Ode to Herring

Another staple food of Russian cuisine: herring.

In the picture: Oil painting by Kuzma Sergeevich Petrov-Vodkin “Herring,” (1918).

I already wrote about Russian cuisine in general, and about typical products and dishes you commonly find on a Russian table. I hate to brag about food, but it's such an important subject in the context of Russian culture.

The dining table and the act of sharing food, eating together serve as the cornerstones of Russian hospitality. In the culture of Russia, food is a substance that goes way beyond a mere need to satisfy physical needs. Food serves as a medium for uniting people. In many, if not most social interactions, you'll find food present in some way, be it hanging out with friends, a family gathering, or a business meeting. Understanding traditions of eating and food are one of the pivotal elements to understanding Russians. Differences in eating traditions is what often disappoints many Russians who moved abroad, because in other cultures notions about food are different, which in turn manifests in different traditions and social rituals. If you are a foreigner residing in Russia, master Russian hospitality and food traditions, and you're halfway through to being accepted as a local.

One of the staple products you'll find in abundance in every food store, on restaurant menus, and on almost every Russian table is herring, pickled herring. In times of the Soviet Union, you could only buy whole herring, which then had to be gutted and peeled. Nowadays, stores sell filleted herring marinated in a variety of styles, in assorted brines, with various spices, or just plain pickled herring.

Herring is found in the Pacific, Atlantic, and Baltic Sea, each having a specific, distinct taste. I prefer Pacific herring because it is fattier. I can't resist good fresh Baltic herring, too, which is less fatty, has a firm texture, and smells like fresh cucumber.

In my hometown, seasonal fishing for herring is popular. In autumn, large flocks of herring come to the waters of Peter the Great Gulf to feed on local plankton. It's never announced publicly, but all folks who are into fishing know—herring is coming. Every available boat, large and small, gets to use. You sometimes see a gathering of boats of various calibers in the middle of the bay, and you instantly know that's where the herring is. In the Far East, freshly caught herring is not only pickled, but also baked in the oven.

In Moscow, people only know pickled herring, and they don't distinguish between Pacific, Baltic, or Atlantic. Herring is herring. It goes great on a piece of black bread, excellent appetizer, goes great with beer, white wine, or, yes, vodka.

Herring is a food addiction of its own kind. When you’re in Russia, you don’t realize it, the herring is in each and every store, steps away. Once abroad, some immigrants start craving herring, which in many countries is nowhere to be found.

Now a personal story with herring. When I was a college student, sophomore year, I got my first part-time job. The company I worked for was a small business with less than ten employees. The pay was good, and all the people I worked with were nice. My boss, head of accounting (the only person who handled accounting in the firm), was a middle-aged woman wearing flashy makeup and a tall hairdo.

In the office, we had computers and printers, all made of whitish plastic that collected fingerprints. “Tell Tatyana Vasilyevna to bring some rubbing alcohol to clean,” my boss demanded one day. Tatyana Vasilyevna was a woman who took care of our office along with hundreds of other functions and responsibilities. She brought a three-liter Soviet-type glass jar full of 96-proof alcohol.

It was not rubbing alcohol, though; it was the type that goes into vodka and other alcoholic drinks. I took a piece of cloth, applied some alcohol on it, and started cleaning the monitor. My boss saw that and asked in a tone of voice parents ask children when they witness them doing something really stupid. “What are you doing?” “Cleaning the equipment,” I replied. She sighed, pulled a bottle of vodka from under her desk and instructed me: “Use this for cleaning.” “The alcohol we will drink.” Three liters of pure alcohol seemed to last long, but it didn’t.

“I just filed a quarterly report; let’s celebrate.” “Today is such-and-such a holiday, let’s finish working earlier.” She was a single woman, and occasions to have a drink always came out of thin air. Each time the three of us: me, my boss, and Tatyana Vasilyevna, locked ourselves in a small room, where our office was. We finished that jar of alcohol in a matter of two months. On one of those gatherings, Tatyana Vasilyevna told us that her husband works on a factory ship and makes his own pickled herring, delicious. “You should bring some,” we asked her.

One day she brought that herring her husband made and a pot of boiled potatoes. Our entire office gathered at the table. We had herring and potatoes and some alcohol. The herring tasted fantastic, not too salty, great texture and flavor. I can’t remember having a better herring since then.

I suspect, however, it’s not about the herring at all. It’s about the people and the atmosphere and something else that was there, the connection, the vibe of a very special kind I can’t decipher consciously. It just stays in my memory, sits there firmly. Many events, people, and things in my life will be lost in time. Some memories will remain, no matter what. “God speaks in vibrations,” the article title reads. Maybe that is the explanation.