I’ve been to a bunch of book readings, and the thing is, the best ones are the ones where the authors don’t actually read. Sure, the death of the author, the text stands on its own, but me, I want to know about the person who produced this work. And I’m not saying the secret scandals, the tawdry love affairs...mm, okay, maybe the tawdry love affairs, because sometimes nothing shapes you like a tawdry love affair. Just tell me a story, and not the one in the book. Maybe a couple of years ago, Mikael Niemi, tall and thin, stood before a packed space in Coliseum Books on Forty-second and told about the time a thick, dour bear-hunter of a man knocked on his door in his little northern Swedish town, in the silent, brooding night.

Yesterday evening at McNally Robinson—

well, yesterday evening at McNally Robinson, I saw the glint of the raised silver platters, and, Jill and I, we quickened our steps in anticipation of cake. Up front, we found that everything was labeled “vegan.” I said: “Hm.” Taking matters into her own hands (and maybe hoping for some contraband behind the scenes), Jill went up to the counter and said, “We’re antivegan.” “Somewhere,” the counterboy said, “I heard a cow shriek.” But what I meant to say was—

last night at McNally Robinson, Yuri Rytkheu was perched on a wooden stool telling, in Russian, stories of a Siberian life. But maybe they were fables, rather, and we sat there woven into his spell as New York City walked by the big glass windows on Prince Street. He talked about being descended from the whales, about love as the light falls. He talked about being eighteen and sailing to a city market: “We had read books. We knew about apples, pears, all these berries. But we were unprepared for the watermelon. We were astonished. It was huge. Gorgeous. It promised wonderful things.”

There was hunger in our bellies, then, so we headed up to the Russian Samovar. It’s nothing from the outside, the Russian Samovar, but inside it’s maroon tufted leather booths like secrecy, and red and green fringed lampshades hanging like seduction from another time, and a white baby grand by the bar. There is a waiter who looks like he should be on a Rodchenko poster with fiery eyes and his sleeves rolled up. Yuri broke it down in Russian with the servers, and a carafe of raspberry vodka showed up in no time.

“What’s that page?” Melanie asked me, gesturing toward an extra list tucked into my menu. The list, in English and Russian, included strawberry and pineapple, but also garlic, horseradish, and dill. “It’s just...things,” I said. But then we flipped it over to where it said “Vodka menu.” Mm. Yum...yum?

And then there was more food than table, the borscht, the beef pirozhok, the spicy lamb dolma, the hot blini, the Russian Baltic Fish Platter. Everything was jolly, we were taste-testing each other’s plates, and Yuri was telling us of Graham Greene’s appreciation for vodka, and of watching “Emmanuelle” with François Mitterand. Soon, too, he was inviting me to Saint Petersburg, where a sable coat awaits my arrival.

Roman, who owns the restaurant, dropped by our table. Hair cut close and his beard clipped tight, he looked like a sea captain. There were familiar smiles, and Russian spoken, and an illicit cigarette waved in the air.

Later, there was a melody in a minor key, and tears in old eyes. It was time, then, for glass cups of strong tea with sour cherry preserves on the side. We asked the waitress to bring us something good (“just one thing”) for dessert, and, utterly charmed by Yuri, she brought us a plate of honey pie and Natacha apple tart, and seven forks.

A waiter came out from the back and handed a package to Yuri. “Here is the vodka,” the waiter said, “to take back to Moscow.” He shrugged, palms up and open. “I don’t know, it’s from Roman.” A heft, wrapped in a white plastic bag that said “Have a Nice Day.”

I walked east on Fifty-second to the F train. An hour before midnight, Times Square to my right was red lights and alive.