MOSCOW now boasts another pub. The Shamrock Bar and Rosie O'Grady's have been joined by a watering hole called the John Bull, a Dickensian looking hostelry which nestles in the shadow of Stalin's neoGothic Foreign Ministry. But the atmosphere inside is as disappointing as a pint of flat ale.
I went in the other evening and ordered a half of bitter and a pack of crisps. The barman, dressed like a silver service waiter, brought the beer, carefully poured the crisps on to a gilt edged dinner plate and charged me the equivalent of $10, a quarter of what an average Russian pensioner receives in a month.
No wonder, then, that the clientele are nouveau riche Russians. Members of the crowd the other night were dressed in chic fashions, draped with mobile phones and desperately trying to give the impression they knew what life in the West was all about. Sitting looking very lost in this company was a genteel retired couple, tourists from the West obviously, who had exhausted themselves tramping the streets in search of the "real Russia" and finally sought refuge in a place which looked familiar.
Although they still have not got the recipe quite right, Russians are correct in seeking to understand the West through the pub because it is here - or in the cafe in the case of France or Austria - that so much of our life takes place. For those who cannot afford to visit Moscow's Irish bars or the John Bull, Russian television runs a chat show filmed in a pub in London.
But it will be a long time yet before a visitor to Moscow can hope to have an authentic Russian experience in a public eating place. For all sorts of reasons, Russians have avoided pubs and cafes since the Bolshevik revolution, although the paintings of the 19th century artist, Boris Kustodiev, are evidence of a past love of wining and dining out. Cost is only one of the inhibiting factors.
"We never feel comfortable in pubs and cafes," said my friend, Vadim, who has always puzzled me on our outings together by buying a drink, downing it in one and leaving the establishment immediately. "Why don't you linger and chat?" I asked. "It's the legacy of Soviet times," he explained. "There were always queues and we were conscious we should vacate our seats for the next customers. And we were afraid our conversations would be overheard. With KGB informers everywhere, we could not relax and speak freely."
The dislike of pubs and cafes does not mean, of course, that Russians do not enjoy a drink. Far from it. They love all forms of alcohol, but especially their national drink, vodka. It is just they prefer to open a bottle in the comfort of their own homes. More specifically, at the kitchen table, for it is here that the soap opera of everyday Russian life is played out. The majority of tourists never see it.
It was the kitchen table which drew me to Russia 10 years ago. I was excited by the conversations which went on all night. Russians can talk the hind leg off a donkey. They talk about art, philosophy, religion, all the subjects under the sun. For me, it was like being back at university before the dreaded day came when I had to go out and earn a living.
Russians did not worry about going to bed early because then, when the Soviet state pretended to pay its workers and the workers pretended to work, nobody bothered much about being on time next morning. When the conversation flagged, guitars would come out and guests would sing, often their own compositions.
Sadly, the spirit of the Russian kitchen table has been missing of late. I do not mean the alcohol. Some things never change. But, for me at least, the charm has gone. Money is all anybody talks about nowadays.
The poor talk about it because they have not got it. The rich talk about ways to make more of it. True, the new Russians go out to pubs now. But they only do that to flaunt their wealth. They stay at home when it comes to discussing the organisation of their businesses, many of which were founded by groups of friends who knew each other in the old days of the kitchen gatherings. And these new Russians now bring their boring shop talk to the sacred table.
A voice from the past cheered me up last week, however. Anton Yarzhambek, tired of hearing people discussing money, was looking for friends ready to revive the evenings of real conversation and song. Anton used to write hiss own songs for the guitar until he became a passionate convert to Russian Orthodoxy and stopped composing because a priest told him it was a sin. But now he has gone back to song writing.
"I'm launching a new collection called Love, Love, Love," he said. Would he be performing in the John Bull pub? "No way, everyone must come round to my place. I'll see you at the kitchen table."