Epilogue to a Travel Blog II - Cucumbers and Cappuccinos

Photo belongs to author.

Having spent six months in Russia’s second capital, Alexandra Jarvis takes us on a tour of the best (and the rest) of the cafés of St Petersburg. In their column, we will get tips on which joints to visit, what to order, and how to navigate the joys of Russian hospitality, all this advice peppered with anecdotes about the chaos that defines these institutions.

As the first frost hit the city and the pavements became increasingly slick underfoot, my exploration got underway. I spent my days moving from café to café in an effort to stay warm and busy; I drank my way through my barely-perceptible guilt at buying so much coffee, assuaging it with the affordable prices and the return of feeling to my chilled, chapped fingers. A few places became regular haunts thanks to their extraordinary decoration or ambient music choices. I had seen Bunker on one of the countless trips I made along Kazanskaya to the Yusupov Palace (of Rasputin-poison-plot fame), and had it recommended to me by a friend, and I'd been taken to Ogurtsy by another friend desperately in need of a vegetable fix.'

Bunker is a difficult place to describe. It conformed to the great Petersburg principles that cafés held to by being communal spaces where anything and everything might happen, helped by the fact that these places opened late and shifted into bars as night fell. On earlier occasions, I’d glanced into the semi-underground Bunker to see model shoots or documentary screenings taking place, but the first time I stepped inside—having almost hurtled to the bottom of their icy four-step dip down from the pavement—my rosy cheeks and thick puffer were met only by the waiter and a fluffy, rather aloof cat. The place was made up of three rooms: the sprawling sofa space out front, which I avoided; a dimly-lit cave at the back with black sheets emphasising the darkness, furnished with a camping table set and hammock; and a cosy little workspace behind the counter with the strangest assortment of decorations, from some paintings to metallic shapes and a book-wall-sculpture construction. The last was my favourite room, although also the least practical—the hammock perhaps excluded. The table here was suspended from the ceiling with rope, which made it tricky to work alone, impossible in a pair. A flatmate and I battled with one another’s momentum for the best part of an afternoon, before we were distracted by the café cat that slunk around us, hoping for food. This was all put well out of my mind by the arrival of the cappuccino I had ordered—chosen from a menu littered with far weirder choices (I’m looking at you, seaweed matcha mocha and alcoholic raspberry latte)—presented to me grandly in a wine glass. Classy and impractical.

Similarly impractical, though far more tactile, were the mugs at Ogurtsy; they were strangely bobbled, top-heavy, and handle-less, though infinitely endearing. Ogurtsy (cucumbers in Russian) was a fair walk across the river, but they did an exceptional tofu pasta dish (with a much-needed injection of vegetables for my flatmate and I) and their coffee was good; we often ordered multiple oat lattes in one sitting. More baffling than the mugs, though, were the song choices. If Bunker’s decorations were confusing, Ogurtsy’s impressive range in playlists took disorientating to another level. My flatmate and I were working late one evening, the darkness leeching in through the windows, when the music changed, and sea shanties began to play over the speakers. Not that I’m complaining—I love The Wellerman as much as the next—but the concession to TikTok trends was unexpected. This, together with the dim lighting, misshapen mugs (so beloved a feature that my flatmate bought one), and the all-vegetarian menu, sealed Ogurtsy as a favourite.

Part of the charm of each café were their quirks, in decoration, menu, or otherwise. Bunker’s decorative choices were certainly difficult to explain; going to the toilet was enough of a journey to prove that. You passed through the large sink area, where the water came out of the taps onto the stones and plants beneath, and then you went through another door where, once your eyes had adjusted to the black paint and strangely back-lit set-up, you had to climb up one or two steps to reach the toilet itself, only to find yourself looking at a mirror. At risk of becoming a reviewer of bathroom facilities, I can confirm that Ogurtsy’s was far more sensible.

If my nights were punctuated with taxis dropping us outside empty courtyards and alleyways cloaked in frosty darkness, watching as we slipped into shuttered bars where smokers clouded up the corners, then my days and early evenings were altogether slower, though no less varied. That was due to the plethora of cafés that St Petersburg could offer. I scattered myself and my things across seats, tables, sofas, cups—with handles and without. I bought reams of stickers from Ogurtsy, which I treasure as much as my flatmate does the warped sides of her deep blue mug. Bunker, together with the café named Cucumbers, is up there with the best of them.