I Ate Dinner in Beijing's Russian Fur District

On any given day in Yabaolu—an area of Beijing that's also known as 'Russiatown'—a group of wild and rather crazy-looking Westerners can be found loitering near a three-story mall where discounted fur coats (from god knows which animals) are sold. Chain smoking, garbed in striped shirts that allowed ample amounts of chest hair to protrude from the collars, their necks covered with gold necklaces, I imagined them to be one of the many cross-border traders and smugglers who regularly travel between Siberia and Beijing carrying cheap consumer goods. In reality, they were probably accountants from Novosibirsk on vacation. It wasn't particularly unusual to see them; every day, planeloads of people from Russia and other former Soviet states arrive in Beijing on pilgrimages to Yabaolu for its motherlode of cheap furs and Russian food.

In general, being surrounded by animal fur makes me salivate—don't ask—but Russians are not too adventurous with their food and generally stick with hometown flavors: mayonnaise coated salads (and by coated, I mean doused) and smoked meats. I came across a lot of borscht and caviar joints, but this district is also home to a slew of palatial central Asian restaurants serving Chinese riffs on Russian food.

After the Russian Revolution, Beijing became home to a large number of fleeing Russians, dubbed 'Cossacks' by the Chinese. As a result, the Chaoyang District became known as the Russian Market, an area that gained a classy reputation for petty crime and prostitution. Its associations with loose women and robberies lingered until the late 90s, when Beijing experienced another influx of Russian tourists, businessmen, and small cross-border traders and smugglers. By 2000, as a friendly gesture to honor China's affection for Russian oil and gas, the Russian Market returned to the Yabaolu District—close to the very large Russian embassy. In Yabaolu, Russian is the lingua franca; most of the local Chinese shop owners and taxi drivers speak the language really well. There are three malls dedicated to selling furs and discount fashions to visiting, wealthy Russians, and even a Russian-themed karaoke club called Sim Sim.

But karaoke could wait—my appetite could not. I decided to hit up a restaurant called Astana, advertised as "Beijing's first ever Kazakh restaurant," and was greeted by a teenage punk kid who tried to upsell me on the cheap vodka they had. Despite the large community of Russians living in Beijing, the customers in this neighborhood are usually fanny-pack toting Muscovites fresh from a visit to the fur mall. There were no Chinese people in the restaurant except the waitstaff. The silver brocaded chairs made me feel like I was hanging out at a Long Island wedding palace rather than 80 kilometers from the Gobi Desert. On the back wall of the restaurant, I looked over to find a large TV screen projecting non-stop Russian TV beyond the karaoke stage. Herring and pickle plates were delivered to my table with a Kazakh iteration of plov—a rice, meat, and carrot casserole bathed in lamb fat that's Uzbekistan's national dish—and spicy Sichuan chicken. It felt like an amalgam of Silk Road bling, Chinese dining etiquette, and Stalin-era Soviet culinary arts.

The food around Yabaolu is the shit if mutton is your thing.

A few weeks after my first visit, I couldn't keep myself away. I stopped in front of a building covered with photos of kebabs to stare at one particular photograph of salmon roe caviar that had been translated as "guppy seeds." I started uncontrollably laughing until an angry young guy stepped outside to see what all the fuss was about. Apparently, the restaurant, Kavkaz, is Azerbaijani—a country previously under Soviet rule located in the Caucasus with a large Turkic and Muslim population. I've never tried this type of food before, guppy seeds and all.

For me, short, thickset men puffing—or deeply inhaling—cigarettes as they wheel suitcases everywhere they go give off a definite smuggler type of vibe. This restaurant seemed like their hub. I ordered the borscht and Georgian cheese bread, sizing up the room and pointing to whatever other tables were eating. Faces peered out from the depressing plastic greenery lining the lattice walled dining room. Interior design was not their forte. I overheard an odd blend of languages: Russian, Hebrew, and Farsi.

I was determined to find out what smugglers order for dinner around here, but my quest remained unanswered. We did, however, eat some decent renditions of traditional Azerbaijani dishes, like dovga, an herby rice yogurt soup and a bowl of lamb meatballs floating in a chickpea studded broth, kofta bozbash. It didn't look as delicious as it was. The prevalence of Central Asian food in both Yabaolu and Moscow is no doubt a defense against mayonnaise salads, herring, and boiled potatoes.

I don't, however, plan on returning anytime soon.