Of course, the most popular question now is: "And Cho is there for the Khokhlovs?" It's difficult to compete with this issue, but I would put the second question: "What's there on Brighton?" "Cho," as you noticed, I replaced with " Sho, "because Brighton has a slightly different national composition, writes Matvei Ganapolsky for" Radio Liberty ".

So, I report: on Brighton, everything is the same as before, which I witnessed when I arrived there for a few days. But it so happened that this very friend brazenly threw me. Since I arrived on Saturday afternoon, he preferred the exciting possibility of a long trip through traffic jams to the airport with simple barbecues with vodka somewhere on the far Brooklyn beach. To me, my impudent friend sent a message that he left the keys to the apartment in the grocery store near Rosa Markovna.

After jumping out of the taxi, I found the shop I was looking for. It was filled with "ours", who leisurely chose, what would zazhevat nostalgia for their homeland. I squeezed into the saleswoman and asked: "And where is Rosa Markovna?".

- Rose in the office, go through the middle hall, - muttered the saleswoman, cutting off the next customer balyk with a tear.

I went on the attack on the crowd in the middle hall. The crowd was dense - apparently, it was here, in this middle hall, emigrated by all those who in the Soviet times joked that they were going to permanent residence in Israel. The middle hall itself is dedicated to dairy products. I was overcome by a wave of the exciting smell of a luxurious cheese plate. The pieces of cheese on the shelves impressed by the variety and blue-green veins. "There is no Putin with bulldozers!" - I thought, and slipped into the narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor, in a large bakery, some kind of stove and oven burned with a hellfire, where a baker with a handkerchief on his head put a tray with dough pieces, and to the right was the same office. The office was not even a room, but a sort of deepening in which, at a small table littered with papers, sat Rosa Markovna. I recognized her immediately, although I had never seen it before. Just this is what Rosa Markovna should look like. She was in perfect harmony with her position and name. Imagine the director of a deli filled with food and people - and you will understand who is Rosa Markovna. I think your imagination is brighter than my literary talents.

- Forgive me, did not you leave Ghosh for me? I asked shyly.

- You do not have. He left the keys to Ganapolsky.

- So I also am Ganapolsky.

Rosa Markovna had a stern look.

"Do you have a cap?" She asked dryly..

- There is.

- Put on.

I rummaged in my bag, took out a baseball cap and, putting on it, made a smile.

"Yes, you are Ganapolsky," the headmistress stated as dryly, and held out her index finger with several rings in the direction of the hanger. - Here are the keys.

I pulled the keys off the hook.

"That's not all," said Rosa Markovna sharply.. - We still need to make a joint photo for my husband. He remembers you, I think so.

The headmistress poked her head out into the corridor and suddenly shouted out loud: "Grisha, come in!".

Immediately entered a full-fledged Grisha - that he was operating near the stove.

"Take my phone and take a picture of us for my husband," Rosa Markovna ordered..

"I can not," Grisha said calmly, wiping his hands with a white towel smeared with flour and dough. - I need to throw sausages in the dough. Another forty pieces.

"This is Ganapolsky, do you remember him?" - Strictly inquired the headmistress. "Do you remember him?" Look, he's wearing a cap. Remember?.

- No, - Grisha the baker shrugged his shoulders. - Then I, probably, small was. Rosa, my sausages are burning now.

- Okay, take one picture.

She handed Grisha a smartphone, he wiped the window of the camera with a towel and sent it to us.

- Rosa Markovna, move closer, you do not climb into the camera - he moved his hands and apparatus in search of a better frame.

- Grisha, if the employee decides to tell the headmistress that she does not fit into the camera, it means that he is already looking for another job. Better hold your hands exactly, and then Kobzon at you oblique turned out.

- But Yakubovich is even.

The camera clicked.

"My sausages are burning," Grisha suddenly became very nervous..

- Come on, go.

Grisha disappeared.

- Give the guest a sausage for a photo! - Rosa Markovna shouted after her. - And you to us for a long time?.

- For a week, - I suddenly became agitated, foreseeing a meeting with a sausage in the test, for I overslept the whole flight and missed the feeding.

- Go to our store while you are here, - the director. - We have a secret.

"Is it because of the secret that you have such a crowd?".

- Yes, our secret is known and appreciated. Excuse me, Ganapolsky, you can wait for Grisha in the corridor, or you see ... She poked her finger at the rings on my back. I turned around. Two saleswomen with price tags and a man with overhead.

I understood everything and went out into the corridor.

Rosa Markovna immediately forgot about me, and I stood in the corridor and watched Grisha deftly pulling out of the oven huge tubes of dough. Picking up a paper bag, he put his tubular cakes there and approached me.

"Hold it, just do not eat it at once, it's hot." He held out the packet from which it protruded ... No, I can not describe what was sticking out, in words, for this I needed to be born some poet Povaryoshkin. From the package there was a real monster - a huge fragrant sausage, incredible thickness, covered with a thin toasty dough. This set amazed in size, and I bitterly realized that now I can not call an orphan bun with a microscopic gray sausage from a cellophane bag in my homeland a high title of "sausage in a test", but I will call it "uniform mockery".

- Cool! - I said admiringly.

"For the same money," Grisha joked..

I took from his hands this apotheosis of Brighton generosity and realized that I would eat it all together with the package right on the street.

But I decided to try it right now..

A premonition did not deceive me.

The freshest dough was made from dough. The meat sausage was made of meat.

- I have to go, - Grisha hurried, - I'm on fire.

I sympathetically shook his tormented hand, and he began to push his stoves through the line of workers crowding at the little room of Rosa Markovna.

- Grisha! - suddenly I realized suddenly.

- Why is everything so tasty and a lot? Rosa said that the store has some sort of culinary secret, because of which there are a lot of buyers.

Grisha half turned with a smile.

- These are all Rosettes ponty! He waved his hand. - There is no culinary secret. We just do not steal.

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