Tea-Spoon(Russian fast food)
What does my teapot see?(White, standard teapot. Boring)
A fine glitter - Christmas
Lights - some well coated passers-by and cars
The number 47
Orange plates, squares of orange that could be a modern bar.
What doesn’t my teapot see?
A man in the corner asleep. The amused, embarrassed staff gathered to discuss the situation and sent a young man to gingerly wake him up. Now he is eating food which was clearly not bought in the café and gazing out protectively from under his puffer coat. Then he walks out, weaving to one side with his hands in his puffy trousers.
A Canteen - social sample
This 24 hour cantene right in the centre of town harbours basic Russian food in the Soviet style; that is, if you want honey or jam, or any sort of extra, it costs a lot more.
Today I ate baked fish and rye bread, a cheap and basic meal, in the Stolovaya by Dosteyovsky metro station. I couldn’t finish it all. It was very dry , as anything superfluous such as butter is an extra and extra costs extra, funnily enough. I scribbled down the motto of the communist poster on the wall(Live well, for a good life - how ironic is this tobacco stained room) , a yellow background and blue bottles and wondered that I’d chosen the ugliest perspective for my contemplation(driven by an urgent need to write in the warm rather than a need to eat) and too exposed to grey on every side.
I had walked on and on through the different landscapes of the Stolovaya until I reached the furthest one, furthest away from every-one and nearest to the outside world. The furthest too from observation. Then I pushed my plate away and began to write a fanciful story about icicles all the time wanting to floss my teeth because there was fish stuck in the back, but thinking that it would be very impolite and many people would stare, I carried on writing. So while I politely refrained from flossing a young man with scruffy red hair came over to my table and sat right opposite me. He pulled my plate towards him and began eating the scraps of fish left on the bone; parts I’d left for inedible. Then he methodically ate the dry bread, sitting right in front of me but not looking at me, only at the food. I nonchalantly carried on writing while absolutely shocked and quite losing the thread of my story. Then really feeling that this was pointless and uncomfortable and I really wanted to de-fish my teeth anyway, I began to pack away my bag and the scavenger got up and wandered away unsteadily to another table. It is difficult to tell if he was only very drunk, and had run out of money but had food cravings, or was homeless and poor and drunk or slightly mentally unstable or on some form of drugs. It is useless to conjecture. I felt the dark emotions issuing from Dostoevsky -so many ignoble characters -in there today.
What does my teapot see?(White, standard teapot. Boring)
A fine glitter - Christmas
Lights - some well coated passers-by and cars
The number 47
Orange plates, squares of orange that could be a modern bar.
What doesn’t my teapot see?
A man in the corner asleep. The amused, embarrassed staff gathered to discuss the situation and sent a young man to gingerly wake him up. Now he is eating food which was clearly not bought in the café and gazing out protectively from under his puffer coat. Then he walks out, weaving to one side with his hands in his puffy trousers.
A Canteen - social sample
This 24 hour cantene right in the centre of town harbours basic Russian food in the Soviet style; that is, if you want honey or jam, or any sort of extra, it costs a lot more.
Today I ate baked fish and rye bread, a cheap and basic meal, in the Stolovaya by Dosteyovsky metro station. I couldn’t finish it all. It was very dry , as anything superfluous such as butter is an extra and extra costs extra, funnily enough. I scribbled down the motto of the communist poster on the wall(Live well, for a good life - how ironic is this tobacco stained room) , a yellow background and blue bottles and wondered that I’d chosen the ugliest perspective for my contemplation(driven by an urgent need to write in the warm rather than a need to eat) and too exposed to grey on every side.
I had walked on and on through the different landscapes of the Stolovaya until I reached the furthest one, furthest away from every-one and nearest to the outside world. The furthest too from observation. Then I pushed my plate away and began to write a fanciful story about icicles all the time wanting to floss my teeth because there was fish stuck in the back, but thinking that it would be very impolite and many people would stare, I carried on writing. So while I politely refrained from flossing a young man with scruffy red hair came over to my table and sat right opposite me. He pulled my plate towards him and began eating the scraps of fish left on the bone; parts I’d left for inedible. Then he methodically ate the dry bread, sitting right in front of me but not looking at me, only at the food. I nonchalantly carried on writing while absolutely shocked and quite losing the thread of my story. Then really feeling that this was pointless and uncomfortable and I really wanted to de-fish my teeth anyway, I began to pack away my bag and the scavenger got up and wandered away unsteadily to another table. It is difficult to tell if he was only very drunk, and had run out of money but had food cravings, or was homeless and poor and drunk or slightly mentally unstable or on some form of drugs. It is useless to conjecture. I felt the dark emotions issuing from Dostoevsky -so many ignoble characters -in there today.
Do you know these little cafes called "pushechnaya"? the doughnuts for eating with tea from a pail in a soviet stile view. On Bolshaya Konyshennaya str. for example
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