In pursuit of dens of Bay Area Communism, I knew that the usual sources of information would be utterly useless to me. Instead of going to newspapers, homing pigeons and Google, I decided to rely on my own extensive experience in the pink.

My first planned stop was “The Russian Art and Memorabilia Store” in the Vallco Shopping center. You see, I used to be an aspiring emo kid, and in my attempts to be equally emo as my peers, I decided that I needed to stick some commie pins and patches on a book bag that was too small to possibly carry anything more than a copy of “Catcher in The Rye.” And for this, the Russian Art and Memorabilia Store was the place to go.

I, like other budding Marxists, knew the coolest and most hip way to be different and counter-culture was to adopt the paraphernalia of an ideological revolution that stressed homogeneity. Because hyper-individualistic American culture was so heterogeneous that heterogeneity was becoming homogeneous and the only way to fight heterogeneity was homogeneity. Right? Right. That was too complicated, and the messenger bag hurt my shoulder, so the emo phase didn’t last for long. But when I arrived at the store front that used to be the bastion of Cold War gear and emo beacon of hope, I was shocked to find it was out of business, along with every store on the first floor of Vallco.

Next Commie stop: Sputnik’s in south San Jose. Sputnik’s donut shop operated for about 30 years and was famous for “The Sputnik.” This thing was one of those brilliant food inventions so bad for you that even veterinarians would warn against human consumption. It was a fried lump of dough stuffed with a hamburger patty, condiments and cheese. Scientists speculated that this bastard child of fried pastry and ground meat would increase your chances of a heart attack more than Vioxx would.

But what do I find out when I pull into the parking lot? Sputnik’s has been replaced with “Supreme Donut.” The new joint was some kind of Vietnamese sandwich / donut shop, but Ho Chi Minh’s takeover of Lenin’s property was not as exciting as I thought it would be. I was unimpressed and very hungry. On the wall rested a grid of Polaroid-quality pictures of all the available sandwiches — I was disturbed that the management would advertise such shoddy products so openly. I would be much more inclined to order #179 if I didn’t have a high-resolution color picture to obliterate whatever naïve, delicious illusion my brain could have generated had I just read it as “Best Tasty Crab Sandwich” on some barely legible, Sriracha hot sauce-stained menu. I bought two donut holes and left.

But really now, where had all the commies gone? Then it struck me — the last place I knew in the Bay Area that was loosely linked to the U.S.S.R. was right under my nose. On San Antonio Road in Mountain View, in the parking lot of Safeway and next to Planned Parenthood, towers “The Russian Club.” Frequently passing “the club” on the way to the Central Expressway, I never really figured out exactly what it was. A members-only group? A store? A hot night club for lonely babushkas? There was only one way to find out. I parked and walked into what turned out to be a specialty market for Russian foods.

Mysterious bottles of highly alcoholic beverages distilled from questionable food products lined the walls and a pleasantly bready smell hung in the air. Upon my entrance, a middle-aged Russian woman dressed entirely in pale yellow shot a very suspicious and uncomfortably long look at me. Being a poorly-groomed Indian male, I knew I had to quickly and firmly establish a legitimate reason for being inside the Russian Club. I needed to be looking for something, something that would sound plausible for an obvious foreigner to desire. A Soviet slide show ran through my head: An unusually shaped, rose-colored birthmark? No. Crippling radioactive gas spewed from the melted reactor core? No. A busty and disillusioned mail-order bride named Ivanka? Maybe, but too many follow-up questions. A piroshki? Perfect! For those readers who are unfortunate piroshki-virgins, a piroshki is directly akin to a culturally sanctioned Hot Pocket (tm) filled with delicious seasoned ground beef and unavailable in any offensive “lean” forms. Trust me, these meat pockets are damn good, as is most anything following the meat + bread formula tends to be.

“Piroshki?” I asked her, avoiding the use of any pesky verbs or adjectives. She immediately smiled and pointed to the deli counter. I had my piroshki. It was terrible. Just like Communism, it was unsuccessful, dry, and would have been much better with a little Grey Poupon. But the important part was that I found what I set out for. I found the last place where any decent red-blooded Commie could sit back and enjoy the fruits of his economic system — a tiny, dessicated piroshki.