Borscht and Small Talk; Restaurant Serves as a Russian Island in Manhattan
By TIMOTHY L. O'BRIEN
April 16, 2000
On a recent Friday night, Mikhail Baryshnikov sat regally at an upstairs table in the Russian Samovar, patiently giving an interview to a writer from Vogue. ''See, he can come in here, eat wonderful food, do an interview and have a little peace,'' observed Roman Kaplan, the Samovar's founder, as he gazed at the dancer -- overlooking the fact that the restaurant was anything but peaceful.
Downstairs, a quartet of singers outfitted as Cossacks belted out traditional Russian folk songs as diners clapped and stomped their feet, creating an uproarious, engaging din. Crowded at a long, smoky bar, Russian intellectuals, writers, artists and leather-clad yuppies chatted loudly as they nursed an assortment of flavored vodkas, beers and -- the trendy cocktail of the moment -- cosmopolitans.
''Broadway actors, poets, singers, and people who like a touch of the exotic come to Roman and the Samovar,'' said Mr. Baryshnikov, who is an investor in the restaurant. ''People jam here. They discuss problems. It's important for people to have a place where they can come and sort things out.''
People have been sorting things out at the Samovar for more than a decade, making it not only a pillar of New York's Russian-American community, but something much more than a place to eat. Amid the vast panoply of bistros and brasseries that spreads across Manhattan, the Samovar, on 52nd Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue, stands out as an inviting, unwieldy and thoroughly singular social club.
As platters of blini and caviar, borscht, satsivi chicken, beef stroganoff, dumplings, smoked fish and grilled shashlik are carried from table to table, a cross section of New York's Russian-American population funnels in and out of the restaurant, adding to the pell-mell atmosphere.
Early in the evening, plump, middle-age and elderly diners animatedly eat, converse, argue and laugh before departing. Later, the visitors become younger and more diverse -- a shaggy-haired painter here, a gangster with a buzz cut there, a slender blonde yawning through a meal with a businessman looking much too old to be her husband, and a group of fashionably-turned-out 20- and 30-somethings rushing through another round of drinks.
''The Samovar is like a little Russian island for all of us because we miss home,'' said Leyla Zaloutskaya, a 25-year-old Russian who works at the United Nations. ''There's nowhere else in America like it.''
And the Samovar's clientele extends beyond the Russian community. One recent evening, the folk singer Peter Yarrow strummed his guitar, accompanying his daughter as she sang for a small group of friends. Nearby, a Broadway theater manager puffed on a cigar and mused happily about how well his newest show was doing, while a visitor from Chicago emptied his last glass of vodka, carefully moved some vases off a coffee table, stretched out on the narrow table and fell asleep. The endless buzz of music and conversation continued until well after 2 in the morning.
''I think there's a certain kind of pride here because people find things that they love about Russia -- abatjour lampshades, sounds of the piano, friendship, the smell of good food, and dushevno,'' said Mr. Kaplan, explaining that ''dushevno'' translates from Russian as ''something good for the soul.''
For many of the regulars, one of the main attractions is Mr. Kaplan himself. He is in the restaurant on most evenings, nattily dressed and darting from table to table to greet guests, pausing to whisper a joke in a diner's ear or to smile warmly at a young couple as he escorts them to their table.
''We love this place because we're welcome here, we can relax here, and it has very good food,'' said Vasily Yankovich, a 36-year-old singer whose booming tenor occasionally overwhelms the notes pounded out of a white grand piano in the middle of the Samovar's dining area. ''There are three or four other Russian restaurants around, but none of them has Roman. Roman is what makes the restaurant special.''
The Samovar is a reflection of Mr. Kaplan's tastes and interests. Downstairs, the walls are lined with photographs, paintings and drawings by Russian artists who have given them to Mr. Kaplan. The fringed crimson shades that adorn lamps hanging over the tables recall similar lampshades that many Russians once hung above their kitchen tables.
Upstairs is a cigar bar and a smaller dining room paneled with handsome blond wood that Mr. Kaplan said is a nod to the more refined sensibilities of St. Petersburg. Ledges on the walls are lined with antique brass samovars, the tall, often elegantly tooled teamakers that are the traditional symbols of Russian hospitality.
Mr. Kaplan was born in St. Petersburg 62 years ago, when the city was still known as Leningrad. During World War II, as German artillery pounded the city in the Siege of Leningrad, Mr. Kaplan lost all of his toes to frostbite. He also nearly starved.
''A person who went hungry for a number of years fetishizes food,'' Mr. Kaplan said. ''I loved to cook from an early age.''
Trained in the arts and with a facility for foreign languages, including English, Mr. Kaplan emigrated to Israel in 1972 and then to the United States in 1977. He worked as a doorman at an apartment building and managed an East Side art gallery before his wife, Lara, encouraged him to open his first restaurant, Kalinka, in 1984. He sold his interest in that Upper East Side restaurant two years later, when he opened the Samovar. Since then, the Samovar has become a fixture on 52nd Street, although it has had its ups and downs financially. Nonetheless, its renown has drawn a competitor, the Russian Vodka Room across the street, which was started by former Samovar waiters.
Along with Mr. Baryshnikov, Mr. Kaplan's partners include a Canadian businessman, Fred Sorkin, and the widow of the Russian poet Joseph Brodsky. After winning the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1987, Mr. Brodsky gave Mr. Kaplan some money from the award to help the Samovar over a financial hump. Mr. Kaplan, who features poetry readings at the restaurant on Tuesday nights, also holds annual tributes to Mr. Brodsky.
But it is the nightly traffic in food, drink, conversation and music that most visibly defines the Samovar. ''It reminds me of all the Russian restaurants and cabarets that were in Paris in the 30's,'' recalled Moura Petrovsky Tober, an elegantly dressed, courtly woman in her 80's who left Russia with her parents shortly after the revolution of 1917. ''I love the music and the atmosphere. Even though there are an awful lot of young people, I feel O.K. because I can find my Russian friends in here.''
