On Russians, Wine and Women

Anne was playing last night for a small but – relatively – vibrant crowd in Beirut downtown. Since the Hezbollah tent city was removed, downtown is again the place to be at night. All those establishments that closed their doors some 18 months ago, because customers couldn’t reach them anymore, are slowly opening up again.

And so, afterwards, we (the Dutch contingent) decided to have a drink. There were 6 of us; 5 ladies, and a grey-haired gentleman with a hearing aid (the father of one of the ladies who is visiting his daughter in Lebanon).
Now for reasons that may be clear to you (Lebanese), but not to us (the Dutch ladies living in Lebanon), we are often mistaken for Russians (or other former Iron Curtain countries).

Men (never women) will come up to you and start with “vrya mnoi tye pritsa voi kya omanye bursh vastoi.” This may seem innocent enough to you, but not to us, as Russian ladies in this country are often associated with prostitution.

And although prostitution is a perfectly acceptable profession in Holland, they even pay taxes, it is not considered as honorable a profession in Lebanon.

Anyway, here we are, 5 somewhat blond ladies in various stages of decomposition, (mothers of teenage children, with day jobs, and dressed downright modest for Lebanese standards), and a grandfather, going out for a drink.

The closest place happened to be an upstairs bar nearby, called Citris. Not a real fancy place, regular crowd (I thought), stale peanuts and soapy carrot sticks.
The dad orders a Coke, and we wanted wine. They did not have the wine we wanted ("Sorry, but we only opened two days ago." So? Go the the supermarket!) Instead, we settled for a bottle of rose (La Rosee du Chateau Kefraya, which sells under 10,000 LBP in any local supermarket, the equivalent of 4.24 euros, or 6.61 UD$, and if you live in the States, you can have the bottle delivered to your door at $10 a bottle), and then we ordered a second one.

But the father is ready to go to bed, one of us has to be at the airport at one A.M. and two have to get up early for work the next day, so we keep it at that, and ask for the bill.

This was BEFORE the bill

It was a bit dark, so at first we were not sure we read it correctly. A whopping $233 dollars for 2 bottles of wine and a coke (+ stale peanuts and soapy carrot sticks, lest we forgot). It’s got to be somebody else’s bill, we figure. But as we decipher the bill, it clearly states: two bottles = $200. And the coke. + service charges.

A hundred f*#@*ing dollars for a $6 bottle? That’s like a profit margin of 1500 %! The likelihood that a couple of Dutch would be paying a hundred dollar for a bottle of simple table wine is virtually non-existent. So we send Anne, who is well known for her eloquent use of language in all kinds of situations.

“What the fuck do you think we are,” says Anne, “Russian prostitutes?”

”Oh, you aren’t?” replies the manager with surprise.
A blow to our ego? Hmm. Well, I think you could say that. We finally settled with a $121 bill. This only proves my theory, that the price depends on the customer’s face.

Moral of this story?

Don’t go out with Dutch? Leave your old father at home? Don’t order a bottle of wine? Mention before you order that you are not a Russian prostitute? Don’t go to Citris?

Take your pick.