For many New Yorkers, Brighton Beach is the closest approximation of life in Russia one can get this side of the Prime Meridian. Not only is this a hilarious misconception, Russians are so often put off by notions of the Russian-speaking shtetl enclave known as “Little Odessa,” that they reel back in disgust at its mention. Naturally, those that reel are hostile over—nye dai bog—being associated with the place. As one might expect, a culture so cripplingly consumed by status puts a lots of emphasis on where one lives and buys potatoes. Your location has as much to do with your rung on the social ladder as the car you drive or the shoes you wear—sometimes moreso.

Michael Idov said it best in his NY Mag feature: Brighton is “a Jewish immigrant’s idea of what an American’s idea of Russia may be. And that’s what makes it arguably the most fascinating ethnic enclave in New York: It looks just as exotic to the ethnicity it enclaves.” True, it’s fascinating — in the same way Supersize Me is fascinating, or Lindsay Lohan’s downward spiral is fascinating. It’s like that, except with more Cyrillic. Oh, and pharmacies. A fuckton of pharmacies.

Case in point, only on Brighton does something like this happen unironically:

I snapped this photo of a gentleman inspecting his large container of pickled cabbage on the B train. Standard. Unextraordinary.

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In truth, only a few added touches could make this image any more absurdly stereotypical:

You know you’re on Brighton when you see waifish young Russian beauties teetering down the ave in 4 inch gold platform heels, gingerly stepping over the decaying vegetable scraps scattered all over the sidewalk, while making their way to the haute couture quasi-Italian boutique sandwiched between two fruit stands.

If you’re on Brighton having a conversation, chances are you’ll have to stop mid-sentence while the screeches from the rumbling Q pass over your head, lightly showering your hair in subway juice.­

Also, you haven’t witnessed “poor customer service” until you’ve attempted to buy sliced kielbasa from one of the angry harpies behind the meat counter at any Russian store. One look in their eyes will fill your soul with fear, horror, and perhaps cholesterol.

Wanna know a Russian store secret? Mayonnaise. Not only is this condiment my people’s unsung national pastime, stores will douse their salads in it (even some salads whose recipes don’t call for mayonnaise!) in order to add weight/density to the sales, increasing their profit margins ever so slightly. (Not all stores are guilty of this, but there are some known perpetrators.)

There are more luxury cars per square foot in the Oceana complex than anywhere else in the vicinity. Oceana residents are the 1% of Brighton Beach, who dislike the neighborhood enough to annex themselves in a hermetic bubble of opulence, but don’t dislike it enough to actually move somewhere else. All the ostentation, without the burden of assimilating into American society! They are literally two seconds away from the same garbage and filth the rest of us all wallow in, yet they’re whining about the new public bathroom facilities being built on the boardwalk (which will obscure their ocean view, no less).

Most important is this: Russians will trash-talk Brighton to no end. But if they ever catch an American doing the same, im malo nye pokazhetsa.