The restaurant critic provisions the Proliv

About a month ago I heard about Proliv. A good name, as any two-faced, ambiguous name is, but no thank you: there is no sense in going to the twelfth attempt in this room, and the last few were run by the same tenants. Nor in listing all the names this space has carried. Only afterwards did I read that this is a Moscow chain of ryumochnayas, and clearly a well-known one, since even in Petersburg I had heard of it. A younger brother, a branch, call it what you like — the important thing for me is that it isn't a franchise, they didn't buy the name, these really are the same people. I could push my old thesis again: that only non-local restaurateurs, and only the very best estate agents of the Northern Capital, manage to sell a room after a dozen attempts, honestly describing, I'm sure, everything that came before. But I won't. I'm too glad: for the first time in several years this warm old-Petersburg room, which keeps the memory of Triton (three Boris stars), has a chance — a different approach, not another walk over the same rake.

The first thing you see. The first thing that kills: the infusions in bottles, in rows, in two windows under the most direct July sun. Not dummies — I was told twice, with the production date and every attribute of the real thing. Do they not lose all the properties of their extracted substances in a couple of days? Whether they then serve them to guests or throw forty bottles away doesn't matter; what matters is the attitude to your own flagship product, the simple understanding that ice cream in the sun melts in a minute while a McDonald's burger on the window sill won't change in a year. Will such "advertising" of the infusions attract guests, or is it the opposite?

The interior? People not in the know, non-metropolitan, from Voronezh let's say, might think that Chizhik — where they got splendidly drunk on last year's holiday — had spread from its corner room into all the halls. They've clearly freshened it up, but here every establishment in the main room looks the same. They changed the corner counter, as far as I remember, though even the "musical part" by the windows seems to be the same. Mirrors. Tables with the beautiful marks of time in the wood, dating back to Gleb Gerasimov's day. That is good, after all.

The staff on the first visit… They don't care. The human factor. A guest stands at the entrance, then walks around the place looking for contact — nobody greeted me first, nobody asked why I was there. Until I caught, literally caught, a young woman in the corner room, whoever I could find across the rooms. I understand it's a ryumochnaya, but there are two rooms, seating, table service, as I had assumed. I got a menu and sat down in the quiet noon — one table occupied in the whole place, literally three metres from the bar lady. In ten minutes she did not come over, did not take an order, gave me no attention. Realising there was no point in sitting and watching, I went to the other room: three of the four waiters were there, and, evidently, the manager with a laptop — I found staff again and led them to a table. Yes. No desire to work, no service. They don't repeat the order back; they ask what "pacing" means. They suggest nothing. And that is a month after opening! For all my criticism of Chizhik, Rothschild, Fontanka and the rest, at least there you could read some desire in the people working the room.

The menu, though, seems fine. Infusions at 270 ₽, beer from 420 ₽, mors 190 ₽, tea 290 ₽. Why is there Russian water here at 500 ₽? No, there is no other, no cooler water. And nothing smaller than 0.75 for a single guest. Moscow. It's like bread at 270 ₽ in a ryumochnaya. Not 80. Not 85. What for? Nothing else surprises. Not even the grill section: it was here before, and I won't ask whether it's a real one.

The chill of the fridge, yes, but how good the herring under a fur coat is (370 ₽). Exactly twice the size of the one at the fashionable MVP ryumochnaya, at fifty roubles less. A pre-made batch, cut out of a tray exactly as before, but the onion crunches freshly and the balance is magnificent — a definite yes! A yes-yes, even.

Olivier with sausage (370 ₽): fresh, tasty, basic, just a touch smaller than the usual ryumochnaya size. Moscow-style, presumably. Also a yes: sometimes you mustn't get clever!

Forshmak (380 ₽), the house version, fairly runny — I ate it with a spoon, but the herring notes are pleasant. A little more body and you would feel the composition; this is a dish where consistency strongly affects the register. Then again, look at the price — not Moscow at all.

Salad with chicken shashlik (450 ₽). The description was as appetising as could be, thank you to the young lady, and what arrived at the table is a pleasure too: the grilled vegetables are very well cooked, the honest shashlik is juicy, and it isn't iceberg as I was told but frillice. A thick, tenacious sauce, well seasoned both for the vegetables and for the bird. I have no advice for the cook.

Posikunchiki (490 ₽): four little pie-dumpling-chebureks, a four out of five. Ideal in pastry, that thin crispness deserves a certificate of merit; excellent filling, on the scale of pelmeni or fried pelmeni; a little broth is there. But no squirting: no spray, not enough power. Given the proportion and the size, the spray ought to be twice that of khinkali and chebureki — and the stains on your polo shirt are compulsory, along with the need to run to the lavatory and rinse them out.

Borscht (450 ₽) is well presented, and the taste is grown-up and expensive; the accompaniments are excellent too, and mustard can add a little sharpness. A riddle and an interest. Which afterwards I had no wish to whiten away and make the borscht ordinary. Lovely salo, by the way — a product of rare magnificence.

Pike pelmeni (590 ₽). Thick pastry, folded wonton-style, slightly gluey, and because of that the filling is cut in half by the impression. The fish inside is entirely unidentifiable; I even had to have the young lady taste the very, very white filling again. Her version: cod. Is chicken not mixed up in this crime? Can every guest really have eaten this and praised it? The kitchen said pike. Aha.

The grill: mackerel (790 ₽). A handsome fillet of a whole little fish, on which there is almost no char from the promised grill. A beautiful juicy fillet, excellent accompaniments, I ate it with pleasure. But it was cooked as though in a neat frying pan. And the extras: you can see it clearly on the cherry tomatoes, which have no black cheeks. Cooked deliciously, nobody argues. Had the little fish been in a different section, I'd have applauded the plate all the way to the washing-up! And asked for more!

Pike cutlets (570 ₽) look too ruddy in the crust, as if overfried; the fork's tines pierce them with difficulty, and inside the guest they are chewed h-e-a-v-i-l-y and three times longer because of a genuinely rubbery casing. But they are beautiful and alive inside, even if over-salted by a strong quarter. Tolerable. The purée, though, is a disaster: viscous, stretchy, as if made of starch paste. This dish, which was warmly recommended to other guests in my presence, should be 86'd on every count. The waiter poked the abandoned purée with a fork in front of me and said: "That's some kind of wallpaper paste" — a very good, honest waiter!

On the second day — a normal welcome and a normal young woman at the table all evening. She came over herself and spent fifteen minutes doggedly explaining what Viselnik is, and Count Razumovsky (in truth the Solutan of the 1980s), and Sovkhoz Vesna, and another dozen creations. She stood firm through all my complaints about the dishes. On a normal shift there is free water — she offered it herself. A pity that of all the infusions I tried, only one (Viselnik) would I repeat: so far this is good only in the names. An old case: instead of ten hits, fifty amusing names have been invented, and hardly any of them succeed. They let me taste everything; the young lady agreed with it all. In words, at least. Everything was on the bill on the second day too.

The reviews weren't lying about the complimentary infusion — they present you with a fifteen-gram measure. And I, finalising, present my "so then". This is the most serious attempt of the last several tenants. One that certainly must change its approach to the infusions, partly to the service, and to half the dishes. You can already come for a beer. Open windows, the Fontanka, and an old interior that gives the meal a soul.