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| 1997 Russian Advertisement |
The Russian market for Mayonnaise in the summer of
1997 was - as many other things as well - utterly confused. Only one thing was
clear: the country, recently escaped from the Soviet straightjacket and still
fresh in the stranglehold of capitalism, was looking to the West for its culinary
redemption as well. And as such thing usually go under the circumstances: it
mistook every overpriced imported luxury item as a priori better than
its own, honest, home-grown product. We need not tell our jaded Western
readers that this belief is nonsense - but such wisdom is only gained after 30
years of unbridled, continuous, tedious consumption of Too Much. And what else
can one expect in a society where countless people did indeed believe that a
new bank which appeared overnight would pay them a 100 % return on their
savings? A lamentable state of affairs. One can only hope that the dark clouds
of delusion have now been scattered by fresh gales of realism…
As for Russian Mayonnaise, one could of
course buy it in shops and supermarkets, but the best deal was often to
acquire one's daily dose in the small kiosks that lined the sidewalks at the
metro- and railway entrances, the way limestone sphinxes once lined the causeways
to Egyptian temples. In these cheap, omnipresent glass & cardboard contraptions,
the true trade of the new free market economy was taking place, petty starting
entrepreneurs selling at rock bottom prices such basics as cigarettes, booze,
cheese, sandwiches, chocolate and yes: Mayonnaise as well! With opening hours
of 24/7 and an immense variety of choice, the system worked brilliantly (for
those who had money, that is). But, as such thing also inevitably go in a market
trying to find its balance: quality differed immensely, supply was often
illogical and prices fluctuated like the ocean in a typhoon. A state of things
which brought forth as many pleasant surprises as instances of ludicrous fun.
Of the latter, a good example is the story of my acquisition of
R1. American Star. Petersburg, July 1997.
Rub 11.000
(roughly € 2) for 960 ml.
A kind if somewhat impulsive woman friend called Anna-Alisa
Belous bought me this jar in a kiosk late one evening as we were headed to
paint the town... Eh, no… Better not red;
crimson, let's say! It was a very sweet
gesture, but of course it implied that I had to drag a giant litre-bottle of
Mayonnaise through one White Saint Petersburg Night (bright daylight in which the
whole world can see you till 3.30 a.m.), two nightclubs, a hotdog restaurant,
four metro-stations and an illegal taxi. It was a miracle the Militia never
stopped us to ask what we thought we were doing in the wee hours of the
morning dragging a mammoth jar of Mayo through town. Likewise, only Dame
Fortune protected us from being mugged by a Mayonnaise addict of small
pecuniary means, who understandably could not resist the temptation when so
callously provoked by the sight of a foot-high Mayonnaise jar in the hands of a
decadent dollar-carrying bloody foreigner. (I would have forgiven him his act
of despair, reader!)
So a mortal risk we took! But it was well worth
the trouble, for this jar kept me supplied all through my weeklong visit (1),
with a Mayonnaise whose quality wasn’t bad at all. At heart it turned out to be
a very tasty, yet truly Yankee sauce; neutral and all-purpose (neither too
sour nor too salty nor too sweet), and consequently one of those brands that
everybody likes and that goes with everything, without inviting undue
enthusiasm in an expert. Nothing wrong with it therefore, except perhaps, the
rather triumphalist Stars ‘n’ Stripes plastered all over the label.
Modesty, gentlemen!, I would like to tell the New Jersey manufacturer. So you
won the cold war; but please don't ruble it in!
(1) In fact the jar was so big that in the end I
had to empty out a third of it by spoon the morning before
departure, since one does not take open Mayonnaise jars through Russian customs,
and one NEVER throws a decent Mayonnaise into the trashcan if one can help it.
The flight back, in a bobbing Tupolev, was somewhat uncomfortable as a result…
Oh, and speaking of Russia: only 6 more days to go until that silly Eurovision Song Festival Event, where you absolute MUST
Oh, and speaking of Russia: only 6 more days to go until that silly Eurovision Song Festival Event, where you absolute MUST
Vote the Buranova Babushkas!!
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