Nina
We’re right in front of the open kitchen doors when something big and metallic falls to the floor with a crash. There is a split second of utter silence followed by throaty yelling so loud I flinch. When we get inside, I look around and feel like I just walked into a madhouse.
A huge bearded man in his sixties, wearing a white chef’s apron and a bandana over his head, is standing with his hands on his hips and shouting what I can assume are Russian obscenities. He’s not very tall, but he’s as wide as a truck. A big overturned pot of what looks like soup lays on the floor near his feet. Valentina and two other women, who I presume are Olga and Galina, run around the kitchen, getting rags and then kneeling to wipe the floor. Meanwhile, the cook stands still in the middle of a big pud
