News

Jul 09, 2023

Soviet Nostalgia At The Valley’s Last Remaining Russian

I spent much of my childhood attending celebrations at many of L.A.'s

I spent much of my childhood attending celebrations at many of L.A.'s Russian-speaking post-Soviet banquet halls.

Tables covered in white tablecloths topped with cold appetizers called zakusky: pickled tomatoes, pickled herring, pickled mackerel, pickles, sauerkraut, beet salad, cold cuts like tongue, red caviar, brown bread. Bottles of BYOB vodka flanked the table. Warm plates of stuffed blintzes, pelmeni, steaming boiled potatoes, Ukrainian varenyky, chicken Kiev, Uzbek plov were Tetris-ed throughout the night between the zakusky and pitchers of flat Coca-Cola.

As the vodka bottles emptied, the lights would dim. A singer with big hair would belt renditions of the famous Russian folk song Ochi Chernye (Dark Eyes), followed by Alla Pugacheva, ABBA, and It's a Beautiful Life by Ace of Base. Unable to resist the nostalgic accordion, aunts, uncles, cousins would abandon their satin napkins, adjust their suits and skin-tight dresses, and shimmy onto the makeshift dance floor. Often, there would be several banquet table parties feasting at once, but on the dance floor everyone was family.

Today, though, those banqueting halls are slowly disappearing, as assimilation, economic pressures, and the war in Ukraine take their toll.

Los Angeles’ "Russian" population ballooned in the 1980s and 1990s as part of the third wave of Soviet immigration to the United States. Sure, some of the émigrés were Russian-born, but the majority of the immigrant population consisted of a diverse group from Eastern European and Central Asian countries, strongholds of the former Soviet Union.

These individuals were often political refugees or those fleeing in search of freedom. The new arrivals found community in East Hollywood also known as Little Armenia, and West Hollywood, still one of the largest concentrations of Russian-speakers in the US.

My own family emigrated from what is now the country of Belarus in 1992 as Soviet-Jewish refugees. We lived in West Hollywood off Santa Monica Boulevard for several years before moving to West L.A. We were part of a vibrant community surrounded by Russian-speaking markets selling tarragon soda and rye kvass, bakeries with steaming arm-length pirozhki, and the Plummer Park Community Center where I went to preschool. We celebrated birthdays, engagements, weddings, anniversaries and even wakes at Russian-speaking banquet halls.

These banquet halls continue to offer a place of refuge for post-Soviet immigrants and the first generation, but many beloved banquet halls have shuttered, like Crystal, Russian Roulette, and most recently Maxim (where I had my Sweet 16).

A few tried-and-true restaurants/banquet halls in West Hollywood including the Ukrainian-owned Traktir and classic Kashtan remain, but other Russian-speaking businesses on Santa Monica Boulevard in "Russian Hollywood'' are slowly vanishing due to gentrification and the attendant demand for expensive dog food stores.

However, in the San Fernando Valley, where many Russian-speakers have migrated, three popular banquet halls are thriving, despite recent challenges including the pandemic, inflation, and Russia's war in Ukraine. I visited them to find out more.

Nestled in Encino Commons off Ventura Boulevard, a stone's throw away from Rasputin market, EuroAsia is an unassuming mecca of Eastern European, Russian, and Central Asian cuisine. Owner Gulya Latipov was born in Uzbekistan and moved to the U.S. when she was 38. Latipov's first job in the U.S. was washing dishes in a Queens restaurant called Uzbekistan.

"I had never worked in the restaurant business, but at home I would cook delicious food," said Latipov. When the restaurant's owner expanded, Latipov and her husband — the busboy at the time — followed the chef to Los Angeles. One thing led to another; Latipov has been the owner of EuroAsia for over a decade.

Unlike other banquet halls, EuroAsia is a casual restaurant that serves lunch and dinner and offers a banquet option and room rental. There is nothing casual about the interior though, with maroon walls, crystal doors and floral stained glass by the bar. EuroAsia is known for their expansive menu and in particular, plov, rice pilaf with juicy chunks of beef.

The menu at EuroAsia is what Latipov calls "our kitchen" — food she ate growing up in the Soviet Union. "We serve Uzbekistani food, Ukrainian food, Belarusian food, Russian food, and European food. What makes my restaurant stand out is everything we make here is homemade."

When asked about Russia's war in Ukraine, Latipov is clear, "we are not political. Yes, every war is very scary. Very awful. But people come here to celebrate birthdays to try not to think about all this. Just because there is something going on over there doesn't mean you’ll stop eating borscht and varenyky. "

Although her restaurant hasn't suffered as much as others, who found in recent years fewer and fewer customers coming in for a meal as people showed their discomfort with the war, she emphasizes an important distinction: "Back then [in the Soviet Union], we were all Russian. Now we are Russian speakers."

The pandemic also threatened Latipov's business.

"We lost a lot of clients due to coronavirus," she said. "It was tragic."

Latipov lost her mother last year.

"When coronavirus first started and the elderly were told to stay home … I thought about my mother and how she had me and my husband to care for her, but others did not have anyone. So, I unveiled a $6 lunch my employees delivered for free. I fed about 1,000 people, not just in the Valley but all over Los Angeles … This helped me sustain my business."

Now that the pandemic is over, Latipov "feels like people are gradually waking up." As for the future of EuroAsia and other restaurants like it, Latipov is optimistic. "People kept telling me "look here, in a couple of years people are going to stop coming, this is the wrong business," but they’ve been telling me this for over 10 years. Americans love this food, too. Our borscht and our varenyky. I think everyone wants something tasty to eat. We go to Korean restaurants and Japanese restaurants, why wouldn't people want to go to a Russian restaurant?"

"I think this restaurant is important for the Soviet diaspora in Los Angeles. For example [the next generation] might not be able to assemble their own dumplings, but they might want to come here and remember the atmosphere that their parents lived in … it's the history of their motherland."

Tucked in the corner of a Tarzana strip mall and attached to its Russian-speaking sister market, Bazaar, Barin is a reservation-only banquet hall for the community. Mila Shishelovskaya is the chef and owner of both places. Like Latipov, Shishelovskaya was born in Uzbekistan and immigrated to the U.S. in 1991. Barin is known for three types of delicious banquets: a regular banquet with Eastern European food and Russian food (beef stroganoff, vinaigrette and olivye); an Uzbek banquet; and a super banquet with seafood.

Music and dancing are also a major part of the traditional banquet experience.

"It comes from Russia. Banquets are an old tradition stemming from kings and queens and barins. We called it Barin after the old word for landowner. He would travel his land and then host parties … invite dignitaries … and gypsies to perform. During Tsarist times, there was also a tradition of having a table covered in delicious food. It was originally for the wealthy, but in the Soviet Union it became a tradition that people tried to replicate. To cover their table like the Tsar and have a royal time."

Both of Shishelovskaya's parents were originally from Ukraine. When asked if the restaurant suffered due to the war, Shishelovskaya insists that it did not. Like EuroAsia, many of Barin's employees are from all over the former Soviet Union: Russia, Ukraine, Georgia, Armenia, Uzbekistan.

But she does wonder what to call herself.

"My parents are both from Ukraine. During the war they moved to Uzbekistan. So, who am I? Am I Ukrainian? Uzbekistani? All my ancestors are from Ukraine, but I don't speak Ukrainian, only Russian because of the Soviet Union."

Ultimately, Shishelovskaya wants "the Russian-speaking community to get along. To continue to go out together and have a good time."

Barin had to close for a year during the pandemic but has since bounced back. Although it did have to raise its prices slightly due to inflation, Shisheloskaya insists that, "nothing has changed after COVID. Those who liked to go out come and those who don't stay home."

Yet, Barin remains an essential lifeline for many post-Soviet immigrants in Los Angeles.

"I remember when we first opened up after the pandemic, a woman told me 'I spent a year sitting at home in jail.' When it was her birthday, they celebrated it in the restaurant, and she ran over to me and kissed me and cried and said 'I feel like I’ve entered a different world. It's been a year and I can't believe it's all back. I feel alive again.'"

Barin is steeped in Soviet nostalgia and Shisheloskaya tries to keep it that way.

"I try not to change too much," she said. "As the chef, I could change the menu and get rid of the Russian music, but I don't do this because especially now there are only one, two or three restaurants left."

The most upscale of the three is Premier, a classy family banquet hall in Studio City with red velvet chairs and a white faux tree by the entryway. Like Barin, it is only open on weekends, and banquet reservations are required. Premier has been a Russian-speaking restaurant since 2000 but has had different owners over the years.

The current owner is Samuel Manukyan, who immigrated to the U.S. from Soviet Armenia in 1992. Manukyan is a trained dental technician and former owner of an adult daycare center. Although he is not a chef, he appreciates and likes to cook delicious food.

Like other banquet halls, Premier offers several banquet table options, a live singer and DJ, and a unique Vegas-style dance performance on Saturday nights. Similar to EuroAsia and Barin, the food is international, but mostly Eastern European, French and Russian with some higher-end dishes like duck blini, skirt steak salad, sashimi and a delicious homemade apple strudel.

The word "Russian" in "Modern Russian Cuisine" on Premier's strip mall marquee sign has been blacked out since the start of the war. Like other Russian-owned or Russian-speaking restaurants in New York and Los Angeles, Premier was discriminated against for having Russian in their name even though they had no affiliation with the war.

Moscow-born Yefim Filler, who recently celebrated his 75th birthday at Kashtan in West Hollywood, thinks that "even though there are evil people running Russia, it doesn't mean that the country itself is bad. Therefore, I don't think the name itself can be bad. Russia is a wonderful place, but what is going on inside Russia now is awful."

Premier closed during the pandemic and has had a harder time bouncing back.

"The prices changed after the pandemic because of inflation. Everything is more expensive. People started to go to restaurants less. It's hard time these days. Before the pandemic we had a lot of customers three days a week, now it's often just Saturday," said Manukyan. "A lot of people throw parties at home these days."

And, inflation doesn't help.

"Live music and performers cost more … it all costs more now." But Manukyan remains hopeful — "we don't know what will happen tomorrow, but I hope for the best."

Filler is also hopeful, saying "there are very few Russian restaurants left. One after the other they are disappearing. Maybe the owners are aging and no longer want to work in the business. Maybe the young people don't think it's a viable business. But the public still loves them and wants to go even if the prices are high. We need to celebrate; we want to celebrate."

Plus, the community aspect is most important to Filler and others of his generation.

"The [post-Soviet community] means a lot to me. My friends are all from this community," he said. "I go often to these restaurants. I practice tango in the community center. We meet up at Plummer Park and we celebrate different occasions. This is a big deal for me."

Jennifer Oyrekh is a 33-year-old behavior analyst and mother of two who immigrated to the U.S. from Yekaterinburg, Russia when she was 6 years old. She has fond memories of attending events at banquet halls with her parents in San Francisco and Los Angeles.

"They didn't have anyone to leave me with so I would go with them. There are pictures of me sleeping on the chairs while my parents partied until 2 a.m." Russian-speaking banquet halls run deep in Oyrekh's family. Her husband's grandfather was the chef at a restaurant on Fairfax called Palm Terrace (which later became Maxim, catered Oyrekh's wedding, and recently closed). Both his parents were waiters there when they first immigrated to America. He would come after school and help them prep the tables.

Aside from childhood nostalgia, Oyrekh genuinely loves celebrating at the banquet halls.

"It's not a typical restaurant experience. You’ve got the Russian food that you’ve grown up with, access to alcohol without having to spend a lot of money at the bar. You get music. Dancing. A reason to dress up."

She also loves their inclusivity, "being Jewish, they will always play Hava Nagila." Oyrekh loves introducing friends who are not Russian to the experience. "They all love them and have the best time."

When I asked Oyrekh about the war, she remained candid.

"I think what we all have in common living in America and being from Russia, Ukraine, or elsewhere is that we all got away for the same reason ... we all left. No matter what your views are, it's safe to say that everyone disagrees with this war in general," she said. "The amount of civilians being killed ... I work in schools and there are a lot of Ukrainian refugees and Russian immigrants trying to get away because they don't agree with what's going on. We have a shared experience … growing up I was not proud to be an immigrant, however high school is where I really truly discovered my core group of friends. They are still my friends at 33 years old. They are from different parts of the former Soviet Union: Russia, Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Moldovia, Belarus, Armenia and we are like a family.

Oyrekh plans to celebrate her young sons’ milestones at the last remaining Russian-speaking banquet halls in San Fernando and hopes they will continue the tradition.