No, it's not what one might think of based on its name. I don't know what the word "Alabama" conjures up in the mind of a Russian, but to most people who have spent much time in the United States, it signifies good ol' boys, pickup trucks and Confederate flags.

On the other hand, when I was first asked to go to Alabama, I was told it was an "art club." I'm not entirely sure what the textbook definition of "art club" is, but it certainly does not coincide with my Yankee presuppositions about the folks down south. Perhaps, I thought to myself, I was unfairly prejudging an entire state, and Alabama is in fact a hotbed of avant-garde artistic innovation? Did Paul Klee in fact hail from the Deep South? I decided to approach the establishment with an open mind.

As it turned out, Alabama, its name notwithstanding, has precious little to do with the American state or anything associated with it. What it is, as my friend and I soon found out, is a cozy and unassuming nightspot. However, I was only there for one night, so my experience may not have been representative. Perhaps, on other nights, the artsy decor folds back into secret panels, Confederate flags unfurl from the ceiling and the restaurant's speakers start blasting the "Dukes of Hazzard" theme song.

One of the appealing features of Alabama, I was told before I went, is the live music – principally blues and jazz – that starts every night at 9 p.m. Wanting to coordinate our night with the musical entertainment, my friend and I arrived at 8 p.m. The restaurant was still quiet and it seemed like a good place to have a nice, relatively quiet dinner with a friend (I use the word "relatively" because of the obnoxiously loud group of American diners – and imbibers – who were sitting nearby). Alabama consists of a small room with a stage in one corner for musical performances, sofas along one wall, black-and-white photos of various sorts serving as decoration and, of course, a bar, with Latin American music playing in the background at a reasonable volume. Nothing fancy, just unpretentious good taste.

For starters, we ordered cream of mushroom soup (145 rubles) and Caesar salad with grilled chicken (200 rubles). These are both standard restaurant starters, and it's hard to go wrong with either one, but in all honesty it should be said that Alabama's were a cut above the usual fare. And the meal's opening was made all the sweeter by the two-for-one Bacardi and Coke special offered us by the waitress. Incidentally, heterosexual men and women might consider it a bonus that the waitresses I saw at Alabama were definitely on the attractive side.

At about this time, the first band – the oddly monikered Chyorny Khleb – took to the stage. These Alabama regulars play blues-rock, focusing on more mainstream pieces like songs by Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton, but also featuring in their repertoire more "classic" tunes by older bluesmen like Howlin' Wolf and the Father of the Delta Blues himself, Robert Johnson. Johnson himself would probably never be caught dead (but, of course, he is dead) in a place like Alabama, preferring seedier dive joints where he could trade a song for a shot of whiskey, but his music was appreciated, by this reviewer at least.

And then on to the main course. Alabama is an eclectic place, but okra and grits are nowhere to be found. Instead, the menu offered roasted rabbit legs with juniper and hot sauce (320 rubles), Vienna schnitzel (220 rubles), chicken pie with pepper sauce (240 rubles) and a variety of shashlyks (pork, mutton, beef and chicken, among others, ranging from 203 to 435 rubles). A wide range of food, indeed. I ordered the pepper beef with potatoes, eggplant and walnut sauce and my partner the salmon fillet, each for about 250 rubles. Both our dishes were well-prepared, albeit a trifle on the dry side for my taste, but my friend was certainly more than satisfied with her meal and I can't say I was disappointed.

Then dessert. As the band broke into the first few bars of "Lovin' Spoonful," we ordered a small serving of orange-flavored ice cream for 160 rubles – it was sweet, cold and good even on such a chilly evening.

We left relatively early, around midnight, before the evening's second band – Doktor Atranovsky – had come on stage. Keeping in mind the chilly and distinctively non-Alabamian winter Moscow weather, we decided to fortify ourselves against the cold with a shot of Russky Standart vodka (45 rubles for 50 ml) each. This may not have brought the humid heat of the American South to Moscow, but it warmed up our bones as we headed back to the Pushkinskaya metro station.

ALABAMA
7 Stoleshnikov Per. Bldg. 2.
Metro: Pushkinskaya.
Tel: 229-2412.
Hours: Noon until last guest leaves.