Serhiy Krymsky is a philosopher and legendary figure. A scholar of world reputation, his lectures are said to have been attended even by hardened students who seldom show up for anything. Subconsciously, they must have needed to partake of his exceptional intellectual energy. Actually, just watching him is reason enough to attend. He is markedly different from the scholarly stereotype of a mournful seeker of ultimate truth, trying to find the philosophers’ stone who, after unearthing it, sits on it with his hand under the chin, frozen in a meaningful posture, like Rodin’s The Thinker. Academician Krymsky’s most conspicuous feature is movement. He is always on the go. He is like a vessel of communication filled with thought. He speaks loudly, gesticulates, and every idea he voices is accompanied by a special expression on his face. It is like watching an actor skillfully changing masks.
He is graceful and handsome in his own way. His physical attractiveness is his intellectual charm. In this sense he reminds one of Sir Winston Churchill (Krymsky’s favorite).
The Day invited Serhiy Krymsky over on New Year’s Eve, for the obviously selfish purpose of treating him to good food and drinks, listening to his toasts and anecdotes. His encyclopedic brain holds a great many of them.
The “working conditions” were adequate: a variety of hot and cold dishes, and of course a nice little selection of vodka. Academician Krymsky found himself in a situation similar to that of Shurik, the student hero of the once extremely popular Soviet comedy Maiden Captive of the Caucasus, except for two things: (a) Shurik was collecting local toasts, while Mr. Krymsky handed them out generously, and (b) Shurik failed to measure up as a festive table companion, dropping out cold after a couple of glasses, while Mr. Krymsky’s creativeness seemed to receive a fresh impetus after every toast, so much so that on several occasions he asked to turn off the tape, for he wanted to share a very special story, strictly off the record. Of course, we obliged, and in all frankness we feel sorry for you, dear reader, because you cannot hear or read them. Yet what he did tell us for the record will suffice, we are convinced. Our round table concentrated on two global topics: drinking and good humor. Serhiy Krymsky picked up the ball and ran with it.
NICHOLAS II’S PROHIBITION HAD TWO RESULTS: REVOLUTION AND MOONSHINE
There is a funny story about drinking. This man would always order four hundred gram shots of vodka. No less and no more. On one occasion a waitress cautiously inquired,” Sorry, sir, but why always precisely 400 grams?”
“You see, there are four of us, we are friends, and we fought during the war together. We grew so close that after fate scattered us we have always each of us had drinks as though we were together again.” And then he came and ordered only three glasses. The waitress was very sympathetic, “I’m so sorry, one of your friends must have passed away.”
“No, I just quit drinking.”
Take not an anecdote but historical fact. The first convention of the Soviet Writers’ Union after World War II was to be called to order by its Secretary Aleksandr Fadeyev. He was very much in his cups at the time. He would often spend the night on a bench in (the Moscow suburb of) Peredelkino. The convention was ready to start, the presidium was waiting for Fadeyev to take the floor, but he was nowhere to be found. Finally, it was decided that Olga Forsh, the oldest author, would take over. The woman was gray-haired, wore iron- framed glasses, and her hair was always disheveled. The audience expected to see Fadeyev, of course, and when Olga Forsh appeared on the podium someone shouted, “Damn, just look at him! That’s what vodka can do to a man!”
(At this point someone chased a shot with water. Mr. Krymsky would not let this pass unnoticed).
Incidentally, the habit of chasing vodka with water comes from Russia. It dates to 1914. Before that drinking water after vodka was considered mauvais ton, bad manners. And water served to increase the intoxication, meaning that people got more pleasure from the same dose of alcohol. Then in 1913 Nicholas II imposed a dry law. It had two consequences: revolution and moonshine. Due to the vodka shortage people started chasing it with water. Nowadays, women have the habit. I don’t know why.
The Day: We heard that the habit of cooling vodka before drinking developed under the Soviets, because the vodka was of poor quality.
S.K.:Maybe it was because cold vodka does not taste of fusel oils that much. I remember another fact. Leo Tolstoi visited a university. He was met by students who said they had been following his teaching and quit drinking, smoking, and womanizing. Then he was led to a table without any alcoholic drinks. The famous writer pointed out, “People don’t have to get together to stop drinking, but since we are all here let’s have a drink.”
The Day: I remember reading War and Peace at school. I especially liked the part where Pierre Bezukhov comes to a restaurant with his friend. The menu occupied a large sheet.
S.K.:Do you know when restaurants appeared in Russia? After 1861. Before that there were only traktir inns and kabak taverns. The
