The office complex of the oil and gas magazine has its own little cafeteria. For about $4, you can get a salad (Russian salads are finely chopped, sometimes cooked veggies held together with plenty of mayo adhesive), a bowl of soup, meat, and potatoes or rice or cabbage. My favorite meat option is a little cylinder of chicken, lightly breaded on the outside, that erupts butter when punctured. The cafeteria lady is a grandmotherly sort who thankfully finds my crappy Russian amusing rather than burdensome.

Natasha, my new flatmate, eats at an old Soviet-style cafeteria every day too. To get to it, you walk past the Burberry and Tiffany's boutiques in the city center, through an archway, back from the street a little ways, and into the basement of an old rundown building. The cafeteria lady is glowering, built like a brick, and has probably worked there since 1960. Yesterday, Natasha told me, she was in line behind a guy who asked for lemon-water. The cafeteria lady said "Лимон?? Что лимон?" (Lemon? WHAT lemon?) Natasha ordered brown bread and herring, typical Soviet lunch, and the woman gave her a little smile.