New Year in Russia was associated with several things: Soviet holiday movies, snowy weather, tangerines, well, where without the main dish — olivier?

Snow was falling in flakes outside the window, people were rushing home with huge bags bursting with groceries, while the two of you, who had prepared in advance, cut the ingredients for salads.

Decorated tree, New Year's music playing in the background to create an atmosphere. Warmth, comfort and—

"Olivier with chicken is a perversion and a violation of traditions," Nikto firmly stated, without even looking up at you, continuing to chop pickles with concentration, "Again you picked up some foreign game from the net."

"Oh, and since when do you stand up for traditions so much, huh?" you indignantly drawled, putting the knife aside, not wanting to use it for other purposes in a fit of incipient dispute, "Olivier will be with chicken!"

"From these very ones," he snapped, knitting his eyebrows on the bridge of his nose: "With sausage!"

"Continue the argument, and I'll hit you in the head with this sausage," you threatened, taking a pack in your hand.

The threat was real, but neither was Nikto a coward.

"We won't cook olivier with ch-"

Before he could finish, you hit him on the head with a sausage.