Wunjala Moskva, the ‘garden restaurant in the heart of the city’, had long been a mystery to me. A Newari-Russian eatery seemed a conceit too easily construed as ‘ey, some boris got hitched to a maiya and opened the kitchen to the paying public’. But the place had languished in relative obscurity far too long for my liking. And if it had been around so long, they had to be doing something right. Right?
Duly booked in for a Russian set menu, this old dog led his folks into the Naxal garden for a New Year’s Eve meal. First impressions, impressive. A raised dais bound on three sides by cabins of faded brick laced with carved wood, topped with elegant tiles and fronted with glass panels to gaze out onto the masked and costumed dancers awaiting us. We settled in, shivering, and it slowly dawned on us the chill was the only Moskva about Wunjala.
The waiter explained to us the Russian grub would be a while. Ok, we said, let’s get started on the drinks. A good quarter of an hour later he stole in apologetically with the booze. ‘It really will take a while. How about some Newari food?’ We were adamant. He relented. But another quarter passed and he was back, a pitiable expression on his face. ‘Er, sir…the kitchen won’t take the order.’
‘Eh? Where’s the manager?’ Another wait, and we were informed the manager was ‘just too busy’.
I think it was at this point my father threatened the poor waiter with my blog. We asked for the bill, shouted at the patently unoccupied manager dawdling at the bar, and stormed off to an excellent and very reasonably priced New Year’s menu of prawn-stuffed avocados, tender lamb chops, spinach crepes with orange syrup, and chocolate mousse at the Radisson. Ruffles were duly smoothed. But I was ashamed at how badly Wunjala had treated us.
Surprise, surprise, they called to apologise the next year. A bit more ranting on my part, and we were invited to come back and sample the Russian menu. For free. So we did. The Russian set – herbed soups, rich stews, heavy salads and some variation on a shish kebab – was tasty enough, though unremarkable. The service, however, was authentically serf-like. We forgave them. Put it down to a labour dispute and general unprofessionalism. But next time – and there will be one - I’ll stick with the Newari.