“What signifies this mélange of raw fish, eggs, and great slices of flesh, and mush of cabbage-soup?” “Not that the Russian has no taste. It is that he sacrifices his finer susceptibilities to his love of freedom. A regular hour for meals would seem to him a sacrifice of his leisure and convenience to that of the cook. The guiding principle of the national cuisine is that all dishes must be capable of being served at any time that the eater feels disposed.” This is a problem to put to any kitchen, we allow. Napoleon’s chef met it by relays of roasting chickens. But one cannot keep half a dozen fowl going for each household of the one hundred and forty million inhabitants of Russia. Thus sturgeon is provided, and sterlet, parboiled so that it tastes like blotting-paper; and the filet that is called “biftek,” and the oil-sodden “Hamburger,” that is dubbed “filet.” These can be started at nine in the morning, and be removed at any time between that hour and nine at night, without any appreciable change in taste or texture. The cook of the restaurant, like his brethren of the Empire, has laid his professional conscience sacrificially upon the national altar of unfettered meals. If the _obeid_ is not a triumph in culinary art, it is at least a signal example of domestic generalship. We have advanced without a hitch to roast partridge, with sugared cranberries, which our friend washes down with good red wine from the Imperial Crimean estates. We get through a hard German-like apple-tart, and reach the last item of cheese. When the mighty meal is over, we order tea, light cigarettes, and lean back in the armchairs to chat and note how our neighbors are getting through the time. At the far end of the room a Russian has joined the French lady and her escort. They are celebrating some occasion that requires heaping bumpers of champagne. The babble of their conversation is in the air. It seems to refer to the comparative appreciation of histrionic talent in Rouen and Vladivostok! Somebody is being treated to a dressing-down in the latest Parisian argot. “Ces sont des betteraves là-bas!” one hears scornfully above the murmurs. Across the way some Germans are engaged with beer-schooners. One of them gets excited and brings his fist down upon the table. “Arbeit in Sibirien nimmer geendet ist; they always want more advice about their gas-plants.” In the lull that follows the explosion, a gentle English voice floats past from the seat behind us. “And so I told him that the station had nearly enough funds, but we needed workers, more workers.” It is the English medical missionary on his way to Shanta-fu, discussing China with the American mining-engineer, bound for Nerchinsk. The piano, under the corner ikon with its ever-burning lamp, tinkles out suddenly, and a man’s voice starts up-- You can hear the girls declare, He must be a millionaire.