I didn’t want to like Café Glechik.

Every fanatic wants to believe that he alone understands the object of his devotion. When I first read Peter Meehan’s review (”For the Love of a Russian Dumpling”), I scoffed. How could this neophyte possibly appreciate the delicate nuances of Russian cooking? What the rookie Russophile orders, I reasoned, is dictated by what he can pronounce.

You see, I love Russia. I’m even a little possessive about Russia: only Russians are allowed to know more about Russia than I do. It all started with a Siberian physicist I met when I was seventeen years old, who took me on midnight camping expeditions into the wilds of Sai Kung. Eight or ten of us would pitch a tent on a deserted beach, roast shashlyk at three in the morning and drink lemon rind “vodka” mixed from laboratory ethanol. I was hooked. Before I knew it, I had lived in Russia (you can read an account of my stay here) and had even managed to pick up a degree in the language.

Now that I live in New York, I visit the Odessan enclave of Brighton Beach whenever I can. In warm weather, I like to get a beachside table at Tatiana Grill. It’s expensive, but where else can you order a dinner plate heaped with nothing but chanterelles? When it’s cold, I flee indoors to the optimistically-named Oceanview Café, where the crepes are excellent and the ocean is just about visible through the bathroom window.

It took me two years to swallow my pride and accept the recommendation of the New York Times. Yesterday, I finally visited Café Glechik, and here is what I ordered:

1. Odessa Salad ($6.50). I don’t know what makes this salad Odessan, and neither did our waiter. If you look closely, you’ll see dark flecks all over the romaine leaves. This isn’t black pepper, but some mysterious seasoning that imparted to the salad the smoky flavor of the grill. This really stumped me: I couldn’t figure out if it was dried sage, some MSG-accented spice blend or charred bits scraped from shashlyk skewers. In any case, I love a bright, crisp salad–the baby spinach/herb leaf blends that come to the table muddied with balsamic terrify my taste buds–and this simple dish of romaine, tomatoes, cukes and onions was one of the best I’ve had.

2. Mixed meat solyanka ($6): Russia’s answer to tortilla soup. A thin, tomatoey broth, heavily acidulated, made glorious by the savory bits that sink to the bottom. Recipes vary, but Glechik’s version contains capers, diced pickles, chopped sausage and tongue, and shreds of stewed beef. To garnish: black olives, a twist of lemon, and a good sprinkling of dill. I wasn’t hungover when I ate it, but if I had been, the soup would have cured me.

3. The Siberian pelmeni (Russian home-style tortellini, $6) are served in a chipped urn with a sauceboat of sour cream on the side. I’ve eaten a lot of pelmeni in my time, and these pork and veal babies, glistening with clarified butter, were better than anything I ever had in Russia. Perhaps Glechik owes the perfect seasoning of its dumplings to its team of Mexican line cooks. Come winter, I’ll try the pelmeni Moscow-style: that is, au gratin and topped with a baked egg.

4. Georgian “kupaty” ($11.50), a foot-long sausage of beef and lamb, sweetened with pomegranate seeds and cinnamon. It was cooked exceptionally well: crisp but not charred on the outside, still reasonably moist in the middle. The sausage was served with an overly sweet cabbage slaw, some very slender fries and a sauceboat of adzhika ketchup, which contains coriander seed and peppers both hot and sweet. (You can dip your fries in it, but it’s really for the meat. I also recommend dunking your pelmeni in it, as in the photo that opens this post.)

5. After all that, there was no way I could handle dessert. Fortunately, a sip or two of kompot ($3) functioned very much like a sweet course, without the bulk. Kompot obviously gets its name from the French word for stewed fruit, but over the years it’s become a syrupy punch steeped from cooked fruit.

Aside from kompot, the only other traditionally Russian beverage you’ll find on the menu is kvas. (Brewed from rye or black bread, kvas looks like brown ale but is only minutely alcoholic.) This is because Glechik doesn’t have a liquor license, and invites you to BYO instead. Which the couple next to us did in spades: a bottle of red for her and a magnum of rosé for him. That’s Russians for you.

Cafe Glechik doesn’t offer anything you won’t find in any one of Brighton Beach’s casual Russian restaurants, but the tables are cleaner, business is brisker and everything’s done with a little extra love. As much as it pains me to hand it to Peter Meehan–a non-initiate of the cult of Russophilia–Glechik has officially replaced Oceanview in my affections.

Café Glechik
3159 Coney Island Ave (at Brighton Beach Ave)
Brooklyn, NY 11235
(718) 616-0766

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