Barashka is a kind of Baku inn that was suddenly transformed into a fashionable European patio, without, incredibly, losing its original character.

Its pairing of modern European style, dishware, and service with traditional Azerbaijani cuisine is unusual—but also perfectly logical.

The translucent glass doors of the entrance are unfeeling, like the weather forecast, but inside it’s always warm.

There’s a big bar arrayed with trays of sweets and seasonal fruits. The lighting is soft. The walls are made of wood. There are couches with pillows covered in woven kilim cases. There are quinces and pomegranates of otherworldly beauty in vases, on shelves—pretty much everywhere where you can put a tray or a vase with fruit, there is one. One entire wall is lined with jugs of preserved lemons, and window sills are adorned with jars of roasted peppers.

A cult of ingredients? Sure! What’s wrong with that?

Leading to the second floor is a spiral staircase that allows you to get a closer look at the lemons—but there’s even more to look at once you reach the top. Many people find their gaze immediately drawn to the photographs on the walls—and they are no humdrum decorations. They must be scrutinized—what faces, what fruit! You can sit, snack, and dream up stories of the unknown people, then wash everything down with a complimentary pot of traditional tea with wild thyme. Many of Barashka’s myriad guests already know what to order—each patron has his own favorite delicacy.

For Moscow residents not used to authentic Central Asian food, Baku chefs prepare dishes in a cunning way. How do they preserve the essential nature of the cuisine and at the same time accommodate local palettes? It’s a professional secret. And why do we need to understand the mechanisms by which culinary delights are born anyway? What’s important is to experience those delights—to enjoy the friendly, fragrant, and filling food. It warms one so . . . there aren’t words to describe it!