Hygiene of the Soul

The trouble with Communism, as many a disgruntled Polish diner-out can testify, may be studied at close range in any state-run restaurant. When signaled, a Polish waiter turns his back. When plucked by the sleeve as he saunters by, the waiter snaps, "Kolega," meaning it is not his table. Menus sometimes are elaborate and evocative, but when asked to serve some dish other than fried pork and overboiled cabbage, the waiter answers: "Niema" (There isn't any).

State-owned restaurants are divided into Class I, II and III, which is translated by Poles as "poor, terrible and atrocious." There remain a few privately owned restaurants, but they differ from the state-owned only in the fact that the customer may have to wait 20 instead of 30 minutes before his presence is acknowledged by the sullen and inefficient staffs. On an average Warsaw evening, nearly every restaurant is the scene of brawls and near brawls between outraged customers and stony-eyed waiters.

Crabmeat for Vasya. The government has tried and abandoned a succession of incentive plans. When waiters got a percentage of each individual check, they pushed vodka at the expense of food, despite a government campaign against alcoholism. Last week the government tried again with a new plan permitting waiters to divide 20% of the restaurant's total monthly income from food. In the first days of the plan's operation, service was nearly as bad as ever. Said one doleful Pole: "The only way to get a decent meal in Warsaw is to patronize a private restaurant operated by someone you know--like your mother."

In Moscow, where the food and service is better but not much, the Soviet government is also grappling with the restaurant problem. Moskovskaya Pravda related the sad story of Comrade Lopatkin, director of Moscow's popular Dynamo restaurant, who first fell from grace when his pet cat, Vasya, lost its appetite. Disdaining offerings of liverwurst, white bread, porridge and grapes, the cat did agree to eat the best canned crabmeat from the restaurant's storeroom, and was soon wolfing a can a day. Next, Lopatkin's wife admired the restaurant chandelier, and Lopatkin sent it home. Before long, Lopatkin had outfitted his dacha with restaurant furnishings from teapots to carpets.

Stuffed Pocket. Needing money, Lopatkin exchanged confidences with Comrade Traibman, director of the Severny restaurant. Together, they put the squeeze on the wages of their waiters, chefs, concessionaires. To make up their losses, the staff began shortchanging customers, went into private enterprise by marketing candy and pastry on the side. Then Comrade Akopov, the august manager of the Moscow Restaurant Trust, descended on Lopatkin, roared: "What an outrage! Maybe you think I don't know what you're up to!" With trembling hands, Lopatkin pulled out 1,000 rubles (Traibman kicked in with 1,500). Comrade Akopov stuffed the money in his pocket, demanded more.

The swindlers have all been caught now, crowed Moskovskaya Pravda, but there was a moral to be learned: "We worry a lot over the cleanliness of tablecloths and plates in restaurants and sanitation in the kitchen. This is right. But we must not forget that the most important thing is hygiene of the soul, the crystal cleanliness of those the state has chosen to serve our people." No forwarding addresses were given for Comrades Akopov, Traibman and Lopatkin.

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