Dinner | Mikhail Samarsky

Hunger does not ask what may be eaten and what may not. — Bengali saying

Shortly before New Year, Pavel Fyodorovich Skoromkin invited his family to celebrate his birthday at an Italian restaurant called Sicilian Traditions: his wife, their five-year-old daughter and their son, who was in his first year at school. They were all dressed up, colourful, gleaming and smelling wonderful. His wife sparkled in new earrings, adjusted her hair and sighed happily in anticipation of a splendid dinner. The children stared open-mouthed at the restaurant's unusual interior and the fountain shimmering with changing colours. The brother whispered something in his sister's ear, and both of them giggled mysteriously.

On the way there, Dad had promised that their festive table would be laden with marvellous dishes: meat, salads, beautiful sauces and exotic fruits. Everything would be, in his words, indescribably delicious and magnificent enough for royalty.

The table had not been laid in advance. The head of the family explained that he had arranged this deliberately. The restaurant staff would bring the dishes while everyone was watching; that way, their appetites would gradually build as they admired the delicacies and savoured their aromas.

The waiter poured wine into the adults' glasses. Husband and wife clinked their glasses merrily and took a few sips.

“Shall I bring the main course?” the waiter asked obligingly.

“Yes, yes,” the man nodded. “We're terribly hungry. We live outside the city, and it took us quite a while to get here, as you can imagine…”

“Right away, sir.”

The centrepiece of the celebration was a rack of milk-fed lamb marinated in red wine. It came with rosemary sauce, and a tempting aroma drifted across the table. Angelina Foteyevna swallowed and, after a furtive glance at her husband, picked up her knife and fork.

“Well, my dear family,” Pavel Fyodorovich began, “today I'm treating you to milk-fed lamb. It's an ancient Italian dish. You'll remember it for the rest of your lives…”

“Was the meat cooked in milk?” little Emma asked.

Her father paused and began explaining.

“No, no, darling. It's called milk-fed because the meat is… well, it's…”

Suddenly it became apparent that the expression “milk-fed lamb” was not at all easy to explain, especially to a five-year-old.

Meanwhile the waiter brought the fourth plate of meat and wished the family a pleasant meal.

“Thank you,” Pavel Fyodorovich muttered, then went on. “You see, Emma, a lamb is a little sheep. Remember when we had mutton kebabs by the sea? It's almost the same thing, except…”

“That was a grown-up sheep, and this is its baby,” his son Veniamin interrupted.

“What are you talking about, Venya?” his mother hissed. “What baby? Think before you speak!”

“Dad!” Venya burst out laughing. “Mum doesn't know that a lamb is a sheep's child. Mummy, a ewe gives birth to a lamb, a cow to a calf, and a hen to a chick.”

“Well, strictly speaking, a hen doesn't give birth to a chick. It hatches a chick from an egg, for one thing,” Dad objected. “And secondly…”

Here he lost his way. The egg was easy enough to explain, but as for lambs and calves, Pavel Fyodorovich couldn't think what to say.

That was when the parents saw the horror in their daughter's wide-open eyes.

“Are we going to eat a baby?” the little girl asked in a trembling voice.

“Emma, darling,” her father said, putting an arm around her and winking at his son, “Venya was joking. It's not a…”

“I wasn't joking,” Venya said, ignoring the wink. “Shall I look it up online?” He took his smartphone out of his pocket.

“No!” his mother cried, chewing a mouthful of meat she had already put in her mouth. “Put that away this instant! Did we come here to stare at our phones? You're on yours day and night as it is. Must you spend your father's birthday glued to it too?”

Reluctantly, Veniamin pushed the phone back into his jeans pocket and frowned.

“But you don't believe me…”

“We do, Venya,” Dad nodded. “Of course we believe you. It's just not entirely appropriate, at this particular moment, to investigate the family trees of sheep.”

“Then why did you say I was joking?” Venya asked, offended. “I told the truth.”

“All right, all right,” his father waved a hand. “You told the truth.”

Venya turned to his sister.

“You heard that? A lamb is a sheep's baby.”

“Is it dead?” Emma asked.

Angelina Foteyevna choked, covering her mouth to suppress a wave of nausea.

“That's enough!” her husband snapped, looking at his pale wife. “What sort of table conversation is this? Pick up your cutlery and eat.”

“I won't eat a dead baby,” Emma declared.

Her mother flung her fork onto the table and clutched her heart.

“Emma!” her father frowned. “What is this behaviour? Are you going to spoil the whole celebration? At least try it. This dish is extraordinary.” He cut off a small piece of meat, speared it with his fork and held it out to her. “Here, just a little taste.”

“Ugh!” Emma grimaced, pushing his hand away. “I won't eat it.”

“But why?” Dad protested. “I went to so much trouble, sweetheart. Everybody eats this, you know. Human beings need meat.”

“Who killed it?” his daughter suddenly asked.

“Killed what?” the head of the family froze.

“That.” Emma nodded at the plate full of meat.

Angelina Foteyevna could stand no more. She sprang up from her chair and left the table.

“I'm going to the bathroom,” she said over her shoulder.

An oppressive silence settled over the table. Venya broke it.

“Our Emma's a vegan!” he announced.

His sister looked at him in bewilderment and turned to her father, close to tears.

“Daddy, Venya's calling me names.”

“You silly thing!” her brother laughed. “It's not a bad name. It's what you call people who don't eat meat. You don't want to eat meat, so now you're a vegan.”

“Daddy, I don't want to be a vegan,” Emma sobbed.

“Very good,” her father sighed with relief. “Wonderful! Well then, enjoy your meal. Eat your meat. You can't imagine how delicious it is.”

Emma picked up the piece her father had cut for her, put it in her mouth and began chewing as though someone had given her a piece of old boot leather. At that moment her mother returned.

“Good girl,” she praised her daughter. “Eat, sweetheart, don't be upset. Everybody does it. Chew properly,” she advised, noticing Emma's sour expression. “And eat neatly.”

The children picked at the main course, took a pear each and wandered off. There was a children's playroom at the far end of the restaurant.

“Well, Dad,” his wife asked with a rueful smile, “what did you make of that lesson from the children? You know, I actually threw up.”

“They're still silly,” her husband nodded. “They're children…”

“Children or not, they're right when you think about it!” Angelina Foteyevna pushed away the hated plate. “What is milk-fed lamb, or suckling pig, or veal, really? They're babies. And we gobble them down without a second thought…”

“My dear, you can take that line of reasoning to absurd extremes. We'd have to give up chicken, ducklings, rabbit—and meat altogether.”

“Maybe we should,” she sighed heavily. “People live without it, don't they? Vegetarians. Some don't even drink milk or eat eggs.”

“Now that's going too far,” her husband disagreed. “Human beings need meat, like any carnivorous animal.”

Angelina Foteyevna shuddered.

“Ugh! What a horrible way of putting it! An animal, and a carnivorous one at that!”

“What's wrong with it?” Pavel Fyodorovich spread his hands. “It's the truth. That's life. Shall we stop eating fish too, and every other living thing? Don't forget, even Jesus Christ ate fish, and people in his time ate lamb without making a fuss. That's life, and we can't change it. A hungry person is like a wild beast. Once, when I was in the army, our guard detail was caught in a blizzard. We went a whole week without supplies. The older soldiers ate a dog. What else could they do? Starve to death? There are whole peoples who eat dogs and consider it perfectly normal. And we eat beef and mutton…”

“…and lambs,” his wife added. “You shouldn't have chosen this dish for the children. Look what it's done.”

“No, I don't regret it,” her husband replied. “Our children aren't growing up in a greenhouse. They need to understand that people satisfy hunger with different foods: vegetables, fruit, fish and meat. What do you propose? That I should die of hunger rather than touch a chicken or a lamb? Is that it?”

“No,” she agreed. “But perhaps they're still too young for rack of lamb…”

“You feed them chicken and turkey!” Pavel Fyodorovich exclaimed irritably. “And there's never been a problem. But now, all of a sudden…”

The children returned, cheerful and noisy.

“All right, children,” their father said. “Thank you for the birthday wishes and a lovely evening. Time to go home.”

The Skoromkins stepped outside. The frost nipped their noses and cheeks. Mum pulled Emma's scarf up over her nose. The girl did not resist. She walked in silence, her eyes darting from side to side.

The family travelled to their village outside the city by commuter train. When they stepped onto the platform, they saw a crowd of people and the flashing blue lights of an ambulance.

“Good Lord!” Angelina Foteyevna exclaimed. She turned to a woman standing nearby. “What's happened?”

“It's too terrible to speak of,” the woman replied through tears. “Stray dogs attacked a little boy and tore him to pieces.”

Angelina gasped.

“It's freezing out here,” a man added, stamping his feet against the cold. “The dogs were hungry as wolves. They attacked the lad, and there was nobody to fight them off.”