The front of the restaurant is gaudy, the paint bright red and gold, the colors of Mother Russia. But it's chintzy, old and unrepaired. A dive, Syd would call it. I keep my head down, blonde hair covered in a black wool toque, hands shoved in the pockets of my leather jacket. Night has fallen, the crisp air feeling of approaching winter, though it's only late September. This close to the Russian border, snow comes early enough.

The street is bustling, making my approach all the ...