used to the Ukrainian level of prices, expensive things seem outrageously priced. So we rejected the chance to bowl in blue light and returned to the safe haven of the casino.

Leaving Misto is fraught. The normal taxi driver issue; who can rip us off the most. A very pleasant ‘Palestinian’ organised us a ride and the offer of women etc. So we declined one but took up the other.