Petr likes me.
And that baffles me, as much because I have no idea why as because I don't know what to do about it.
We pass an uber-formal dining room and continue walking. I almost sigh. I don't know a salad fork from an entrée fork, and I'm not about to embarrass myself by choosing the wrong one. I'd probably skip eating and starve to death so Petr didn't think worse of me for not knowing.
He leads us into a sunroom whose three walls and ceiling are glass. Natural light cascades into the room from the gloomy outside. The space is filled with two small Christmas trees, a single round table and a buffet table along one side overloaded with food as promised.
Petr's father is waiting for us, already nibbling on what appears to be a small, thick pancake and sipping coffee from his spot at the table.
"Omigod." Todd's face lights up when he sees the spread.
"Welcome," Petr's father booms and stands. "Come!"
Petr places a hand at the small of my back and pulls out a chair for me. It takes a split second for me to overcome the thrill working through me at the sensation of his warm hand on my back to realize his father is talking.
"… American and some Russian." He gestures towards the buffet. "I am Anton Khavalov." He reaches out to shake Todd's hand, Maya's then mine. "It is good to see you again, Claudia." His eyes were twinkling.
"You, too," I murmur awkwardly.
I take my seat, and Petr sits beside me. Todd and Maya approach more shyly.
"What're you waiting for?" Anton booms. "Eat! If there is food left, the cook will cry."
I smile and stand when Petr does.
"Okay, I'll give you the quick version of the Russian food," he says as we all head towards the food. "Russian pancakes with a toppings bar, vatrushka - which is basically a Danish - gingerbread in various forms, baked apples, and the rest you should be able to identify."
The food smells fantastic. Todd puts a huge scoop of everything from mini omelets and bacon to a stack of the Russian pancakes on his plate while Maya picks and chooses. I follow Todd's lead in trying everything. Pots of coffee and creamer, freshly churned butter and homemade jams and croissants are on the table already.
We eat in relative silence. Anton and Todd do most of the talking, while I listen. Petr seems unusually quiet. His appetite appears to be intact, though, and he manages to eat almost as much as my brother, which is no small feat.