In Rosa Liksom's excellent Compartment No 6, a nameless girl dines on the Trans-Mongolian railway with a brutish fellow.
'There isn't any vodka,' the waiter said gruffly. 'Is that so hard to understand, comrade?'
'Bring me a bottle of cognac, then. Cognac will do nicely.'
When he'd got his plate of vobla and his cognac he took a long swig, grinned, and bit off some of the dry fish.
'Now we can order some food,' he said.
The waiter looked at him wearily.
'A bowl of selyanka to start with. For the main dish fifteen blinis, shashlik, some boiled tea sausage, salad, and a bottle of cognac.'
Instead of shashlik they got some dry chicken legs and instead of salad some potatoes fried in margarine.
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