Café Boris - The Winter Festival

It was a quiet winter’s morning in Café Boris. The only customers were tourists, all of whom Boris was ignoring. They sat there in the cold of an unheated café, without food or drink, loving every minute of it.

 

“It’s just like it said in the guide book,” whispered one, “he’s completely ignoring us.”

 

“He’s supposed to be the rudest man in Europe. My guide says that the longest anyone’s every waited to be served here is three days.”

 

Boris pretended to ignore this gossip, though of course he heard and understood every word. For him it was an ideal situation, lots of customers, but no need to serve them.

 

Eventually Olyana, the cook, came out of the kitchen. “Boris, you lazy toad, don’t you ever serve our customers.”

 

“I’m busy,” Boris said, frantically looking around for something to do. At that moment, the Mayor of Luhansk entered the café, with two suited officials by his side. “You expect me to rush around for some tourists and leave the Mayor to fend for himself.”

 

Olyana sighed. “I’ll take your orders then,” she said to the tourists.  Though the guidebooks didn’t say it, service in Café Boris had improved immensely since Olyana arrived.   

 

“Mr Mayor,” Boris boomed, “how good to see you. Though I should warn you, this is the lousiest café in Luhansk and I won’t let you eat the food as there’s a fair chance you’ll be poisoned.”

 

The mayor laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Boris. A great sense of humour. I haven’t come here for food though, I have a favour to ask of you.”

 

“A favour? Of me, a humble café owner. What could I possibly do for the great Mayor of Luhansk?”

 

“I was very impressed by the way you took the lead the campaign against the smoking ban. I was hoping to get your support for a new project of mine.”

 

Boris shook his head. “I’m not interested in politics,” he said, “that was just a one off. I wanted to keep smokers out of my café.”

 

The mayor looked puzzled, but decided not to challenge Boris’ reasoning. “I’m launching a new festival, a Winter Festival, and I would like to hold the launch in your café.”

 

“Why, because you think I suit the bleak and cold of winter?”

 

“No, because you are widely know as a curmudgeonous, cantankerous, anti-government, customer-hating, thorn in the side of new ideas.  If people know that you are supporting the initiative it will it much more credible.”

 

“And I do what? Dedicate the rest of my life to selling the idea of the Winter Festival, adorn my café with posters, wear a Winter Festival T-Shirt, perhaps have a couple of polar bears in my café window?”

 

The mayor knew Boris well enough to know that this was sarcasm, not a generous offer to fully embrace the new initiative. “You do nothing. All I am asking Boris, is that you host the launch. A small party for local business leaders, government officials, a few media people. My people will send out the invitations, supply you with the food and drink. You just host the launch, and don’t worry about it costing you.”

 

“But this is a busy café. You would have me turn away my beloved, cherished customers, turn them into the cold like characters from a Dickens novel, all so that your rich business chums can wallow in a government funded booze-up.”

 

“Relax Boris, you won’t lose a single customer. We’re holding the festival on the 25th December.”

 

The 25th December? But that’s Christmas day. I close at Christmas.”

 

“Exactly. That’s why you won’t lose any customers.”
“But people don’t come to cafés at Christmas, they stay home in the warm, with their families and friends. Who would want to spend their Christmas here?” 

 

“We’re not calling it Christmas this year,” the mayor persisted, “Winter Festival opens the celebration up to a wider audience; other religions, atheists, agnostics, people that just can’t be bothered by the whole Christian thing.”

 

“You want me to work on Christmas day, to host a winter festival, making hundreds of people happy while I am forced to work on my only day off all year.”

 

“Think of the publicity it will get you. The contacts with local dignitaries.”

 

Olyana, had been quietly working away with one ear to the conversation, as was frequently the case.

 

“And who do you think is going to cook the food for your Winter Festival?” she said. “Boris? Ha, you would wait less long for the end of the world. Boris is no cook.”

 

“Is this your wife?” the mayor asked.

 

“I am not his wife. I am his chef. I have my own husband. Wherever he is.”

 

“But you are just like Boris. You have the same fiery love of argument. Never fear, I shall pay you double what Boris pays you if you will be the Mayor of Luhansk’s private Winter Festival Chef.”

 

“The Mayor’s own private chef?”

 

Boris interjected. “She will need a hat. A chef’s hat, which say’s chef to the Mayor.”

 

“Of  course. The Winter Festival budget will run to a hat.”

 

“And I will need a spoon.”

 

“A spoon? Does your café not have spoons?”

 

“Of course I have spoons. How bad a café do you think this is? I mean a ceremonial spoon. I have seen them in similar events, a large, golden, ceremonial spoon to mark the launch. It shall have be embroidered with the Mayoral crest and I can display it on the wall, so that customers know that my café is endorsed by the Mayor of Luhansk himself.”

 

“Hmm, a gold-plated spoon.”

 

“I said a golden ceremonial spoon, not gold-plated.”

 

“And I said gold-plated, and I should know, it is me who shall be providing it.”

 

Boris smiled.  He enjoyed the cat/mouse egotiation with a politician.

 

“I do all this work for you, put the very reputation of my café at risk, and all I get is a cheap spoon-shaped trinket. Very well. I shall do it for my love of Luhansk. I shall see it as my patriotic duty. And afterwards I shall place the cheap spoon trinket on display, to show the world that in Luhansk there is no money for anything, not even for spoons.”

 

And so preparations for the Winter Festival began. Boxes of food started to arrive, good quality food, fine meats, vegetables and fruits whose names Boris had not even heard before. And the drinks: a case of wine, a very special bottle of brandy and a selection of vodkas, not the usual sort, not the type of vodka that you would also use to unblock drains, but a vodka you would serve to your boss, or someone you were trying to impress. The sort of vodka that council officials drink when they know that the taxpayer is paying.

 

Boris’ customers heard whispers about the great party and the fine food. “Where is my invitation?” they asked. Boris would shake his head, “It is the Mayor’s office who are sorting out the invitations, if you are not on the list I can do nothing about it.” Much muttering and dissent was heard about council taxes being wasted on frivolous parties for the those rich enough to organise their own.

 

Christmas day arrived. Or Winter Festival day, depending on how you view the world. Every other business, shop and trader was closed, the streets were empty bar for a scattering of people crossing town to visit friends and family. In Café Boris, however, there was a mad rush. Sergei was helping Olyana prepare the food and drink, for not even Olyana could cater to that number of people on her own.
The Mayor arrived at the appointed time.
“Where are your officials?” Boris asked, for the Mayor was unusually on his own.

 

“They demanded the day off,” the Mayor confessed. “They refused to work on Christmas day.”

 

“And your wife?”

 

“She has gone to our son and his wife. She said Christmas should be spent with family, not in grotty cafés.”

 

Boris said nothing, he simply poured the Mayor a glass of vodka and raised a toast.
“To the Winter Festival,” he said.

 

“The Winter Festival.” They clinked glasses and downed their drinks in one, before topping up their glasses.

 

Then they waited.

 

They waited for a long time for the others to arrive. For anyone else to arrive. But no one came.

 

Eventually Olyana had had enough.
“Can’t you see that nobody is coming,” she said. “The food will go bad if we keep trying to keep it hot, the four of us should have our dinner and damn those that didn’t come. All the more for us.”
The Mayor reluctantly agreed. The unhappy mood soon vanished, however, as Olyana brought out the massive roast goose, and the steaming piles of vegetables and more meats, some of who clearly came from animals that had never set foot on Ukrainian soil. Sergei ensured glasses were filled to the brim with brandy, even Olyana’s, and the four sat down to the biggest and best meal of their lives.

 

“I can’t understand why nobody turned up,” the Mayor said, as they were waiting for Olyana to bring out the pudding.”

 

“Of course nobody came,” said Boris. “It’s Christmas day.”
“But what about the non-Christians, the atheists, the muslims, the agnostics.”

 

“Even non-Christians love Christmas. It’s a day off work, an excuse to get drunk, share presents, see family and friends, slump in front of the TV and do nothing.”

 

“But they could do that here. That’s what the Winter Festival is about.”

 

Boris put a bear-like arm on the Mayor’s shoulder.

 

“Christmas got there first my friend. You must learn to pick your battles.”

 

“This has to be the worst Winter Festival ever. I look ridiculous, all my work to launch a new inclusive festive season and not one single person took part.”

 

“Never mind my friend, there is nobody here to witness your humiliation, no-need ever know about it. And for us happy few there is enough food and drink and to please an army.”

 

As Boris spoke Olyana entered from the kitchen bearing a pudding that was indeed big enough to feed a hundred. When it was set alight the flame could be seen across Luhansk, and no matter how much the four of them ate, they couldn’t even begin to dent the surface of the great mound.

 

“What are you going to do with all the food?”

 

Sergei grinned. “Never fear,” he said, “I will find a good home for it. I have contacts with the local orphanage.”

 

After the Mayor departed, Boris turned to Sergei. “The local orphanage?”

 

“Well, that was a lie. But I know how to get rid of the food.”

 

“How?”

 

“All your customers were asking about the Winter Festival. They were all dead jealous about the posh food. Well, we simply hold another Winter Festival tomorrow, 100 hvennas admission.”

 

“100 hvennas, hmm. Of course I will have to ask my chef, it is her who does all the work.”

 

Olyana grinned, a smile fuelled by numerous glasses of the finest brandy. A thousand hvennas, that will be my share,” she said.
“And mine,” Sergei hastily added. “And for that I will guarantee to sell forty tickets – so you will still make a fortune.”

 

“Sometimes I feel the whole world is trying to make a fortune at my expense. Very well, I will pay you, but not for my benefit, simply to ensure that my customers have  the best Winter Festival in Luhansk. Me, I will be happy to make a loss, if it makes my customers happy.”
“No, said Sergei, you will make a profit of 2,000 hvennas. 40 tickets at 100 …”

 

Boris waved his hand dismissively. “As if I care for such things. All I care is that 40 of my closest friends enjoy the finest meal Café Boris can provide. At 100 hvennas a piece, mind. No discounts, not even to the old, sick and poor.”

 

As Sergei predicted he had no problem selling the tickets and the next night’s Winter Festival feast proved one of the most successful parties in the history of Café Boris. By the end of the evening even Boris himself was seen to smile. Which is how it should be, for Winter Festival is a time of good cheer.

 

And the spoon, the gold-plated ceremonial spoon, has pride of place on the wall of the café, and is widely agreed to be the finest spoon in all of Luhansk and spoon enthusiasts from around the world come to see it and to be photographed next to it.