When I went to St. Petersburg for a summer abroad during college, I was fully expecting to love it–the canals, the palaces, the riotiously colored onion-domed cathedrals, the museums, the music, the cafes with storied literary names, the languid blue dusk of the White Nights.
What I didn’t expect to fall in love with was the food.
Russian food, at least as my friends made it out, was bland. Heavy. Unimaginative. Potatoes, sour cream and beets for weeks on end. I don’t know why I was surprised when my friends turned out to be wrong.