When Russia decided to launch an attack against Ukraine, many Western companies pulled back. The headlines tracked the exodus as shopping centers evacuated and shelves emptied. Yet, two years after Russian troops moved in, the everyday consumer in Russia found no shortage of familiar brands. Coca-Cola, Zara, Lego, and iPhones continued to be available to Russian citizens despite the exit of many international firms.
In Russian supermarkets, shelves brimmed with brands eager to take Coca-Cola’s place as the standard bearer of soft drinks. Cool-Cola, Dobry Cola, Loco Cola, Dubl Bubl, and Super Cola appeared as competitors, yet Coca-Cola mars again with renewed vigor. Its packaging now features sports labels in languages such as Kazakh, Georgian, Polish, or Albanian, reflecting production and export patterns in regions where the beverage is still manufactured and distributed.
“We are Russians, we’re accustomed to tricks to survive shortages, even when it means stretching resources,” explains Vasily. “We already lived through the Soviet era when certain goods, like jeans, were hard to come by; that memory lingers.” The so‑called “Belarusian oysters” were a byproduct of Russia’s annexation of Crimea and the sanctions that followed on European products. The result was a heavy export footprint from EU countries toward Russia and its immediate neighbors, a dynamic visible in products such as fish or seafood, where Belarus’s geography adds another layer of complexity.
Another emblematic shift involved the replacement of iPhones through parallel imports—an arrangement that allowed sale of goods without direct permission from the original manufacturer. While these devices might be pricier than authentic models, it became feasible to purchase the newest Apple model in many stores without visiting the capital, offering an alternative path to popular devices.
When clerks were asked about the origin of these devices, many could not offer a clear answer. Western media reports suggested that products entered through various routes, with ties to countries such as Iran and Türkiye. Türkiye emerged as a key conduit for goods and people moving between Russia and the West. A salesperson noted that while the country of origin could not always be disclosed, the devices carried warranties and could be configured in Russian. He admitted that some features might be restricted on Russian networks, and services like Netflix, Spotify, Instagram, or Twitter often required a VPN in certain circumstances.
It’s a strange rivalry
Beyond exports, locals found a way to adapt by embracing a distinctly Russian approach. The Zara brand, already established for years, benefited from the departure of the Spanish parent company, while an online alternative called Kupi Zara (Buy from Zara) helped Russians continue to purchase similar clothing. The landscape of fashion ownership shifted as consumers accessed familiar styles through new channels.
Other sectors witnessed similar improvisation. Fast-food chains and cafes saw a reshuffling of brands: McDonald’s and KFC were replaced by Vkusno i tochka (Delicious and Period) and Rostiks, respectively. Even McDonald’s flagship restaurant in central Moscow—arguably the most iconic symbol of the Soviet era—was closed, and local entrepreneurs swiftly stepped in. The look, feel, and even the packaging of these establishments bore a striking resemblance to the originals, making it challenging for customers to distinguish between them.
For many diners and shoppers, the difference was minimal. The same equipment and products were in use, and the overall experience echoed the familiar American dining cue. “I know it’s not healthy; it’s junk food after all,” admits Lyudmila. “They just changed the name on the burger.” In some early phases, local suppliers even had to start with American chain sauces, later replacing them with locally produced equivalents and sometimes crossing out logos with a pencil to fit the new branding narrative.