Where We Danced Off Our Chicken Kiev
FOR MOST OF MY childhood, I was dragged to a Brighton Beach banquet hall at least monthly. A Russian uncle would ask, “Paydyom v’nassional?” On went the sequined dresses and Men’s Wearhouse blazers, up went the magenta-tinted hair, out came the knockoff Chanel bags, and off we went, usually to the “Nassional.” Established in 1981 by members of the first immigrant wave to land in Little Odessa, the National presented a windowless façade, but wonders lay within: a two-tiered palace festooned with dizzying carpet patterns, crystal chandeliers, and blinding footlights. Hundreds of seats were crammed into long tables laden with French-inflected Soviet appetizers: smoked sturgeon and tongue; salmon roe and black bread; and—my favorite—olivier salad, a mélange of eggs, pickles, potatoes, mayonnaise, peas, and bologna. (Trust me.) By the time the kebabs and the chicken Kiev arrived, everyone was full.
The patrons, ranging in age from roughly 1 to 96, danced off the gluttony, lubricated by vodka (a bottle per four or five seats). The highlight of the night was the floor show. A parade of performers sourced from across the Soviet imperium executed stiff but sultry choreography alongside synth-heavy bangers in both Russian and English.
In the early years, the National’s theme was material aspiration. Its regulars had engineering degrees but toiled 14 hours daily in cabs, auto shops, and restaurant kitchens, saving for the next generation as well as the occasional cheapish thrill of getting drunk in front of their kids while feathered-haired beauties leaped among lasers and fog machines.