I first have to go back to the 1990s, when I discovered these dirty barracks where Russians drank themselves to death to make life less unbearable. Initially, shortly after its collapse, these places remained an endearing, almost romantic memory of the Soviet Union. Then they gradually gave way to European-style nightclubs. But today, the rioumotchnaïa (from the Russian word rioumka, which designates a small glass into which brandy is poured) are back and once again fulfill their main mission: brainwashing.
If they are considered to be stunners, it is primarily because cheap alcohol is poured into the glasses in question. Forget the bars where we chat with friends, laugh, dance and recreate the world. Here, if you come in, it's to drink. Quickly and stand up. The clients are most often men of few words who, above all, conscientiously avoid venturing into political jokes and debates.
A gift from Khrushchev
So I have to go back to my memories. And also admit that these bars where we drink drunk are part of the life experiences that helped me to better understand the tosca, this state of Russian collective sadness that is almost elusive for foreigners. At the time of the USSR, rioumotchnaïa were without equal. Among other reasons because this very Spartan way of consuming alcohol is specific to Russians.
The first of them opened their doors in Moscow in 1954. It was then a sort of gift from the new head of state, the first secretary of the central committee of the Communist Party, Nikita Khrushchev , to attract the favor of the people by giving them the opportunity to drink on the go without having to carry out unnecessary discussions.
Until then, the drinking culture in Soviet Russia was so poorly developed that even talking about any culture was impossible. As Moscow journalist Leonid Repin described it, men who drank the contents of their wallets in building lobbies like revolutionaries who met underground in cellars could now go to an establishment worthy of the name to let give free rein to their inclination while snuffing tobacco and eating a piece of toast to absorb their alcohol with complete dignity.
This is how things were going. Without even taking off their fur coats or worn jackets, because there were no changing rooms, men stopped there for a few minutes before leaving. With no other goal than to relax a little, and quickly, on the way home from work.
An authentic cultural environment that the St. Petersburg writer Valeri Popov described as follows: “At the corner of Mayakovsky and Nekrasova streets [à Leningrad] was a horrible rioumotchnaïa filled with crippled invalids. It smelled of damp sheepskin, misery, screams, fights… So many veterans, former officers and soldiers, with their stumps and their crutches, all drunk.”
These simple drinking establishments went through a dark period starting in 1985, when the secretary
