* * * * *
30th January, 1990
At the opening of the first McDonald's in Russia, dining with a special guest.
"So let me get this straight," Gorbachev says, munching away at his fourth Big Mac. "You can order the same meal at an identical branch anywhere in the world-?"
"Pretty much," I reply, dipping a french-fry in borscht sauce. "That's free market enterprise, Mickey Boy.""Trembling Trotskyites!" he exclaims. "This Ronald McDonald must be a genius!"
I ask him if the Politburo ever thought about sanctioning a state-owned chain of fast food restaurants.
"Oh, sure!" Gorbachev laughs, a sliver of relish dripping from his chin. "Comrade Stalin proposed a franchise after hearing of the success of Kentucky Fried Chicken. He was obsessed with the parallels between himself and your Comrade Sanders. They were both military men, turned themselves into icons; Stalin yearned to see himself on family fun buckets and variety boxes - but then he died, so Comrade Khrushchev inherited the Kremlin Fried Chicken program. Of course, Nikita wanted to end Stalin's cult of personality, so he decided to put a rotating series of Soviet heroes on the buckets: Eisenstein, Shostakovich, Gagarin... But the project stalled because we couldn't crack the secret recipe. We sent undercover KGB agents to KFCs all over the world, but never found out Comrade Sanders' secret. When Comrade Brezhnev became General Secretary he increased defence spending by cutting back on all non-essential programs, including Kremlin Fried Chicken. For a time we tried to come up with our own ingredients, but boiled vodka and wheat grain just didn't compare. In the end, we admitted failure."
He shakes his head sadly and picks up a Chicken McNugget, staring at it with a mixture of anguish and frustration. "So close, and yet so far..." he mutters wearily. I tell him not to be so downhearted when a scrawny, acne-ridden employee mopping the floor bumps into the table, spilling Gorbachev's Coca-Cola all over his trousers.
"CLUMSY OAF!" Gorbachev yells, patting himself down.
"Apologies, General Secretary, Mr President!" the homunculus says, gripping nervously at the handle of his mop. Gorbachev looks him up and down frostily, then breaks into a cheery smile.
"No harm done, Comrade!" he chuckles, and motions the employee to carry on with his duties. As he leaves the table, Gorbachev leans over and says I know what to do. I reach into my breast pocket and pull out a miniature radio.
"Gayaneh, this is Firebird. I want that little turd Putin off the premises now..."
