Putin Needs A Food Tester

Food Taster Wanted. That’s what the ad on Indeed.com says.

            I’m out of work and looking for a job. So I read further.

            Vladimir Putin. President Of Russia Looking For Food Taster. Job Involves Some Risk. Odd Hours. Apply At The Kremlin. Pay Commensurate With Experience. Room And Board Included.

            What the ad doesn’t say is that the last guy who had it, died in The Kremlin when Putin got up for a midnight snack of ptichye moloko.

            I know eating dessert on a regular basis isn’t good for you, but in my opinion, it shouldn’t kill you.  Moloko is one of my favorites. It’s this silky custard separated by moist, fluffy layers of sponge cake. Usually a real treat.

            The average annual salary in Russia is about 1,240,000 rubles. That’s roughly $15,000 here in the United States. Putin’s food tester job pays three times that. So, I call the phone number listed on Indeed.  8-499-Lenin.

            “Hello. This is Mikhail. How can I help you.”

            “Yes. I’m responding to the Indeed ad for the food tester job for President Putin,” I say.

            “What is your name,”

            “Fred. Fred Smith.”

            “You sound American.”

            “I am.”

            “That’s good,” Mikhail says. “That’s very good. If you accidentally get poisoned President Putin won’t care. Come in Tuesday for an interview. Come to the northwest gate. Your name will be on the list. The guards will let you in.

            So I’m going. Simple me. Fred Smith. From Fort Smith, Arkansas. But before I go, I get on the computer and look up the Kremlin Food Tester Job on Glassdoor. You can use Glassdoor platform to look up a company or agency’s work environment to see if it’s right for you. All you need is a smartphone or a computer and Internet.

            You wouldn’t think you’d find reviews on Glassdoor about what it’s like to work for Putin. But sure as a Russian invasion or missile strike, there they are.

Is That A Bowl Of Blood Putin Is Eating

Here’s what some guy named Lev says.

           “Mr. Putin loves his borscht. I hate borscht. So job not so good for me. After three straight weeks of borscht. I ready to kill myself.”

            Guess Lev didn’t have to worry about swallowing some poison meant for the president. He quit after a month.

            Borscht is a sour soup usually made with meat stock and boiled vegetables. The most popular version of the soup is Ukrainian street style which is made with beets. People eat it all over the world.

            Recently President Putin had the Russian Senate outlaw the cooking of the Ukrainian version of the soup. I ask this Russian guy I know named Boris what that is all about.

            “He did that because of the war with Ukraine. He’s pissed about Ukraine. He thought he’d just roll into Kiev with his guns and his bombs and the Ukrainians would give up.”

            After talking with Boris, I continue with my research.

I even find a Glassdoor review from Putin’s chef Alexi Sokolov.

            “You try keeping sushi cold on hot body of naked porn star. Not easy job. Not easy man to work for. Very demanding.”

            The clincher for me is the review by Putin’s former chauffeur, Ivan Petrovsky.

            “Never again. Worster than genocide. You don’t want to work for this man. I drive him all over. Russia big place too. That’s a lot of driving.

            “One night he make me stop car. Putin say, Ivan give me time to get bottle of good Russian potato vodka and American pizza. I say yes sir. I pull over. Putin runs in this place with agents from FSB. FSB used to be our KGB. Our Federal Security Service. They all dressed funny like men in movie Men In Black.  Putin come back. Get in limo. Puke all over back seat. Blame me. Now I fired.”

            This is amazing … how much Putin sounds like your typical American degenerate. So I’m going ahead with the interview.

Brighton Beach

But before I go, I have my friend, Boris, take me to Brighton Beach, Brooklyn which has a large Russian population. I mean Brighton Beach is so Russian that the large signs are in Russian and the small signs in English. The Russian signs are even in the Cyrillic alphabet. It’s all Greek to me.

            Boris takes me to Skovorodka’s at 615 Brighton Beach Avenue. I’m in the heart of what they humorously call the Borscht Belt. So, I order guess what.

            “This stuff isn’t bad Boris,” I say. “I could eat this all day.”

            “Good,” Boris says. “Cause you might be.”

            “Might be what,” I say.

“Eating it all day.”

            I catch an Aeroflot flight to Moscow. The service is great. Real silverware. Linen napkins. Caviar. Champagne or as the Russians say Shampanskoye. Pretty flight attendants.

            The airfare is expensive. Good thing the Kremlin is paying for it. They have a slush fund for that sort of thing, just like we do in the states.

The Kremlin

I get through security at the Kremlin, no problem. They take me into this room that looks like it once belonged to the czars. Gold on the ceiling, deep velvet carpet, the works.

            Mikhail is there. He asks me a few preliminary questions.

            “I understand you were a cigar taster in Brazil for Jair Bolsonaro,” Mikhail says.

            “Yes that’s true. There were rumors the opposition was going to blow him up with a cigar containing explosives.”

            “Bolsonaro’s people said good things about you.”

            “Yeah. Well, I would hope so.”

            “And Nicolas Maduro’s team in Venezuela said you saved Maduro from food poisoning.”

            “Yeah. They had to put me in the hospital in Caracas. Pump my stomach, But I made it.”

            “Okay. President Putin would like to meet you. We never hire a food tester without the president first meeting him.”

Putin And His Goons

Putin enters the room with his entourage of bodyguards. Out of respect I stand for the man.  I extended my arm to shake his hand. One of the bodyguards swats my hand down.

            “It’s nice to meet you sir, Fred Smith from Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

            “Did your parents own the town.”

            “No sir. Just a coincidence. The name and all.”

            “There are no coincidences Mr. Smith from Fort Smith. Sit down.”

            It’s an order. I nervously sit down.

            Putin claps his hands. He orders an underling to bring him a bowl of borscht.

            The underling comes back with the request. Putin is looking at the bowl without touching it. There’s a sour expression on his face.

            If he was Josef Stalin, the cook would already be dead.

            “Jesus Christ. This stuff is made with beets.

“It is unpatriotic to eat soup that tastes like it comes from Mama Alinoshka’s kitchen in Kiev. I won’t have it.” Putin is shouting.

            “And I won’t eat my borscht hot. I want it cold goddamn it.”

            “Those stories about me swimming in the Volga River are true. I like my rivers cold and my borscht even colder.”

            Putin is turning to me. He looks smaller than he does on TV. But I don’t want to upset him any more than he already is. He takes a black semi-automatic pistol out of a shoulder harness he’s wearing and places it on the table. It’s a Glock 17. Putin isn’t a guy who’s gun shy. This particular Glock was custom designed to fit the Russian ironman’s shooting hand and trigger finger. Bet that set him back several hundred thousand rubles even with the Kremlin strong man discount.

            “The last guy who served me my borscht warm, I shot.

            “I used to work foreign intelligence for KGB. Don’t fuck with me American.”

            “No sir. I won’t,” I say. “About the food tester job sir…”

Putin With His Glock 17

Putin cuts me off before I can finish what I want to say. Putin is now talking to his goons in the room.

“I like this American malchik. He manchild with brass balls. He make good guinea pig, if someone try to poison Putin.”

            God, I love people who talk about themselves in the third person. They’re so modest. So self-effacing.

            “You still want the job,” Putin says.

            “Yes.”

`           “Good. You start now. Right now.

            “Death by poison is favorite Russian pastime malchik. Just ask Alexander Litvinenko.”

            “Litvinenko is dead sir. He worked for you. He was one of your spies. I can’t…”

            “Malchik you not as dumb as you looook.”

            Putin is laughing hysterically now. He is holding his finger to the side of his mouth as he speaks. I swear he’s starting to sound like Dr. Evil from the Austin Powers movies starring Mike Myers.

            “I got Litvinenko with polonium-210. Food poisoning you might say. He die in hospital. They call it acute radiation syndrome. MMMmmmm…Russian food very special. Sometimes it kill you. HAAAAHaaaaaaHaaaaaaa."

This guy’s insane. He’s taking off his shoe. He’s banging it on the table for emphasis.

Putin Eating Street Tacos

“Now someone bring me some Mexican street tacos. I want them fresh. Lots of onions and cilantro. Lime on the side. And make him taste them,” Putin is shouting. He’s gesturing at me.

This whole thing reminds me of that time in 1960 when Nikita Kruschev, head of the Soviet Union, took off his shoe and banged it on the podium of the United Nations in anger over the quality of the borscht he was being served.

There goes Putin and his goons. He’s leaving the room. Guess I have my dream job. You know that saying. Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. I think it’s true. Gulp. That’s me swallowing hard. I’ll let you know how it goes.