Moves like Jagger

Last weekend we attended a birthday party for a Russian friend of ours at a restaurant. We casually walked into one of the hippest restaurants in one of the biggest cities in the world. Just past the chic outdoor seating complete with fur blankets, the smell of Georgian food welcomed us inside the door. Once we arrived at our table, our hostess, the guest of honor, greeted us with three kisses on the cheeks and introduced us to her friends. We saw a few of our American colleagues there as well and greeted them. Everyone brought flowers. There was another girl across the room with the same name celebrating her birthday also. The waitress pointed out that the other girl didn't get beautiful or many flowers.

Throughout the evening we shared good conversation, excellent Beluga Vodka, and the iconic khachapuri cheese bread. Hubby ordered his with an over-easy egg in the center. Yum...or not. I stuck with the lamb shish-kebab. Throughout the evening, slightly louder than the sound of joy and friendship was the ever present accordion. I asked for the Russian word for accordion. It is a "akordeon". Anyway, I found myself bobbing my head to the tune and realized the man near the piano was playing "Moves Like Jagger." The only reason I know this song is because I watched an episode of Glee by mistake once and it featured the wheel-chair kid singing this song. I can't get that time back...

Seriously though, where else could you hear a rousing rendition of "Moves Like Jagger" on the accordion? Shortly after that, the waitress brought out complimentary shots. I typically don't care for things of unnatural colors, but those who did taste them determined it was cheap vodka mixed with some sort of peppers or hot sauce. No thank you. One of the Russian guests put her hand up to me and said, "High-Five!" So I obliged. For the next few minutes we taught them all how to high-five. We also taught them not to leave somebody hangin'.

Our hostess ordered cake and a song so somebody asked the accordion player to pipe down for a few minutes. Like most independent musicians, he was sorely disappointed and huffed his way through the maze of tables. We did not hear from him again that evening. Many toasts were offered in both English and Russian, but my favorite was when a female gave a long, long, long explanation in Russian to her friend. She summed it up in English as, "I told her she is a good friend." As the night went on, the restaurant cleared out and we were asked to leave or they would call the police. That was an easy choice.

Outside of the restaurant, we stumbled across two foreigners looking for a pub. One was from France and one from Argentina but since they spoke such excellent English, we invited them along to join our party. We shared some beers, talked about Versailles, and then walked home in heels and moonlight. I'm not sure yet, but I think I like living in the city.