Fish eggs. Its what's for dinner.

So tonight Amy, the Calvinist and myself were invited to dinner at Igor’s apartment (Jeff had to work). I was not enthused. In the first place, I felt I had done a poor job of teaching, and that, combined with fatigue, left me in a sour mood that I tried to hide. In the words of the great Greta Garbo, “I vant to be alone”.

In the second place, Igor had a reputation for serving, how shall we say this, “weird” food. Amy said the last time she was there, head cheese topped the menu. To me, this ranks even worse than mayonnaise, which I was sure would also be cooked in somewhere.

For the most part, I was pleasantly surprised. The main dish can best be described as a Russian meat ravioli, served with some sort of pepper chutney. It was actually quite good. The soup before the meal consisted of a bowl full of cold sausage, onions and parsley, into which he poured a good helping of something like non-alcoholic beer. This tasted (slightly) better than it sounds.

My only real scare was the caviar he kept insisting we eat. There it was, piled high on crackers, with a healthy dop of mayo serving as the crème in these oreos. This, of course, was not the black beluga caviar, but rather the roe of salmon.

Now, I know salmon eggs are considered a delicacy in many places, not just Russia. But I’ve also been around enough to know that when someone has to tell you that what you are about to eat is considered a delicacy, you are going to throw up in your mouth.

Plus, I had done my fair share of fishing in my 38 trips around the sun, and could not look at the salmon eggs without thinking of how many times I had strung them on a rusty hook, hoping to snag a lake trout. Perhaps it is just me, gentle readers, but I have a hard time being enthused about any “delicacy” that can be bought in the bait and tackle section of Walmart.

And no, I have never tried them, and yes, I am okay with that gap in my culinary repertoire. I sure wasn’t going to try them tonight (sour mood flaring up in digestive rebellion), no matter how much Igor wanted me to.

Fortunately, Igor left the table time and again to tend to something in the kitchen, and each time I passed the roe to the Calvinist. Being a cultured man and a high-brow, he almost feels it is his duty to like caviar. In any case he lit into them like a trout. I was proud. And relieved. He and Amy polished off enough for the three of us to be polite guests (in this case my politeness being exercised by proxy). I thanked Igor for all the good food. Everyone was happy.

I should mention one last note: The ravioli was Plan B. Igor was originally planning on a different main dish: crepes infused with...(wait for it)….caviar. God is good!