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Chicken Tikka


‘Now who can give me an example of some English food?’ I ask the students of School 152. Blank stares. 
'Very good.' I say. 'That’s right, we got nothing. But Russia doesn’t really have national food either does it?'
‘How about pelmeni?’ Someone offers.
‘Pancakes and sour cream?’
‘Cheese cakes?’
‘Ooh, or draniki!’
‘Minced chicken cutlets!’ someone shouts from the back.

I take some time to work out what I want to say, then ignore that and tetchily say
‘Yeah well we’ve got chicken tikka’ instead.

There’s an expectant silence, and I know what’s coming.
‘What’s chicken tikka?’ someone asks at last.
‘It’s like a curry, but creamy.’
The class looks at me like I’ve just told them that, in my country, poo is a delicacy. Curry with cream. Suddenly I see all the hypocrisy of my disgust at pancakes with cottage cheese.

‘Curry is a national dish in Britain?’ the same brave girl asks again, after a long, uncertain pause.
‘Alright smart-ass it doesn’t sound that British but actually stealing other people’s stuff and adding dairy is what we do best so lay off.’

The teacher wades in at this point. Probably for the best.
‘Anyone have any other questions for our foreign guests?’ she asks, brusquely.

A guy at the front raises his hand, smirking slightly.
‘Sing us something.’
‘What?’
‘You said you like singing. Sing us something.’
‘I said I like singing when I’m surrounded by twenty-nine other singers, not in front of a class of students.’
Again, I’m met with blank – if slightly expectant – stares.

I sing them a scale in chest voice and one in falsetto.
Now their faces have gone from bemused to horrified.
Falsetto really isn’t a done thing in Russia.

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