Kroshka Kartoshka
Keeping up was easier said than done. Only five minutes after they left the alley, JR was already winded from weaving in and out of crowds, hopping on and off sidewalks, and darting across busy streets. He was panting hard, quickly falling behind, and cursing George’s leisurely walkies for making him so out of shape.
Ania led them down a ramp into an underground passage, which appeared to be a way for humans to cross a busy intersection without having to stop for traffic. It was a maze of dim hallways lined with shops selling cigarettes, scarves, and pastries. JR wondered if George knew about these underground pastry shops. Maybe he stopped in here on his way to work.
“Left up ahead,” Boris called. He had insisted that, as the official tour guide, he’d take up the rear, but JR was fairly certain he was just making sure the embassy dog didn’t get lost. Which was nice of him, but embarrassing, too.
If only George had made fewer pastry runs. Then he’d be fit enough to keep up with Ania.
“Did you say pastry?” Boris asked as they dodged a pair of the highest heels JR had ever seen. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “I’ll bet you’ve never tasted blini, have you? It’s a Russian staple—a paper-thin pancake slathered in sour cream or honey.” Boris licked his lips. “We’ll make sure to find you some, or at least find someone willing to part with theirs. Now, when we get back up to the street, be sure to look to your left, where you’ll see an excellent example of neo-classical architecture …”
They scampered out of the underpass, emerging onto another busy street. By now it was nighttime, but the city seemed nowhere near ready to sleep. Accordion music pulsed in a nearby restaurant. People walked in pairs and small groups, chatting and laughing and dressed for a night out. JR consulted with his stomach, determining that it was almost eight o’clock. He knew this because at eight o’clock each night, George would brew himself a cup of Sleepytime tea, and he and JR would snack on cookies together. JR’s stomach had come to expect it.
“You’re very lucky to live in the Arbat district,” Boris informed him, bringing his attention back to the scene before him. “Although this particular street has lost much of its former glory. At one time, you see, it was home to servants of the Tsar, who lived in wooden houses. But these were burnt to the ground in 1812, when …”
JR listened with half an ear while trying to keep an eye on the dogs ahead. As grateful as he was for Boris’s kindness, he couldn’t help wishing he was up ahead with Ania, learning about Moscow from her. He had a feeling her tour would be entirely different.
Eventually, she did fall back to check on them. “How’s the tour, Embassy?” she asked without looking down at JR. Her eyes were constantly on the move, scanning the crowd around her.
For some reason, he didn’t mind quite so much when she called him “Embassy.” “Great,” he said. “Informative,” he added, for Boris’s sake.
“I bet.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “Boris, we’re going to head for Arbatskaya.”
“Oh.” Boris looked dejected. “I was hoping to show JR the Pushkin Literary Museum and the Gallery of European and American Art of the 19th and 20th Centuries.”
JR made a noise that he hoped sounded polite and interested.
“But I suppose we can do that later,” said Boris. “Arbatskaya is very close to Red Square.”
“And more importantly, the best food in the city,” Ania added.
“Really?” JR asked. That sounded much better.
“Really.” Ania nodded, scanning the crowd again. “The Kroshka Kartoshka stand is the place to be this time of night.”
“All right, but just a quick stop. We have a lot of ground to cover at Red Square,” said Boris.
Ania made a noise that sounded neither polite nor interested.
“Wait a sec. Ania, you’re taking Embassy to Kroshka Kartoshka?” Fyodor appeared on her other side. “Come on! We don’t want the whole world knowing about it!”
“I hardly think he’s going to tell the whole world about it.” She turned to JR. “Are you?” It was more a statement than a question.
“Uh, no,” he said, and Ania gave Fyodor a look that said, “See?” Fyodor glared at JR.
Five minutes later, they were standing in front of a giant green and yellow box, inside of which a man was slopping all kinds of toppings on baked potatoes, like the one Ania had stolen from the man with the sunglasses. Judging by the long lineup in front of it, she was right. Kroshka Kartoshka was the place to be.
“‘Kroshka Kartoshka’ is a term of endearment,” Boris informed him. “It means something like ‘my little potato crumb.’”
“Really?” JR couldn’t imagine why someone would want to be called a potato crumb. He wondered if George knew about this. It could be useful information if he ever wanted to impress a Russian girl.
Then he inhaled deeply, and the smell that flooded his nose was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was a mixture—no, a potpourri—of potato and onion, cheese and pickles, hot dogs and eggplant stew. And bacon. Lots of bacon. A whimper escaped him before he could stop it.
“Exactly.” Beside him, Ania took a deep breath, too. “There’s no other way to put it.”
“Does it taste as good as it smells?” JR asked.
“You mean you’ve never tried it?” she asked, incredulous. “Are you serious? You’ve never had Kroshka Kartoshka?”
JR shrugged, embarrassed. Usually, he was the one with the experiences that other dogs envied.
“Where’d you say you’re from?”
“Canada,” he said, then quickly added, “but we’ve moved around a lot. I’ve lived in Helsinki, Kuala Lumpur, Paris, and Dublin.”
“Huh,” she said. “Well, that’s nice, but you haven’t lived until you’ve had Kroshka Kartoshka.”
She wasn’t the least bit impressed by his globetrotting. And strangely enough, he was glad for it.
“Okay, you know the Bark-and-Grab, right?” she asked.
“The what?”
“You don’t know the Bark-and-Grab?”
He shook his head.
She sighed. “Fyodor, show Embassy a Bark-and-Grab.”
“On it.” Fyodor leaped up. He bounced on the pavement a few times, then jogged off toward the crowd.
“The Bark-and-Grab is one of the first food acquisition skills a stray learns,” Ania said. “It’s one of the most efficient ways of getting a meal. Watch.”
Fyodor paused to study the people leaving the food stand, carrying their potatoes in cardboard boxes. Then he headed for a man in jeans and a leather jacket.
“He’s chosen his victim,” Ania whispered.
The man stopped and opened his box, then pulled out a plastic fork and went in for a big bite. Fyodor lowered himself closer to the ground, creeping toward him from behind. Closer … and closer …
“What’s he going to—” JR whispered.
“Shh,” Ania said, as if they might disrupt his concentration.
Just as the man was about to take his first bite, Fyodor let out a mighty bark, startling him so badly that he fumbled the box. In a split second, Fyodor was on it, snatching the potato right out of the air. He and the potato were gone before the man realized what had happened.
“Go, go!” Ania yelled as Fyodor sprinted by with his prize. They all raced after him, stopping around the corner near another underpass.
“Nice work!” said Ania.
“Yes, very good, Fyodor.” Boris eyed the potato he’d dropped on the pavement. It was smothered in cheese and sour cream and what appeared to be slices of hot dog. JR’s mouth watered.
“Too easy.” Fyodor tossed his head. “Let’s dig in.”
But Boris stepped forward and put a paw on the potato. “JR must have the first bite,” he said firmly. “He’s never tried it before.”
Fyodor sighed impatiently. “Only an embassy dog would have never tried Kartoshka before,” he grumbled. But he stepped out of the way.
“Go on, son.” Boris nudged JR. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried it.”
JR darted forward and grabbed a mouthful before they could change their minds.
It was even better than he’d imagined. Tender and tangy, gooey and meaty. Everything a dog could want, all in one bite.
“Wow,” he said once he’d gulped it down. “Oh, wow.” The Kartoshka cloud in his brain left him unable to think of anything else to say.
“Exactly,” said Ania. “Okay, boys, dig in.”
“Thanks,” JR added politely to Fyodor, who shrugged and proceeded to inhale his share.
After they’d devoured the potato, Boris looked around. “Well now,” he said, “let’s continue on to Red Square.” He turned to Ania for approval. “No tour would be complete without it.”
She sniffed the air. “Yeah, okay. I need to find Sasha anyway. He’ll have the latest update.” And she frowned.
Before JR could ask what the update was about, he was hit by yet another striking smell. But this was no stuffed potato. This was … He concentrated hard, trying to pick up the smell amongst fumes of onions and gasoline. Yes, that was it. Leather and a hint of cinnamon.
He spun around, and sure enough, there was George, standing on the sidewalk not twenty feet away, chatting with a man about his age. Conrad, most likely. As he watched, the two shook hands, slapped each other on the back, then parted ways. George yawned and checked his wrist for the time, only to find it bare. He shook his head, then began walking for home.
“Oh no!” JR whispered.
“What? What is it?” asked Boris.
“It’s my human. He’s on his way home. I have to go.”
“But you haven’t even seen Red Square! The Kremlin alone takes an entire night to explore!” Boris protested.
“I know, but …” JR watched George amble off, hands in his pockets. Part of him wanted nothing more than to stay out and continue the adventure. But if George got home and found him gone, he might never have another walkie, let alone a night out. “I’ve got to go.”
“All right,” Boris sighed. “Shall we continue the tour tomorrow?”
Fyodor groaned softly, and Ania gave him a tired look. “I’m going to find Sasha,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Embassy.” And she trotted off without waiting for him to answer. Fyodor followed.
JR’s heart sank as he watched her go. “Is she … always this …”
“Intense?” Boris finished. “Most of the time. But right now she’s got a lot on her mind.” He shook his head. “Tomorrow night, then?”
JR turned to the older dog. “Yes. Tomorrow. For sure.” He had no idea what George would be doing tomorrow night, but he’d make it work. He had to. “Thanks, Boris.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll meet you at the corner store. The one with the sausages,” said Boris. “Now, you’d better get going.”
JR nodded, then turned and raced after George, keeping a safe distance behind him all the way home. He waited in the shadows while George let himself into the apartment lobby, then leaped back into the open window, suddenly thankful to be an average-sized Jack Russell.
He was in bed by the time George slid the key in the lock and opened the door.