While attending a conference outside Chicago last November, three of us broke away from the con hotel to dine at Chaihanna, a family-run Uzbek restaurant. The cuisine of Uzbekistan is difficult to come by in Northern California, where most of us graze on refreshing alfalfa and flaxseed oil instead. But, when in Chicago, one must do as the Chicagoans, putting aside sustainable locavore diets in favor of piled-on dogs, deep pizza, and all that is hearty and filling. Food from most formerly Soviet republics fit the bill perfectly.

As we ate, we caught occasional glimpses of the televisions showing Russian music videos. At least I assume they were Russian — I have little grasp of any Cyrillic language, beyond knowing the phonetic Russian for “yes”, “no”, “thank you”, and “that is not a cat, it’s a store”*.

The videos all looked and sounded more or less like 1990s-era Mariah Carey with a generic house beat on top. As we didn’t understand a word, the music faded into the background. At least until DJ Smash’s “Volna” came on:

Generic Guy on Beach was easily overlooked, but his fall through the fishes [0:51] hooked our eyes in curiosity just prior to things actually getting weird.

It bears noting at this point that I’m an enthusiastic foodie, always actively ferreting out interesting foods to stimulate the senses. On this chilly evening, our hosts guided us Uzbek-food neophytes through their cuisine: Piping hot fresh breads, puffy bagel-like lepeshkis and meat-filled samsas. Chicken and rice soup, rich enough to make the entree almost seem unnecessary. Savory rabbit, lamb shank, assorted kebabs, glorious potatoes, even a few obligatory traces of vegetables. The meal thawed past generations of cold war chill to warm our insides, and we were enjoying it immensely.

Even so, we had to pause our joyous feasting to yield to the dancing women in the video, who obviously had a far deeper epicurean enjoyment. By [1:20], it seems inevitable that in her skillful hands, that mustard-drizzled hot dog would plump and then burst at any moment. To say nothing of the ice cream cone’s dribbling salaciousness, for to do so may border on the suggestive.

One can never be certain if the director of the video knew of the possible second interpretation of the images therein. Perhaps it’s simply considered rude to consume one’s chow mein sans fellatio.

Okay, of course it was deliberate. Just trying to give them plausible deniability, but we’re all friends here.

As if the sexual objectification of comestibles wasn’t sufficient reason to cause beverages to rapidly traverse our sinuses, the distinctly furry turn things took at [2:07] very nearly did cause me to snarf my tea. Lusty women teasing with sweets not enough? DJ Smash delivers all that AND an anthro cat as well. No objections here! And the cat looks nothing like a store.

By the time my trio had grown transfixed by the video, the Cossack dancers well underway, a wedding party had taken over the restaurant. The huge empty center table we spotted on arrival hinted at what was to come, and we were fortunate that our servers were so gracious to our wayward selves when they’d clearly had to focus most of their attention on the large party that had reserved far in advance.

I can only wonder if the parents in the party had sighted the scantily clad dancers on the monitors doing their lollipop-enhanced nanoskirt cancan, and if they’d felt traces of objection to the atmospheric mismatch with the dignity of the newlyweds’ celebration.

More likely, Volna’s presence properly reminded them to feel every morsel of varenyky sexily dancing across their tongue as they shamelessly deep-throat it. That’s just how things are done in Tashkent.

* Eh teh ni koshka, eh teh magazeen.

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