Chapter Text
Regina, 2008
For the life of him, Ilya Rozanov could not understand who had ever let the World Juniors be hosted in Regina.
It wasn’t even that he hated Saskatchewan, he had respect for any place that could rival Russia in coldness and flatness. What he couldn’t respect was Regina. For one, when he was first told how to pronounce the name of the city, he was pretty sure that his teammates had been playing a joke on him. His English was weak, but not that weak. The population of the city must have doubled in size just for hosting the tournament, but considering that the city was 50% roads, it probably didn’t make a difference.
At least every building in this country seemed to be heated like a sauna. Minus 40 had never felt so warm before.
“Is this really mandatory?” Ilya asked, sulking as he slumped down in his seat in the back of the motorcoach, shrouded in darkness as they drove through the slush covered streets. “We are Russian, surely they are not expecting us to be polite.”
“Just let the Canadians take their boring pictures and eat their boring food. We’ll be out in an hour and find some decent vodka,” replied Ivlev, one of the older players on the team.
At least that was one benefit to the juniors being hosted in Canada, they didn’t have to worry about getting their hands on liquor, even if all he could find was watery beer.
“Are you not excited?” Said a voice, emerging from the seat in front of him. It was Pugachev, one of their goalies from the east who was significantly stranger than any goalie Ilya had met before. He had an unrelenting passion for juggling. “I was hoping they will have poutine. It is all I have wanted when I learned I was coming to Canada. There is cheese and fries and gravy. Another thing to thank the French for.”
“I don’t think they have French people in Sesa-too-kawn” replied Ivlev. He hadn’t quite figured out the pronunciation yet.
Ilya raised an eyebrow. “You think they will have poutine at a dinner for athletes?” he asked.
Pugachev shrugged. “I don’t know what else they eat here. I saw the store named after the hockey player in the airport but I think that is just donuts.”
Ilya slumped back down. After flying for a day and a half straight, the last thing he wanted was to be dragged to some community dinner where he would be forced to be polite to a bunch of hockey players who could barely understand him, and who also probably hated his guts.
A smile crept onto Ilya’s face. Maybe it actually wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to get a jump start on getting into his opponent’s heads.
Their bus finally pulled up to the venue. A community hall that looked like it had seen better days. Ilya had thought that the World Juniors were meant to be high class, but he supposed there was no such thing as a high class establishment in Regina. The Russian team was one of the last to arrive, only being given a few hours to settle in their (admittedly nice) hotel before being carted off to this dinner. Despite his complaints of boring Canadian food, he was starving, and he’d happily take whatever was offered. He was secretly dying to try poutine too.
They filed out of the bus, only exposed to the crisp cold air and squeak of snow beneath their shoes for a short moment before being hit by a wave of heat as they opened the door to the hall. They were immediately hit with warmth, noise, and the smell of good food. The hall was packed, hockey players milling about every corner of the room carrying plates to their tables. Ilya could hardly hear himself think as they were ushered to sit down at one of the few open tables.
The walls were still plastered with paper Christmas decorations that looked like they’d been made by 5-year-olds, and a large banner was strung across the center of the room reading “World Juniors Regina Perogy Dinner.”
Before anyone even had a chance to take off their coats, a short, plump woman with a lopsided haircut appeared next to their coach, holding a clipboard. She said something in rapidfire English, too quick for Ilya to catch most of it. There was a “welcome” in there, as well as “Russia,” but that was all he could gather.
At the blank looks on their faces, she started again slowly and deliberately.
“Welcome everyone! We’re so glad you could make it today. We’ve got plenty of food to go around for you growing boys, here in Saskatchewan we love our slavic food, so we’ve got a full spread out for you all. Feel free to help yourself, make sure you get to meet some of the other players, and have fun!”
She waited for a moment, for a response, but was met with the blank looks of two dozen Russians.
“Alright well…let us know if you need anything.” And with that she disappeared back into the crowd, slightly less confident than when she emerged.
Ilya dropped his coat on the back of his chair, already on the verge of sweating surrounded by so many bodies.
“These Canadians love to pretend they are European” Ivlev complained, “they don’t want to admit that it is boring just to be from Canada.”
Ilya chuckled. “Their only culture is moose and beavers.”
Pugachev blinked. “Don’t you have a giant bear tattoo?”
“Let’s go eat, I am starving for this fake Canadian food.”
The three of them were the first to take off, squeezing through the hoards around them to make their way to the serving table. Dozens of different languages poked through around him, Ilya able to pick up a few words here and there. A lot of Scandinavians, some German, too much English for his taste.
They filed into the line for food, which was fairly short now that most of the other teams had been here for some time. The back of the table was lined with a row of middle aged ladies in aprons, wearing smiles far too big for this late into the evening, wielding serving spoons like swords.
“Is vareniki?” Ilya asked, watching as the lady in front of him scooped a pile of dumplings onto his plate.
“I think so, yes! Here we call them perogies, or pyrohy, very common to eat around Christmas time.”
“They are potato?” he followed up, looking at his plate quizzically. He had to admit, they smelled good.
“Potato and cheddar cheese.”
At that, Ilya could feel the two boys beside him freeze in their tracks.
“Cheddar cheese?” he asked.
“Yes!” she confirmed.
Ilya blinked slowly. “Why would you do this?”
Now it was the lady’s turn to look shocked. “I…well it’s not real cheddar cheese, it’s actually cheese whiz.”
“What is this whiz?”
By the time Ilya had made it to the end of the line, his plate had been assaulted by cheddar cheese vareniki, saskatoon berry vareniki, sausage made from bison, and shishliki that had been un-shished.
He sat back at the table, poking at the offensive dumpling, slicing it open with the side of his fork to investigate further.
“Vareniki should not be orange,” Ilya muttered, mostly to himself.
“I was suspicious at first but this is actually quite nice” Pugachev said around a mouthful of cabbage rolls. He had nearly cleared out his first plate and was bound to go for a second. “Have you tried the saskatoon berries? I think they have a pie too.”
Ilya grimaced. “I think you were wrong, Ivlev, this is not slavic food. The Canadians have created something terrible of their own and they can keep it. I fear what this poutine truly is.”
Ivlev looked equally skeptical. “These Canadians are trying to poison us because they know they cannot beat us.”
Pugachev reached across the table to spear a perogy for himself off of Ilya’s plate, the mixture of cheese(?) and potato spilling onto the plate.
“I think I may starve here.”