year: 1943. location: a “neutral peace room.” but don’t imagine a quiet, solemn room. no. this is not diplomatic, it’s an overly expensive hotel meeting room. in the middle is a massive table, unnecessarily filled with candles, crystal glasses, and a bottle of french wine. because neutrality is what the french do best, isn’t it?
stalin is in one corner, puffing on his cigarette with such a cold expression that one of the candles flickers out. hitler is busy checking his iconic toothbrush mustache in a mirror. one acts like a man of the people, the other like a student preparing for a history exam. but one thing is missing from the room: any sign of camaraderie.
stalin, lounging in his chair, holds up a glass of wine to eye level. “how ironic it is that the french know how to make wine,” he says, taking a swift sip. “they’ve never won a war, but they sure can make a good drink.”
hitler, clearly annoyed by stalin’s crude opening, carefully slides a glass of water forward with both hands before responding: “let’s not glorify violence at this table, please. we are here to resolve our disagreements. besides,” he adds, “alcohol is for the weak.”
stalin pretends to ignore hitler’s condescending tone but can’t help himself. arguing, like drinking vodka, is second nature to him. “alcohol is for the weak?” he scoffs. “and what about your herbal teas, hitler? what happened? did you think you could start a revolution with a pot of leaves?”
waiters enter the room carrying small plates. stalin is served a hearty stew, while hitler receives a plate of asparagus purée. vegan, of course. as hitler examines his plate, stalin scoops a large spoonful of his stew and leans toward hitler.
“are you sure you want to eat that?” stalin asks. “if you gave this to your people, they’d start a rebellion out of sheer hunger. but i suppose you wouldn’t understand that, would you?”
hitler, unfazed, picks up a single asparagus spear, carefully disturbing the plate’s immaculate arrangement. “my people are disciplined,” he replies. “they accept what i provide. besides, there’s no need to drown food in fat. your revolution is so greasy, it’s hard to digest.”
when the main courses arrive, the tension at the table escalates. stalin pulls a plate of buttery lamb stew toward him, while hitler meticulously twirls his spiral-cut zucchini noodles on a fork.
stalin gestures to his plate. “this dish represents the people,” he says. “simple, strong, and nourishing. but your zucchini…” he bursts out laughing. “try carrying that to a revolution—it wouldn’t last three steps.”
hitler, carefully arranging his zucchini spirals, responds: “but my plate is orderly. a symbol of a system. and your stew? pure chaos.”
stalin takes this as an insult. raising his eyebrows, he bangs his glass on the table. “chaos is the essence of revolution, hitler,” he declares. “but with your obsession with order, you might as well be doing spring cleaning in germany.”
for dessert, stalin is served a creamy pirozhki, while hitler receives a minimalist, gluten-free almond cake. stalin takes a large bite of his pastry and smirks at hitler. “this is what dessert should be. full of cream, full of flavor. but your thing… it’s not a dessert, it’s a punishment.”
hitler, unbothered, calmly cuts his cake in half and examines a piece. “dessert is the reward of discipline,” he says. “but your pastry? overblown. just like your policies.”
stalin places the rest of his pirozhki on the table and lowers his voice. “but my dessert would devour your regime in one bite, hitler.”
the meal ends, leaving the dishes on the table as evidence of a negotiation gone nowhere. stalin and hitler rise from their chairs, exchanging cold glances.
as stalin exits the room, he leans toward a waiter and says, “next time, tell the chef to chop up that zucchini and make it into a stew. maybe hitler will finally have some flavor.”
hitler pretends not to hear this, but before leaving, he whispers to the same waiter: “if stalin is coming back to this table, remove those vodka bottles. some seriousness is required.”
