Tartu - City of Good Food

Fontaine Delisnack

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 07:27:00 +0000

There have been a lot of recent studies of late. One suggests that redundancy is increasingly becoming a growing problem in literature. Another study, carried out by Italian researchers, reveals that male genitalia are shrinking every year. A similar French study reveals that Italian researchers only study themselves. And furthermore, the crazy, whacko views of misinformed people who are mistaken about something only tend to be reinforced when presented with facts that refute their insane, nutty opinions.

This would help to explain the evangelization of my home country despite the discovery of the Higgs boson. “But there’s a reason it’s called the God Particle”, they counter. The star of “Real Time with Bill Maher”—Bill Maher—would likely refer to it as the "Willy boson" (“Willy” and “Bill” are both short for “William”).

This would also help to explain why Estonians are increasingly beginning to firmly suspect that all Latvians have six toes. This is a stereotype whose origins I was too lazy to research, but regardless of Latvians’ supposed polydactylous tendencies, I can assure you that on my recent trip to Riga, the shoes on sale looked normal. I did, however, see a street vendor pedaling frozen ice cream (“saldējums” in Latvian, if you’re not Estonian and so didn’t know that). He was wearing sandals and only had four toes on each foot. But his toes, like all Latvians, were super long, so total toeage was still equal. I’m trying to create a new stereotype, you see. And all Latvians have a Pioneer sound system in their cars. That’s also a stereotype.

Mrs. Mingus and I were meandering down Teātra iela (Theater Street) in Riga when we happened upon a place called Fontaine Delisnack. Their Facebook page calls it “Fontaine Deli Snack” and describes it as “slow fast food”. Interesting information available under Basic Info on this page: their food styles are breakfast, burgers, Chinese and delis. What’s your favorite food style? Breakfast and delis. Their specialties are—breakfast, lunch, coffee and drinks. Their services are “good for kids”. That’s a bit dodgy, to be honest.

But being a self-described burgermeister, I had to try their…burger. I watched the chef preparing a burger for another customer. He opened an individually packaged package of ground beef made of bovine flesh (I’m still feeling redundant) and proceeded to cook it. This is much better than the usual hamburger patties that are purchased by the restaurant frozen and already shaped. This burger was shaped by hand. I took a picture of him holding and preparing it, but as most Latvians do not appear when photographed, I am not including the image in this post, as floating beef might frighten my younger readers.

I did have to ask if fries were included. They were not, so now you know, too. But Fontaine’s slow fast food wasn’t actually that slow. Within just a few minutes our burgers were served. In a paper pouch. I wanted to ask Kristīna, the waitress, for a plate, but as most Latvian waitresses do not appear when called, I had to go to the bar and ask. “You need a plate?” she asked in reply to my question.

—Yes, please. Two, in fact.

“Why?”

—There are two of us.

“No, I mean why do you need a plate?”

I did not know how to respond to this question. I contemplated telling her that I was Estonian and so did not know how to eat from paper, but I ended up just telling her that I would just feel more comfortable with a plate. She did not sigh, however, and complied with my request.

The fries were a bit crunchy, smothered in Santa Maria’s pan-Baltic requirement for post-Soviet-hood—the potato seasoning—but they were served in a disposable cardboard box, American-style (well, that is, when you eat at slow fast food establishments in the US). The burger itself was actually fairly tasty. It was cooked perfectly, as was the bacon. Nice and juicy. The bun was a bit crunchy though. I think the bun chef and the French fry chef were the same, but they were working behind a mirror so I couldn’t see them (the man in the photograph of the bar is not Latvian).

On the way back to Estonia, we stopped at a gas station. This place was pretty cool, in my opinion. Boardwalks with gazebos among tall pines, a pond, an air pump, and the new Latvian prototype of the 4-D camera. I found a map of the premises. Interesting words. Oddly enough, parked right next to it was a dairy tanker, transporting milk, with the Latvian word for milk printed in huge letters on an image of a bag of milk on the side (“piens”). So when you’re in Latvia, you can buy a big old bag of piens if you want.

Not to sound unfairly disrespectful of other peoples’ languages, I would also like to point out that there is a man in Estonia named Tiit Annus. He hasn’t consumed Latvian milk now for twelve months but he also doesn’t speak English either, because if he did, he would probably be rather annoyed with his parents.

On a more serious note, I’ve always heard there is a bit of enmity between the Estonians and the Latvians, mostly because of what became of “Baltic solidarity” after independence was restored. This is just hearsay, mind you, not based on fact (even if I heard a fact though, I would ignore it because I’m American). The Baltic States were united in their drive for freedom from the Soviet Union. Once they succeeded, Estonia grabbed on to Finland and Scandinavia as tightly as they could, and somewhat ignored Latvia and Lithuania. Which is understandable of course, given the situation.

Estonia’s economic recovery has been much stronger, for example, resulting in their switch to the euro, while Latvia did not qualify. A recent study carried out by Estonian researchers reveals evidence to support this. Another recent study carried out by Latvian researchers reveals that Estonian researchers only study the same four or five people (see the quotations starting on p. 80). And yet another recent study by me reveals that if you publish anything, you should probably run a spell check befroe publishing it.

Yet despite international stereotypes, I just hadn’t met that many Latvians in all my years in Estonia. I didn’t have an opinion of them. I do now. The twenty or thirty Latvians I actually got to know during my trip all had one thing in common: they were very enthusiastic. It was very easy to converse with them. They are eager to laugh. They are fun. Regardless of whether they have an extra toe or not, they do seem to have a sixth sense for what you are going to say next, they all speak at least two tongues, and your average Latvian man doesn’t look down his noses at anyone.

Kamahouse

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 06:17:00 +0000

We spent the entire summer at our cabin one weekend. We went to Kuressaare twice, Pärnu three times, Tallinn eight times, Võru fifteen times, as well as stops in Põlva, Rakvere, Põltsamaa, Elva, Viljandi, Türi, Haapsalu and…Rapla. Rapla was an interesting place, surprisingly developed. What I mean is, Tartu is Estonia’s second city, so you'd think everything else in Estonia, Tallinn aside, is not going to be as nice in terms of infrastructure, right? Think again. But that’s not the point of this post.

The first time I was in Estonia I asked for something distinctively Estonian. I got kama served in kefir. Kama is a mix of different types of flour (barley, pea, and so on) that is mixed with various foods, mostly served today as a dessert. It kind of tastes like dirt, and if you like dirt, you’ll like kama. I never thought I would crave dirt for dessert, but I do. Dirt grows on you if you eat it enough.

So when Mrs. Mingus suggested lunch in a place called Kamahouse, in Tallinn at the corner of Kopli and Ristiku Streets, I didn’t expect much. “The burgers there are pretty good, I hear.” I imagined dirt mixed with pork and spicy ketchup for ten euros. It’s art.

But no, immediately upon entering it feels like a mix not of dirt and pork, but of Europa and Americana. The owner is an artist, as you can see by the use of red. The service was quick, friendly and polite, and each waitress wore a tag on her butt that read, “Hands Off!” Krista, our waitress, was kind enough to allow me to photograph hers. But only after she removed it and placed it on the table. I’m talking about the tag.

I have to say that the Kamahouse Burger was actually very good, especially at five euros. Served fast, with fries ordered separately. And this was the first place in Estonia (at least that I’ve seen) that offers a free refill on coffee. All too often restaurants are rigidly greedy and unbending in their thirst for money. One place in Tallinn charged me a whole euro for a glass of undrinkable, yellow tap water. I sent it back. “It smells like your toilet,” I complained. “You ordered it,” the waitress informed me. I still had to pay because she had already put it in the computer and couldn’t be bothered to delete it. The same place also charged me four euros for a Coke. These prices were not on the menu.

But not Kamahouse! Free refill on coffee, and other hidden goodies that Westerners take for granted in their own countries. Even the toilet offers you a choice, based on how badly you need to go. Coffee here (and remember, free refill!) costs one euro, according to the Bewerage Card. Lots of bewerages available here.

So as summer is over, I would like to compare some of my experiences from around the country.

Best burger: Sadhu in Kuressaare.

Worst burger: Pub Vaekoda in Kuressaare.

Most interesting justification for pricing: Ränduri Pubi in Võru. I eat and drink coffee here fairly often. Earlier this summer the coffee was substantially cheaper. Served in stone mugs, I just like it. I look forward to it. It’s still cheap, but it’s almost twice as expensive as it was a couple months ago. Here’s my conversation with Krista, the waitress, upon ordering:
“The coffee here used to be sixty eurocents.”

—No, no. It’s always been one euro.

“Always?” I asked.

—Yes, Krista replied.

“What was it two years ago?”

—Ten kroons.

“And how much is ten kroons in euros?”

—Um, about sixty eurocents.

Best sense of humor: the meat market in Tartu. I bought a carton of thirty organic eggs, got home, opened it up and found what is in this image. In English: “Please don’t eat us, we’re babies”.

Best overall dining experience: Meat Market Steak and Cocktail, in Tartu. The name says they just have one cocktail available, but that’s not true. A separate review of this place is coming soon, but I just have to say one thing about it here. We ordered a full meal. First was delicious bruschetta with bacon, and a board of food piled high. We were stuffed, and enjoyed our meal. But then Krista, our waitress, asked how we liked our steak. We hadn’t finished yet! The food was so good, and so much of it, that I wanted to “enjoy it in reverse”, if you know what I mean, just to feel human again in my stomach. Serious overeating involved in this restaurant. Soovitan! (The next image is from Meat Market, but the new Blogger software is very difficult to use.)

Worst overall dining experience: Citi Pubi, in Pärnu. At least, I believe that was the name. We sat down and decided to get one of the sandwiches from the menu. We had already ordered juice for the kids, so we couldn’t really leave. “Sorry, we’re out of sandwiches,” Krista the waitress informed us. I ordered soup instead. “Sorry, we’re out of soup.”

—What about this? I asked.

“Sorry.”

—This?

Krista frowned at me, saying nothing.

—What do you have then?

“We have sausages,” she eagerly replied. Despite the well-stocked nature of this place, the service was polite.

—Alright then, sausages for everyone!

Four plates of Estonian viinerid were served, three to a plate, surrounded by a mountain of fries literally dripping with potato seasoning, and a spoonful of shredded carrot. At that moment the large speaker behind my head came on, as it was time for the deejay to go to work. “Excuse me, could you turn that down? It’s right in my ear,” I kindly asked. I was told that it wouldn’t be fair to the other customers, who wanted to listen to Phil Collins.

Most interesting conversation with a taxi driver: Reval Takso, in Tallinn. I’ve been using this company for years. Cheaper than in Tartu, normally polite service, and fast. This time, however, was just funny. I stepped into the taxi early one morning, eager to get back to Tartu after a work meeting in Tallinn.

—Morning. Train station, please, I greeted Kristjan, the taxi driver.

“Seriously? I just came from there.”

—Sorry, but that’s where I need to go. (I already knew this was going to be fun.)

Kristjan sighed that heavy, Estonian sigh, then called it in over the radio. He said, “Get this: I just came from the train station with that foreigner. Now I’m going back. With another foreigner.”

—Um, you do realize I’ve been speaking to you in Estonian, right?

“Yeah,” Kristjan said. “But you don’t understand anyhow.”

Sadhu

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 09:01:00 +0000

Everyone else seems to be going West these days, so we did, too. We took a week’s vacation in Kuressaare, in Saaremaa. That’s the main island off Estonia’s western coast. The last time I was there was also the first time I was ever in Estonia, so it was very good to revisit and re-evaluate some of my first impressions.

And my first impression of Estonia was—võileivad, or sandwiches. Except an Estonian sandwich is a half slice of bread with one of a million possible toppings, most of which contain fish, pâté, cheese or ham. To welcome me, the family I stayed with that first, fateful night laid out two full tables of sandwiches. I shied away from the fish and pâté, but that was also the first time I’d ever tried what I now consider my favorite Estonian food—garlic cheese on toast.

Today, however, most traditional Estonian sandwiches have been replaced with various types of so-called “hamburgers”. Kiosks sell a large bun with a patty of mystery meat, shredded cabbage and carrot, and a ketchup and mayonnaise mixture that is dolloped on by the liter. But every once in a while…every once in a while…you get a delicious burger. But I’ll come to that in a moment.

The Mingus family arrived in the evening and we were hungry, and wanted to eat dinner in the sunshine. The only outdoor terrace (there are quite a few) that still had direct sunlight at that time was a place called Pub Vaekoda, on the main drag. I ordered the “Vaekoja Hamburger” with fries.

“What’s this burger like?” I asked Kristjan, the waiter.

—Um, it’s a patty in a bun.

“No, I mean what’s on it?” I specified.

—A patty? Kristjan seemed quite confused by my question.

“Is it a beef patty?”

—Yes.

“Pure beef, not anything else?”

—Yes.

“And what else? Tomato, onion, and so on?”

—Tomato, onion, and something else.

I could see I was getting nowhere, but this looked like a reputable establishment, so I took the plunge. For the kids, they wanted fish sticks. Kristjan said the plate was huge and that one portion would be enough for the Little Minguses. Mrs. Mingus ordered the burger as well.

A few short minutes later, the food was delivered. The kids’ plate was a mountain of over-salted fries, and three fish sticks. Not three each, but three total. Mrs. Mingus couldn’t eat more than three bites of her burger. The bun was rock-hard and the meat…I didn’t know what it was, but it was not beef. She left with the kids to go get something in the shop to eat in the hotel room.

When Kristjan returned, he asked how we liked it.

“Not very much, I’m afraid. You said this hamburger was pure beef. I know beef, and this is not beef.” He said he would go ask the chef, then returned a moment later.

—Yes, I’m sorry, it’s only fifty percent beef.

“What’s the other fifty percent?” I asked.

—The chef didn’t know.

“Where do you buy them from?”

—They’re made here in our kitchen, from locally raised and bought meat.

I didn’t want to know how they didn’t know what they were cooking in their own kitchen, so I just asked for the bill. Even though our dinner was only fifty percent food, Kristjan did give me a ten percent discount. Twenty euros for that.

The next evening, however, we ate at a placed called Sadhu. The “Sadhu Studio Mega Wild Boar Burger” intrigued me. It was the same price as that thing across the street from the night before. I was not expecting much. But I can say now that it is one of the top five hamburgers I have ever had in my life. I’ve never been a fan of wild boar, but this patty was simply succulent, so tender! Even the bun was delicious. The roasted potatoes were perfectly seasoned with fresh herbs, a wonderful mild, homemade salsa in place of ketchup, and a freshly fried egg (a lot of places will serve fried eggs that were actually fried hours—or days—before). I went back the next day and ordered it again. Still amazing.

The rest of the family was also more than satisfied with their dinners. But the kids were restless. They quickly tired of playing with the gigantic stuffed tiger from the sofa nearby. They can only play “Don’t Steal the Tiger’s Stripes” for so long, after all. I asked the very friendly waitress, Krista, if she had any entertainment for the kids. She brought back some paper placemats and a couple packs of crayons. Why she didn’t offer them immediately, I don’t know, but the Little Minguses were occupied for a whole hour, coloring in the pictures and playing the games on the printed placemats, and we ate and sat in peace. That’s a near-impossible feat when you eat out with the whole family.

I asked Krista where the restaurant had bought them, as it had an Estonian web address on it. Krista replied that they had just bought them an hour earlier, and the seller was still sitting in the other room. I went to go talk to her, because this was the first time I had ever seen anything like this in Estonia. Usually our kids were just bored in restaurants.

The seller, “Kristiina”, was more than willing to talk to me, and told me all about her experiences with dealing with loads of restaurants all over Estonia. I grinned with interest. “I have customers everywhere, but it’s hard to sell in Tartu. Tartu businesses just don’t want to make their customers happy, I guess.” That sounded very familiar. “We also offer customized placemats, too,” she continued. “A lot of hotels order those.”

On our way out the door, I asked Krista the waitress to give the chef my compliments. She smiled broadly and thanked me kindly. On the other occasions when I’ve done the same, in other restaurants of course, the waitress has actually frowned in confusion and simply replied, “Oh.”

The next day I took the Little Minguses to Kuressaare Castle, built in the fourteenth century. There’s a ton of educational stuff to see there, but if you go to the watchtower, I would advise against taking children. First you have to go through a dark, dingy corridor that shows what appears to be the dungeon. My older child asked, “Dad, what is this?”

—It’s the dungeon, I think.

“What’s that?”

—That’s where they put criminals.

“There are criminals here?” she asked in alarm.

—No, not anymore.

“I don’t like it here. I want to leave.”

At that moment, in the darkness and without warning, the sound of a lion roaring blasted from some unseen speaker. It was loud. My younger daughter started shrieking in panic, and the older one yelled at me, “Dad! Why did you bring us here?! You’re making my nerves get old too soon!”

We left without seeing the watchtower. But I began to wonder why they would have a lion roaring in the castle. Did they have a lion there? Was this one of the three lions that are on all the national insignia of Estonia? Did lions traditionally call the Estonian countryside home? Why not a lynx? Those exist here, and the President’s name is also “lynx” in Estonian (Ilves). Well, for better or for worse, I no longer have to read a nightly fairytale to my kids that takes place in a castle. Castles are too scary, now.

So a few brief bits about the rest of our vacation on the islands:
—Check out the Kaali meteorite craters, right off the main highway;

—Check out the Panga cliffs on the northern shore of Saaremaa;

—Check out the windmills in Angla;

—And whatever you do, do not attempt to eat on the ferry from the mainland to Muhu, as you literally will not have enough time to finish your food.

Overall a fun, fulfilling vacation. Soovitan!

An American Wedding

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Fri, 04 May 2012 08:36:00 +0000

Recently I was lucky enough to be invited to an American wedding. After two flights of fourteen hours’ airtime, I found myself jet-lagged in Los Angeles, California. As if I needed to specify the state. But I spent a week there, and I can honestly say that I did not see a single stereotypically obese person. Not one. Most people were in fact in very good shape. Despite the fact that you have to drive for half an hour to get to a shop. I, however, went for daily walks, and a lot of people were staring at me as if I were from Europe.

This is an account of all my gastronomical experiences during that week.

First my friends and I went straight from the airport to a fast-food joint called In-n-Out Burger. Very good for the price, and if you know the secret password you can get all sorts of extra toppings (ask for your burger and fries “animal-style”). The cashier guffawed when I accidently asked for my fries doggie-style. Oops. Luckily I was saved by the Bible verse printed on the bottom of my cup of root beer.

Still on Estonian time, we began the bachelor party (which means we started the party at two in the morning my time). Picked up by a stretch-limo Hummer, this was the most ridiculous vehicle I have ever been in. But the three on-board bars helped pass the hour of driving time between stops. Basically, the whole party was taking a tour of local breweries. And there are many, many fantastic breweries.

First stop was the Noble Ale Works, in Anaheim. We sampled no fewer than eight pale ales and India pale ales. Average alcohol content about fifty percent more than an A.le Coq. Each of these recipes would no longer be available in a couple of months, as they are only brewed once. Constant innovation and experimentation. Each ale was a work of art.

Next stop the Playground, in Santa Ana. More amazing beers. All of it brewed on site. At this point I should mention that we were all wearing kilts. Not that it’s relevant, but nine guys wearing kilts consuming high-class beers was a bit different than nine guys in Tartu drinking Bock in Pirogovi Park dressed in denim.

I should also point out that these pints of joy cost about four euros each. That’s all. For another fifteen euros at a classy joint whose name I cannot remember (might be because of the Manhattans we consumed during the hour to the next stop), I ordered an amazing salmon dinner, in addition to the broad selection of appetizers. And yes, that salmon was delicious, but I am proud to say that Estonians can out-salmon Americans with their eyes closed. And soon after the salmon, my eyes were closed, too. My body just could not take the jet lag and booze. Luckily I had loads of room in the limo to stretch out and snooze.

The next day we ate a late lunch at some random restaurant in a marina in Long Beach. Very juicy beef patty, excellent Provolone and…ketchup. Yes, Americans eat ketchup, too. We just don’t use it for spaghetti sauce.

The day before the wedding was the rehearsal dinner. The Stone Brewing Company in Escondido, just north of San Diego. The food was succulent, and I don’t need to mention that the same applies to the beer, if you can use that adjective for beer. But the premises…the best layout I have ever seen. A gargantuan complex, large boulders everywhere (hence the name), and frogs. Once the sun set, conversation was difficult if you were outside due to the frogs. And they were real, as well. I was sure that because this was in the middle of a desert, and because it was America, it was just a sound effect. But I found no hidden speakers, and after my eyes adjusted to the low light in the park, I actually began to see the little amphibians jumping around.

The waitress, Christine, approached our table. What followed was a series of unanswered questions. “Hello, and how is everyone doing this evening?” Christine began.
—How are you? my friend asked.
“Would you like to order drinks?”
—A Stone Pale Ale, please, he said.
“Would you like to try our house special?”
—Where’s the toilet? I asked.
“Um, what?” Christine appeared visibly frightened, almost offended.
—Do you mean the “restroom”? my friend suggested.
“Okay, like, wow! The ‘restroom’ is…do you know where the downstairs bar is?”
—I can find it, thank you.

My friend reminded me that “toilet” was impolite in these United States. I responded with, “Oh, shit, you’re right!” The other people at the table looked at me like I lived in Europe. “So you live in Europe, right?” someone asked me. I said yes, that I lived in Estonia. They thought for a moment, then continued with, “So yeah, you live in Europe.”

On Saturday, we had the wedding itself. I believe that my favorite aspect of the ceremony and festivities—apart from the Southwestern décor, food, venue (the Bernardo Winery in Rancho Bernardo) and so on—was the company. The bride had three bridesmaids and a “bridesdude”. Two of the bridesmaids also brought their girlfriends. Homophobia, also known as “social immaturity”, just wasn’t an issue. Everyone enjoyed everyone’s company for one of the most joyful, memorable nights you could imagine.

As for the wedding food, it was a Southern theme. Pulled pork sandwiches with mustard sauce, baked macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes with chicken gravy, plus “street tacos” with grilled mahi-mahi.

But the fun could not last forever. On the way out of San Diego the next day, we stopped at the crappiest looking Mexican dive we could find. Remember, in the States, crappier is better. For just six bucks I savored every bite of my beef burrito, cheese enchilada, refried beans and Mexican rice.

On the way to the airport we stopped for coffee and bagels. A simple onion bagel, that dense, savory big brother to the donut. Quite often the food in the States is very good. There is definitely variety. But I actually cooked that first night, and quite honestly had trouble finding fresh ingredients, like fresh mint, Parmesan that wasn’t processed and sold in powdered form in a green can.

I love visiting the States, but I’m happy here in Estonia. It’s good to come home. The day after my jet lag was over, I baked fresh onion bagels for breakfast and homemade beef and chicken enchiladas for dinner, followed by an A.le Coq something or other. As I fell asleep that night, the question of why there are no microbreweries in Estonia went unanswered.

XPRS Deli

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 12:40:00 +0000

I am a man of many inconsistent prejudices. For example, I love peanuts, but I hate peanut butter. Well, alright, maybe “love” isn’t the right word. That’s just the American talking. You love your children, you like this peanut. But I do hate peanut butter. In the same way, I like cucumbers, and I like sauerkraut, but I despise pickles. All forms of them. I like beef, but I do not like porkbeef. What is porkbeef?

“Hey, there’s a new sandwicherie in Kaubamaja,” Mrs. Mingus informed me last week. Kaubamaja is Tartu’s downtown mall.
—I’m on it! I told her without even thinking. Within a minute, my coat was on and we were on our way downtown.
—So what’s it like?
“I just walked by it. I haven’t tried it yet,” she answered.
—What do they serve there?
“Sandwiches.”
—Right, but what kind?
“Stop it,” she told me. I was asking stupid questions. I wasn’t being very Estonian, and by that I mean I wasn’t thinking before opening my mouth. With today’s over-processed food, you really need to consider both what comes out of your mouth, and what goes in.
—So, it’s like Subway? I carefully asked.
“I think so. But I really hope it’s better than that cheap knock-off of Subway, called Metroo, across the river.” “Metroo” is the Estonian word for metro, or subway.
—Yeah, that place is nasty. Cheap, but nasty. You’re basically eating sandwich-flavored bread, they skimp so badly on the fillings.

We entered Kaupsi, as the locals call the mall, and went to the side entrance to XPRS Deli. An attractive little corner kiosk, I had high hopes. It’s an Estonian chain, but you won’t find the Tartu XPRS on your GPRS, or GPS or whatever the acronym is. It’s so new they haven’t even updated their webpage yet.

Not that it’s a problem for me, but the menus are only in Estonian. Even on the webpage, which says in Estonian, “The best chef is you—make your own sandwich!” That’s cool. But for most people in Estonia, a võileib, or sandwich (literally “butter bread”) is still an evolving food.

My first time in this lovely country, I was a guest in my friend’s aunt’s home. She had made an incredible butter bread smörgåsbord. At least ten different kinds of butter breads. But these weren’t what I considered a sandwich. Each consisted of a slice of bread with various toppings. Quite good, and a different experience. And having new experiences was why I had visited in the first place.

A sandwich for me was a massive baguette with three kinds of meat, and a lot of it too, a couple kinds of cheese, oil and vinegar, sliced onion, tomato, lettuce—Subway, basically. After years in Estonia, I can now honestly say that my favorite “sandwich” ever, however, is a slice of black bread with garlic cheese. Garlic cheese is grated cheese (no particular type) mixed with a little mayonnaise and crushed garlic. I cannot get enough of it. I do not love it, but I like it, yet I don’t like most Estonian cheeses by themselves, or the mayo. Don’t criticize me for that, though, because it’s not my fault. I can’t help what I like. All I can do is try new things.

“Hi, can I get the Men’s Favorite, please? But with no pickles,” I asked Õpilane, the waitress. That’s a pretty name.
—Of course, she smiled. What would you like instead of pickles?
“Hmm,” I said, eyeing the wide selection of ingredients that were not protected by a sneeze guard. “What goes well with beef?”
—We don’t have beef, she informed me, a mildly odd look on her face in reaction to my apparently odd question.
“But,” I began. “But, the menu says this sandwich has röstbeef.”
—Ah, yes, that’s roast pork.
“Ah, I see,” I responded, intrigued at my discovery of a new element on the periodic table of deli meats: porkbeef. “What would you recommend?”
—I don’t know, Õpilane told me. I’m new here, my name is Krista, she continued.
“OK, could I have some jalapeños, then?” She looked confused for a moment. I found it odd that the sandwich station would be manned by a trainee, without supervision or instruction as to what she actually was selling, but I didn’t take issue with it. “Chili peppers, I mean.” And she happily placed some jalapeños on top of the porkbeef.

Mrs. Mingus ordered a sandwich for herself as well. The main ingredient was salmon. “We’re out of salmon,” Krista informed her, so she chose something else. Mrs. Mingus asked for Feta on her sandwich, and mentioned Feta three times. When she started to eat her sandwich, she noticed there was no Feta on it.

Krista mentioned that if you buy two sandwiches, you get one free. “Three equals two”, as the ad puts it. “You can build your own sandwich,” Krista said. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it.” We decided to get soy meat. I don’t know what else to call it. Soybeef? We asked for any suggestions, but Krista didn’t know. She was very polite though, and eager to at least try and answer questions. She was about twenty. Had she been forty, she would have just answered our pestering questions with a cough.

The sandwiches themselves were, well, mediocre. At first I thought they were skimping on the fillings, but then I realized that you could order as many different kinds of fillings as you wanted. I just didn’t know what to order, and neither did Krista. But that’s not her job, I guess. Or is it? However, I did feel like they skimped on the meat.

The bread was good though. It was almost like a focaccia. XPRS Deli had a good selection, as well. But yesterday, Mrs. Mingus went back. The sandwiches were made by another person, who did not skimp with the fillings. The bread was dry, however, “crumbling apart”, she said.

One extremely minor thing that kind of bothered me was that the onions were diced, not sliced. The way vegetables are cut really does make a difference. Texture is all-important in cuisine. The tomatoes were tiny little chunks, too. Not the thick slices in the pictures on the menu.

I hope the owners read this, I can imagine one of them looking like Ned Stark. “Subway’s coming,” he mutters to himself. If XPRS Deli wants to survive, more attention needs to be paid to freshness, variety and consistency. In addition to porkbeef, maybe also serve realbeef. And garlic cheese! That would be awesome on a Subway-style sandwich. Also oil and vinegar.

I hope XPRS Deli doesn’t lose its head. Estonian integration to the West is both good and bad. Good for security, bad for local business. There is already McDonald’s in terms of culinary invaders. Local restaurants need to get their acts together. The Americans are coming, and they love processed food. Personally, I don’t love it. I don’t even like it.

Hinkaali Maja

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 15:37:00 +0000

“What is Georgian food like?” my visiting friend asked after we'd ordered lunch at the Hinkaali Maja in Tallinn, across the street from the intercity bus station.
—Well, it's kind of hard to describe, I replied, not sure of how to answer. You know how in the US, Mexican food is easily the most popular, uh, minority cuisine? I ventured.
“Yeah,” he stared at me with mouth open.
—And in the UK, Indian food is the most popular minority cuisine?
“Yeah,” he once again replied.
—That's what Georgian food is here.
“But what's it like?” he pressed, fully aware I'd not answered his question.
—It has a lot of onion in it, I confidently stated.
He raised his eyebrows. “So, it tastes like onion?” he asked. He had been out of the US for only two days, his first trip abroad. Ever. I decided to have some fun.
—Are you familiar with Armenian cuisine?
He shook his head.
—Azerbaijani?
Nope.
—Iranian food? Pakistani? Saudi? Moroccan?
“I've had Moroccan before. It was good.”
—OK, it's nothing like any of that.

My visiting friend—let's call him “Mike”, because he's American—seemed to be undergoing the initial stages of culture shock. Symptoms of this included short-temperedness, an inability to understand why anyone would ever do anything differently than what he was used to, and an unwillingness to blend into the surroundings. Go native. Do like the Romans do in their own city.

“What did you order me?” Mike asked. The small, English menu only contained a portion of the larger, Estonian and Russian menu, so I had ordered what I thought he would like.
—I can't remember. I think it was chackapuli or something similar. The waitress took the menu.
“Well what's in it?” he continued.
—Want me to ask?
He nodded, so I went to go ask the extremely attractive waitress, Krista. Her name wasn't really Krista, but I don't know how to say Krista in Russian. I found her, and she smiled. “You have question?” she asked in basic Estonian.
—Yes, my friend would like to know what he ordered, and I can't remember, I slowly replied in Estonian.
“Your friend not want to order...” she tried to understand.
—It's OK, don't worry about it. I smiled reassuringly and returned to the table.
“So what did you get me?”
—No clue.
“Didn't you ask?”
—I did, but her Estonian wasn't strong enough.
“She doesn't speak Estonian?”
—No, not really, I replied.

I could hear the up-coming conversation, quoted with perfection in my own future vision. Mostly because I had had this conversation so many times before. He would ask why she didn't speak Estonian, if she lived in Estonia. I would explain recent history. He would then judgmentally state with authority that she lives in Estonia, she should learn Estonian. I would say that's a very black-and-white, or rather red-white-and-blue, way of looking at things. He would say something about Mexicans in America. I would fail in attempting to explain to him that that was a very different situation. And we would reach an impasse, neither able to convince the other, each feeling they were right and the other wrong. Although in my heart I knew I was more right than he was. And that was a very blue-black-and-white way of looking at things.

The chackapuli was delicious, according to Mike. He had never tasted anything like it. I explained how it likely had fresh basil, dill, parsley and cilantro as the primary seasonings. I had eaten a late breakfast, so I just got the—surprise, surprise—khinkali, or Georgian dumplings. The khinkali at the Hinkaali Maja were indeed as big as a house. Because that's what the name means. Dumpling House. Each plate had six of the gargantuan Caucasian ravioli—spiced pork and beef wrapped in a floury pasta-like thing that looked like a head of garlic. They were a bit difficult to eat, but they were even more difficult not to finish. What I mean by that is, well, I'm not sure. They were delicious, but there was a lot of food and I didn't want to finish them because I was full. But I didn't want to leave anything on the plate either, because it was so good. The end result? I economized on space in my stomach by not drinking my water, and I finished my plate, thirsty all afternoon as the end result.

This place was better than Tbilisi in Tartu, and a helluva’ lot cheaper too. Larger portions, better quality, and smaller prices. And I think Tbilisi is pretty good. This place is better.

“I find it odd,” Mike suddenly began, “that in a restaurant that serves the cuisine of a country that was recently attacked and invaded by Russia, in a restaurant that is located in a country that was also attacked and invaded by Russia, there is a beautiful woman who speaks no language but Russian.”

My jaw would have dropped at this American's surprising knowledge of history, except I was chewing on a khinkali. “You're not going to let this go, are you?”
—No, Mike said. I mean, I just want to understand. Why can't they just learn Estonian?
“A lot of them do,” I encouragingly answered.
—But she's young. Why didn't she already learn it? Estonia's been free for ten years, now!
“Twenty,” I corrected him.
—It doesn't matter. Her parents have had twenty years, or whatever, to learn the language. You live here, you learn the language. I mean, you did, and you're American. We're not exposed to language like other countries.
I was honestly pretty startled and surprised by Mike's reasoning. “Look. There's a long and complicated history at work here. Russia has more or less 'owned' Estonia at several points in the past. Most Russians here today arrived by order of their Soviet government. They arrived as conquerors, colonizers in a way. Russifiers. And then one day, poof! It's all gone. The Estonians get back their country. Understandably, there is some enmity from the Estonians toward the Russians. But things changed so fast. Most of the Russians—most, mind you—were completely alienated from Estonians. And still are today. Estonians and Russians alike both find themselves in unfamiliar territory. 'Learn my language!' one side shouted at the other, then all of a sudden, 'No, you learn mine!' I mean honestly, everyone wants the same things—peace, security, comfort, and so on—it's just a language. Who cares? They'll communicate in one way or another anyhow.” And I finished my speech.

Mike replied with, “But it's their language. You don't understand what it means to have people in your own country who make up a huge part of your country, but don't want to learn your language. Who refuse, in fact. That's a very American thing for you to say.”

I was confused as to how the tables had been completely turned on me. Was he talking about Mexicans? Or Russians?

But he went on. “Yes, the Russians should learn Estonian. It would be considered a good gesture, to put the past behind them. Another way of looking at it is take advantage of every opportunity you can in life. Learn everything. Including Estonian. And the Estonians on the other hand should be more patient and encouraging too, perhaps. To me, it sounds like because both peoples are in unfamiliar territory, these are your words, because they are both here, in this new situation, maybe they are both just suffering from culture shock. Symptoms of that include always thinking you're right, and not willing to accept new things. When in Rome. That sort of thing.”

I just didn’t reply any more at this point. From his simplified, outside, fresh-from-America point of view, the Russian–Estonian thing was so simple. And from my slightly inside point of view—I mean, I’ve been here for well more than a decade, and I know many, many half Russian–half Estonian families, families for whom this issue is strictly a non-issue—from my point of view, I just couldn’t see it as being more complicated than how Mike described it. Even though I knew it was.

III Draakon

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 07:42:00 +0000

“Welcome to the Third Dragon, where weary Travelers can fill their Tummies and partake of the Drink!” Krista the Wench greeted us in good English. We were three, and three were we. Two lady Jesters of international Renown and I.
—Hi, could we have a Menu? I asked.
“Menu?” Krista bellowed with Surprise. “Of what speakest Thou? We offer but one Food, and it is Soup of the Elk! One Ladle is one Money. All that we offer here is one Money!”
—Okay, and I paused to understand her. You only have one Food here, but you said everything we offer. What else do you have?
“We have Pastries. Pastry of the Elk, Pastry of the Beast, Pastry of the Carrot and Pastry of the Spinach,” she stated with Aplomb.
—Pastry of the Beast? I asked, Eyebrows raised.
“The Beast from whence you draw Milk!”

The two Jesters and I exchanged Glances. “It's good, I've been here before,” one of them said. “Everything is one Euro, and Drinks are two Euros.”
—Do you come from the Land of the Far East? Krista asked her, noticing her Asian Eyes.
“I'm from Sweden.”
—Ah, the Land of the good King Adolf. Welcome, thee! she exclaimed in what I was later told was perfect Swedish.
No Menus, I thought, and no Electricity. I don't carry Cash, either. Ever. Euromoney weighs too much in my Pocket. “Can I pay by Card?” I asked, just to be certain.
—Ah, thin Device of unknown Material. Yes, we can handle that.

We each ordered two Pastries and a Bowl of Soup, and sat down in the back Room. I immediately returned to the Register to ask for some Cutlery. “Thou art born with the silver Spoon, yet thou travelest with it not?” Krista asked in mock Rage.
—Can I just have a Spoon?
“One you may borrow.” And she gave me one of those Spoons with the wooden Handle, the ones made in Brazil, which Krista probably had not heard of yet. At least not while she was at Work. The other Jester also went to fetch a Spoon, and when she returned, said, “Wow, she speaks perfect Finnish as well!”

The Décor in the Third Dragon, written in Estonian as III Draakon, was beautiful. Probably very authentic. If you look at the Town Hall from the Square, in Tallinn, enter the Door on the Left. And with these Prices, it's likely the cheapest in Town. But our Pastries, Soup and Drink of the Cranberry quickly added up to six Moneys each. Not really expensive, but we were not exactly filled up either. I would want to eat again before dinner, and it was only two o'Clock.

But the Soup was good. It smelled amazing. Lentil Soup always does. The Elk Meat inside was delicious as well, although there was not much. The Pastries were tasty, but nothing better or worse than run-of-the-Mill Fazer Pastries available in every Shop in Estonia. I could not complain, however, due to the Atmosphere.

When suddenly the Atmosphere stank of Booze and Manstink. I felt a Tap on my Shoulder, and the two Lady Jesters gazed with Fright behind me. “Excuse me,” the drunken Voice began in English. “Do you need to use the Toilet?” I turned to see what appeared to be a Man with no Home, leaning right to my Face.
—No, I do not. It's right there, I replied, leaning back away from his Face.
“Thank you,” he continued. “Listen, can you help me? I need some Money to eat.”
—I don't carry Money, I informed him. He stood there. I'm sorry, but we're having a private Conversation, I continued.
I didn't want to tell a hungry Man to leave because we were having a private Lunch. But he just stood there, stinking, and exhaling what could have been Plague. One of the Jesters gave him a one-Money Coin.
“Thank you,” he smiled. Yes, he smiled, but he did not leave. Suddenly, Krista the Wench arrived to rescue us.
—Be gone thee! Be gone to thy Haystack, Man with no Haystack! I have told thee before, you may enjoy no Welcome here! she bellowed in Estonian.
“But I just want to eat,” he protested.
—Then thou must pay!
“I cannot afford your Food!” he practically shouted. Apparently he had forgotten the one-Money Coin my Swedish Jester had given him. Who was I kidding? He would spend that on more Drink. That's the Thing about Haystackless People. You never know if they will get drunk or get fed with Money you give them in Pity.

There is a homeless old Maid in Tartu who occasionally sits on the Steps near the defunct Kaubahall trading Market. She does not beg, Hand opened with Palm up. Every once in a While, I enter the Food Shop upstairs, and go to the Deli. I order a large Box of some Food they offer, have the Deli Worker heat it up in the Microwave, then I grab a Set of Cutlery of unknown Material, a Box of Juice and a Kohuke. I pay for it, and even buy a nice Bag, also of unknown Material. I then give the Bag and all its Contents to the homeless Maid, and give her a Smile as well. I feel good about that. I do not feel good about giving Money. I noticed in the Man's Bag that he was carrying a Loaf of Bread and other Items fit for a King. Well, maybe not a King, but he definitely ate well.

But I began to think. Is it my Responsibility? To help People like this, I mean. “I pay Taxes, and my tax Money funds Programs designed specifically to help the Homeless,” many a person (yes, small P intended) with no Heart will say in Justification of their Unwillingness to help. And, well, they have a very valid Point. On the other Hand, many Homeless find it embarrassing to accept public Aid of this Sort. “Beggars can't be Choosers,” the heartless Man will continue. I still like to give an occasional, nice Meal to a homeless Maid on the Steps. It makes me feel good. It's even selfish, if you think about it. Like mental Masturbation. Yes, I'm doing Good for Another, but is it for the Sake of Good, for the Sake of the Recipient of my Help, or because it makes me feel good?

I like the mental Masturbation Analogy. You can have Sex to make a Child, or you can have safe Sex with your Partner just for Fun. If the Latter, then it is essentially two-Person Masturbation. It is, well, just for Fun. Makes you feel good. And it's the same Thing about Charity. Child-making is to Sex what Teaching a Man to fish is to Giving a Man a fish. The worst possible sex Offender is One who gives a large Sum to a Charity and uses his Name to do it. It is like doing your Deed in Public. An Advertisement.

On the way out of the Third Dragon, Krista was speaking fluent French to some Customers. “We have no Cake! Careful thee, lest thee lose thy Head over Cake,” she warned, then turned to another Customer and answered a Question in rapid Russian. I had no Doubt she also spoke German and probably Something else. Very impressive, for a Woman wearing a dirty Smock in a Basement Restaurant.

What if Tartu had a Place like this? With this kind of Interior. It would have to be on Rüütli Street, where the nicest, single large Venue is a Fabric Shop. That has to go. It's a good Place, but it needs to be not there. Bars, Restaurants, a Hotel, Currency Exchange, a Church, Handicraft and—Cloth so you can make your own Curtains!

But if there were a one-Money Restaurant in Tartu, it would surely serve Fries with Potato Seasoning, mystery Meat Burgers, Russian Ravioli (Pelmeenid) and sour Cream. And Ketchup. Must not forget Ketchup. Except it would cost a lot more than one Money, and the Staff would not eject the Haystackless.

Dedi

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 08:07:00 +0000

“Let’s go to that Greek restaurant for lunch today,” Mrs. Mingus suggested this past Saturday.
—Greek restaurant? In Tartu? I asked. Odd how they just now had Greek food in the self-proclaimed “Athens on the Emajõgi River”.
“No, it’s not in Tartu, it’s in Luunja,” she corrected me. Luunja is a small village a short drive from Tartu. In a few years, it will be a suburb. It’s locally famous for cucumbers. Cucumbers that cost three times as much as imported Spanish cucumbers. But I tell first-time visitors to Tartu that Luunja is actually famous for nukes, not cukes. The huge, industrial greenhouse there emits a powerful glow in the nighttime sky that is very visible from Tartu. The nuclear weapons that would be used for an attack on Western Europe, my story goes, were stored in Luunja, but there was an accident, and now the residents of Tartu have to leave for six months every five years to avoid radiation sickness. “Let’s go to Tallinn tomorrow,” visitors then reply, “immediately when we wake up.”

We loaded up the kids and set off in the direction of the imaginary radiation cloud. Several wrong turns later, trying to follow the directions to the Greek restaurant, we finally found it. “Closed today”, the taped-up printout on the front door read. I told Mrs. Mingus that the owners were probably going to be gone for half a year.

So we drove back to Tartu. “Where do they have a playground?” I asked.
—The new Ränduri restaurant in Tasku (the mall) has a nice one, Mrs. Mingus replied.
We walked through the sporting goods store to enter the restaurant over the bus station, the third such restaurant of a chain that started in Võru. Very cozy, very attractive interior, nice playground. Order from the bar. No one at the bar. Five-minute wait, still no one. “Where else is there an inside playground?” I asked.
—Dedi.

Dedi Cafe (sic!) and Bistro is on the top floor of the other mall in downtown Tartu, Kaubamaja, which means Department Store, which is right across the street from Tasku, which means Pocket. I hadn’t been there for years. When the Little Minguses were still taking naps in their baby carriage, we would go to Dedi often for coffee. I remember ordering a crêpe once with some sort of Indian spice mix all over the ham-and-cheese filling. It tasted exactly like the Indian food available in almost every other Estonian restaurant. Palatable.

“Third time’s a charm,” I said as we sat down. Krista the waitress promptly brought us menus. They had a special page for holiday dishes. I ordered the spicy holiday beef wok. I like beef. The wife ordered a bowl of chicken pasta, and the kids shared a crêpe with ratatouille filling, a vegetarian dish. We ordered just a couple minutes later.

While we were waiting, we sent the kids to the play corner. They were back in an instant. “There is a violent man on the television,” Little Mingus explained. I looked and saw a man running with a bloody ax on the screen in the play corner.
—Just sit here with us, I told the kids.
“Now I’m going to have a nightmare,” she complained. “Like with Darth Vader.” I had a hard time not laughing.

Twenty minutes later, I turned to see if our food was going to arrive soon. The chef was not even at his station. “I don’t get it,” Mrs. Mingus said. “Usually the food is really fast here.” Above the chef’s station was a chalkboard that advertised “minus fifty percent”, and nothing else. I assumed it meant half the staff was on vacation for half a year.

I browsed the menu again, and noticed that soft drinks were twenty percent more expensive than beer. But beer was cheap here. The atmosphere in Dedi is nice, in fact. Nice view, up on the third floor. I should point out, however, that we were in the restaurant section, not the buffet section. The buffet, if it hasn’t changed, was super expensive by the time you actually went to pay, as you had to buy everything individually. It really added up quickly, and frankly was sort of bland.

Mrs. Mingus said, “I need to buy a new wallet, and I know they have a sale downstairs. I’ll be back in just a minute.” Five minutes later she was back with a new wallet. Then the food was served. To be perfectly honest, I found my spicy beef wok to be absolutely boring. It was mildly spicy, yes, and it was perfectly crunchy, but there just wasn’t any taste. No soul to this food. It was even topped with dill. I didn't know people still cooked like that in restaurants. Dill and beef. Mrs. Mingus had to give her pasta to the kids, as they didn’t like their ratatouille crêpe. “It tastes like a rat made it,” Little Mingus joked in reference to the movie.

The ratatouille filling was indeed disgusting. Noxious, I would even say. It was like eating vegetables in acid sauce. It hadn’t gone bad, I knew exactly what the problem was. Canned tomatoes. They are very sour. Must add sugar and then boil for a long time. Some herbs and spices—flavor, to put it bluntly—would not hurt, either. “I don’t get it,” Mrs. Mingus said. “Usually the food is really good here.”

So rather than eating, Mrs. Mingus began to transfer the contents of her old wallet to the new one, and noticed that the zipper was broken. The part that you pull with your fingers was missing. She assured me she had inspected it before buying it. This had happened in the last ten minutes, but she could not find the little piece anywhere. She went to take it back to the shop.

“Mmm, this pasta is so good,” Little Mingus said. “It tastes just like butter.” Mrs. Mingus returned, rolling her eyes. “They wouldn’t give me my money back or exchange it,” she informed me. I hesitatingly asked why. “They’re going to send it off for an expert evaluation. Maybe I’ll get a new wallet or refund in thirty days.” The Estonian Consumer Protection law is anything but that.
—But you just bought it. Clearly it’s defective, I insisted.
“They said there’s no proof of that, and that I might have broken it on the escalator.” It was at that moment that I decided not to send back the ratatouille crap. I mean crêpe. It would do no good.

Mrs. Mingus, who was a regular in this fine dining establishment, noticed that today, the chef was a man. “Usually it’s a woman,” she pointed out. “She knows how to cook.”

We got up to leave, and I walked to the bar to pay, waiting for the woman in front of me to finish. When she did, I stepped up, card and receipt in hand, and Krista the waitress just walked away to wipe off dirty tables and remove completely empty plates of food. For dinner that night I made vegetarian tacos with beef. Mmm…yummy.

Where Are They Now? Volume III

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 12:03:00 +0000

Tomorrow night, New Year’s Eve, is a big night for me, as it will be my fourteenth New Year’s Eve in Estonia. Much bigger than last year, as that was only my thirteenth. And this year’s been a big year for many people in many ways. The economy started to recover, I fought for my life, many countries fought for their futures, many in Japan lost the fight with just a few moments’ notice, but most importantly, Tartu’s restaurant scene changed drastically.

Of prominent infamy, if I can say that, is undoubtedly the “Illegaard Scandal”. Most say that the owner skipped the country, stealing loads of dough from the bar and leaving a mass of debts, only to start over again in another country. This is not entirely true. He did skip the country and leave behind debts, but he did not start over again in another country, and he did not steal loads of dough because, well, there was none to steal. That’s why he left. Doesn’t excuse it of course, but it’s not quite what people think. Rumor has it the owner of the property (Illegaard was rented) acted foolishly as well. She has quite a bad reputation in Tartu. But those chili cheeseburgers are sorely missed.

Other losses this year before we move on to the newcomers: the Žen-Žen Buffet (not the main restaurant!)—it was decent, but way too expensive for what it was, and they were often out of rice. Confucius say, Chinese restaurant that run out of rice also run out of business.

Gruusia Saatkond—this is another classic example of poor management. It was brilliant, fast, delicious, cozy and affordable when it opened almost a decade ago. By the time it closed, service was hard to come by, prices had tripled, portions had halved, and it was cold inside that restaurant.

Vilde Lokaal—they’re not going anywhere, thankfully! But the head chef, the elusive Romanian, is, unfortunately. I do not know the details, but I hope the replacement is at least half as talented. But I did finally check out one of those comedy shows they hold every month. I saw the one a couple weeks ago, entirely in Estonian (but the host spoke English). There were a couple foreigners performing in Estonian. Tickets only five euros for two hours of non-stop laughter—what more could anyone possibly want? Well, I want more, so I’m going again.

Now for the good stuff: in the old Žen-Žen Buffet premises is now a new restaurant called Meat Market Steak & Cocktail. I haven’t had a chance to go yet, but it certainly sounds promising, although on their Facebook page I didn’t see many steaks or cocktails. The décor seems tasteful, however.

Illegaard is still open, but no food apparently.

There’s a new self-proclaimed nightclub where Gruusia Saatkond used to be. A nightclub, in a venue the size of my living room and bedroom. They offer food though, so I’ll check it out.

Right next-door is what I consider the Newcomer of the Year—Vein ja Vine. The name is Estonian, and means “Wine and Buzz”. Buzz as in alcohol-induced, not Lightyear. At first I thought it was a strip club, because I read the name in English. I look forward to reviewing it when the tables are put out in warmer weather, because “the wine bar”, as locals call it, is best enjoyed outdoors. The clientele are great, as are the staff.

I really like how Rüütli Street is slowly but surely filling up with restaurants, cafés, bars and such. Bit by bit it’s also being cobblestoned, the old Soviet-era asphalt disappearing. To make the place truly perfect, the city government should close it off to cars (and trucks!) entirely. Rüütli is a pedestrian street with a lot of traffic.

On Christmas Eve Father Mingus (he visited Estonia for the seventh time) and I took the kids to Town Hall Square. Although there was no snow, the dancing and free soup created quite the holiday atmosphere. Tartu is getting better at this every year. Perhaps next year, if there is no snow again, they could provide a snow machine? Heh-heh, that would be cool!

The city government, in their infinite wisdom, recently held a public brainstorming session on what to do with the river. Seriously, WTF? This river’s been here how many years, and the mayor just now noticed it? I can see it now, the mayor walking over the old Soviet crumbling eyesore of a bridge, the one redheads like to have sex on: “Where the hell did that come from?!” he exclaims, pointing down at the water.
—I don’t know, sir, Krista the city secretary replies.
“Did you know about this? Did you know that was there?”
—Yes, sir, I did. We all do.
“It’s so wide, so big, so wet! I’m going to…I’m going to name it after my mother!”

One of the genius ideas put forth was to build a dolphinarium. No comment. But allow me to submit an idea. One that is crazy, unorthodox, insane. Sacrifice some of the trees along the riverbanks and build cafés, bars, restaurants—buildings that don’t look like they’re made from prefab Legos—and put up lots of easily washable umbrellas to protect would-be patrons from all the mess those hundreds of thousands of birds leave every day.

Maybe even a city amphitheater, for nice, outdoor concerts in the summer, that are too small to fill up the Song Festival Grounds. Make all the seating out of Plexiglas, so you can see the dolphins swimming underneath.

But until that’s done, please respect yourselves by only eating at good places. Head uut!

VS

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 11:22:00 +0000

A while back I noted there was not much available in Tallinn’s Old Town in the way of food after eleven at night. There are a couple mystery meat kiosks, and also this place called Taco Express. It’s nasty. I’ve talked about it before. A friend suggested I check out a place called VS. The sign outside calls it “Kohvik VS” but all its menus, indoor signs and webpages call it “Café VS”. So café vs. kohvik. “Mingus, café is kohvik in Estonian.” Thank you, Anonymous.

I was in Tallinn for two nights, staying at a friend’s. It was the night of the big game—one of the Irelands vs. Estonia. Around four in the morning, the doorbell on the intercom rang.

“I’m staying at my friend’s place, in apartment three, but I don’t have the key. Can you let me in?” the slurred Irish speech was heard on the speaker.
—This is apartment three, you idiot. My host was visibly annoyed.
“Oh. Um, then my friend is in apartment four.”
—Nice try.

When we left the next morning, the Irish guy was asleep on the stairs inside the door. Asleep in a pool of his own vomit. Someone in the building had fallen for the trick, and the guy had fallen on the floor. My friend nudged him awake by gently tapping on the clean part of his back with his shoe and told him to leave. When we returned later, one of the other tenants had left a nice little sign on my friend’s door. There was no evidence of any stranger having created this work of modern art, and so we took the blame. The Irish guy just needed a place to sleep and splatter. It was a huge, organic mess.

Reinu Pizza has a museum in Tallinn, but it goes by its Estonian acronym—GAG. Pass this place if you’re coming from the train station, turn left at the Savisaar sign, go past the warning sign, go through the bar district and continue out of the Old Town for another ten minutes to get to VS, on Pärnu Road. It’s open late. Real late.

I went with some friends after going to the movies. The menu is long, the prices are acceptable, the portions are big, and the kitchen is visible. I had never been able to watch chefs at work, and now there were two such restaurants in Tallinn alone—VS and Vapiano. Apparently hygiene is a problem in the food industry, so these venues seek to reassure customers. If only they could do something about cashiers in supermarkets. So many times I’ve seen them wipe their noses and then weigh my vegetables.

One of my friends ordered some pasta dish. She said it was a bit bland. Another friend ordered a wrap. I don’t understand wraps. Vräppid in Estonian. The first time I’d had one was here, in fact. I thought it was an improperly made burrito, so I avoided them for years. I didn’t know they had become an international phenomenon during my time here. They’re pretty good usually.

I decided on the English breakfast. As it was English, it was nothing spectacular. A fried egg, fried tomato, sausage, bacon, beans…English vs. American breakfasts are interesting. The latter usually sports a stack of pancakes and something called a breakfast sausage. I love those. The closest thing to a breakfast sausage in Estonia is the grilled sausage in lamb intestines. It’s very close, in fact—the main difference is that with lamb entrails vs. breakfast sausage, you at least know what you’re eating. The American breakfast sausage might not even be made of material that was once alive. But it tastes good.

My host jokingly said, “I bet they have twenty kilos of bacon in the refrigerator here.”
—Yeah, you could probably just walk right in there and take it, I responded in jest. We’d had a couple beers. We were being silly.
“And do what with it?”
—Cover the walls, floor, ceiling, tables and chairs and the bar with bacon. A bacon bar.
“You probably shouldn’t do that,” Krista the waitress had meanwhile arrived to take our orders, overhearing our conversation and responding in English.
—Of course not, I reassured her.
“Seriously, don’t take the bacon,” she insisted.
—What?
“Don’t put bacon all over the place.”
—We were joking.
“I would have to be the one to clean it up,” she was getting more and more irritated.
—I’d like the English Breakfast, please, I tried to change the subject.
“OK. And anything else?” Krista asked.
—Extra bacon please. I couldn’t resist saying it.
She just stared at me, wondering if she could trust me to not line the windows with salty pig flesh.
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you extra bacon,” she finally decided.

It was me vs. the waitress. She won, because I simply didn’t feel like explaining that it was just a joke. My friends have since been back to VS. Each time, they ask for extra bacon, while looking at the ceiling. They ask where the bacon is stored. They ask how much it costs, and who does the cleaning. Krista still doesn’t get the joke. I’ve been telling everyone I know that if they happen to go to VS, ask about the bacon.

In hindsight, I remembered there had been two tables of Irish football hooligans. They’d been causing problems for Krista, and she apparently hadn’t been able to differentiate between our accents. She thought I, too, was from one of the Irelands. That explains why she just couldn’t take a joke, even though it wasn’t directed at her. But when it comes to Tartu vs. Tallinn and waitstaff understanding the often patronizing behavior of patrons, the result is a tie. I am beginning to understand why no waitress in Tallinn or Tartu has ever asked, “How are you today?” It’s not because she doesn’t care. It’s because she doesn’t want to know.

Kebab Pizza

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 13:47:00 +0000

“Eat my shit!” a man named Jukka screamed in a heavy Finnish accent. I think his name was Jukka. Someone kept saying, “United States of Jukka”. He was frantically nailing wood to an outhouse in a field in an effort to lock in a fat man who was equally frantically trying to get out. Pants down, he started crawling through the hole in the seat, getting covered in what Jukka had just suggested he eat, as they flooded the small room with tear gas. It was disgusting, it was uncalled for, it was playing loudly on the television while I was eating a Finnish kebob.

A little research revealed the show is called The Dudesons. Just so you know. I was eating in a new place on Narva Road in Tartu called Kebab Pizza. There can be no mistaking it—they sell kebabs and pizza. An interview I read with the owner revealed that he originally wanted to sell soup, too, but “Kebab Pizza Soup” wouldn’t fit on the sign.

The owner, Kristjan, said in the interview, “There are kebabs available in Tartu in a few places, but they’re not real. I don’t know if the seasoning is different or what, but something is wrong.” He also admits to having spent time in Finland (i.e. construction worker), and liked the kebabs there, so he decided to try out his own kebaberia in Tartu. And good for him! Honestly, I did enjoy my meal, and the price is right at three euros. He also had financial help in the form of several döners. Ha!

But I have to say I find it at least a bit odd he would use a Finnish kebab as his template. Kebabs are Turkish originally, specifically German Turkish, which was probably copied in Denmark and eventually made its way to Finland, and now on to Estonia. I had to remove a few pickles from my kebab.

As I studied the menu for the first time, I couldn’t quite figure out how this particular kebab enthusiast had decided to interpret an authentic kebob. The first thing I smelled when I walked through the door was ketchup, although I didn’t actually see or consume any. The kebab with freaks, first on the menu, seemed good. I asked about it.

“What is your kebab with freaks?” I asked.
—It’s a kebab, with freaks, Krista the waitress dryly replied.
“No bread?”
—We don’t serve leib here.
“No, I meant is it wrapped in a tortilla or something?” I pronounced “tortilla” correctly, the double ell pronounced like a wye.
—Of course it’s not in a tortilla, she corrected me with a double ell sound. It’s rolled in pita bread. It’s the kebabirull.
“Oh, ok. And what kind of sauces?” Please don’t be ketchup! Please don’t be ketchup! I silently prayed.
—Salad dressing and kebab sauce.
“Kebab sauce? What’s that?”
—It’s the stuff in this bottle.

She pointed to a bottle behind her that said, sure enough, “Kebab Sauce”. I ordered one. She said it would take about ten minutes. I was in no hurry, but I still couldn’t understand why it would take ten minutes to roll a kebab and squeeze out some sauce. But I think I know why now. I could hear all sorts of chopping and cutting in the kitchen. My roll/wrap/kebab was served with a smile. There was a basket on my table with a bottle of red liquid in it. Alas! ‘Twas no ketchup, but Tabasco! Awesome! The kebab thingy itself was nice and toasty warm, not scalding hot like when it’s fresh from the microwave, and even the lettuce and other fillings were warm, as was the pita. That was very nice, I must admit. But the pickle…

I found out about this place in the Postimees Online newspaper. Fifty comments. Most of them, as usual, from retarded monkeys. Some gems from among them:
—I hope it’s a real kebab, like in Sweden.
—A pureblooded Estonian don’t eat no kebab, our food is barley and pork.
—The main ingredient on white flour, lots of fat, some salad/onion/cucumber/tomato slices and the money will flow.
—We really need a diner where they offer sauerkraut and barley and fresh milk for a normal price.

The last two comments aren’t worthless, however. They’re critical of the fast food culture, and pine away for what they consider healthy food. The last comment, as you might not have noticed, mentions nothing about food with color, such as salad and onion and cucumber and tomato. And fresh milk, while indeed tasty, is loaded with fat and a whole host of other health risks. That’s why pasteurization was developed.

Other comments talked about name laws. While I strongly support local business using Estonian names and words (why be embarrassed about your language, Estonians!?), I think that with this place in particular, not much of a difference would be made if it were translated. Pitsa Kebaab. That’s because the foods themselves are imported concepts. You don’t hear tales about Uncle Vello, who lived three centuries ago, and his amazing noodle. No. Today, you hear about boys named Kevin-Ritšard who eat topsikoogid and tšipsid. Where did all the barley go, you might ask while sipping on a two-liter plastic bottle of Karuõlu (Bear Beer)?

But this place is nice. The guy had the guts to open a new place that didn’t offer mystery meat burgers, and from my experience today it was “quite normal”, in the Estonian sense (that means “pretty good” in Language). Hopefully he won’t get lazy and dependent on store-bought, pre-made ingredients and turn into a food assembly. I will definitely visit again, but I do hope he changes the channel on the television.

Pagaripoisid

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 08:53:00 +0000

Years ago a friend had a house in Võru County that was robbed. The thief took everything. Dishes, towels, furniture, electrical wiring, even a plank of wood from the floor. There was one lamp that apparently was not to his liking, however, as he left it there. He didn’t forget to cut off the plug though, and steal that, too.

Our friend was devastated, of course. She invited us over to have a few drinks and complain about the crime. But Mrs. Mingus and I had good news to brighten the mood at this small party—we had just that day discovered we were going to be parents. An interesting spectrum of emotions that night, ranging from rage and loss to delight and elation. Then our friend’s sister showed up with a pastry that changed my life forever.

A small, white cake, hard frosting on top, with a layer of apple-flavored something or other in the middle, nestled between what seems to be a sort of short bread. “What is this?” I asked in utter bewilderment. “It’s amazing!”
—It is Alexander’s cake.
“Who’s that?”
—No, in Estonian it’s “aleksandrikook”.

The next day I looked everywhere. I tried each different aleksandrikook I could find, all of them more or less disgusting. Some had chocolate swirls on top, some had pink with chocolate swirls on top, and they were all dry. Too dry to consume. It was like eating old hay. Then I found the right one: Pagaripoisid. Pagaripoisid (Bakery Boys) is a bakery factory in Tallinn. They have a small chain of cafés in various cities in Estonia—not, of course, in Tartu, however. This cake is my favorite store-bought pastry in the country.

Our friend’s thief was caught, and confessed. He served a month in prison and was ordered to pay for damages. He is now (or perhaps still is) an unemployed alcoholic. He will never reimburse our friends for his crime of desperation, and will eventually die a pauper.

In summer of last year we installed a water system at our summerhouse, also in Võru County. Fresh stream water, purified by a good water filter as well as a network of beaver dams upstream. After a long day of healthy, hard work in the yard, which is my passion in hot weather, we could finally take a shower in amazing water. (I was surprised…the water you bathe in really does matter!)

Just two months later, Mrs. Mingus went to check up on the place, and discovered the sauna had been robbed. The thief took everything. The water pump, water boiler, shower curtain, shower, a bucket, almost-empty bottles of shampoo, a bar of soap that probably had a hair dried on it, the pipes running along the walls, the outside lamp, and half a roll of toilet paper.

This reminded me of a story I once heard. A thief on Saaremaa robbed a house and took a dump under the tree by the window he’d entered through. He then wiped himself with his phone bill, which of course had his name on it, and he was quickly arrested. He was released three days later. At the same time, a newspaper headline announced that Edgar Savisaar had been missing for three days.

I was at home enjoying an aleksandrikook with my kids when my wife called, in tears. “They took everything,” she sobbed. I told her to call the police, and when they arrived more than half an hour later, they began their investigation.
“It’s very unlikely that we’ll catch your thief,” the officer said.
—But what can you do to catch him? my wife pleaded.
“We’ll just register what was stolen, and it will enter the official statistics.”
Then I had an amazing idea. It was risky, it probably wouldn’t work, but it could change the course of Võru criminalistics forever. Take fingerprints!
“He won’t have left any,” the officer tried to get out of doing his job. He was pressured to dust for prints, and found some on the window that was broken into.
“The prints won’t be on record,” the officer tried to get out of doing his job. A few months later, we got a call from the Võru police. The thief had been caught red-handed, emptying out another house. As it turned out, he had robbed more than twenty houses in the area, leaving prints which—the officer was right—were not on record, but which could now be linked to the man himself, because the officer had been pressured into dusting for prints. He confessed to all the crimes, and was due to stand trial.

I bought some aleksandrikooks to celebrate. By this time, Pagaripoisid had changed the color of the frosting to pink. It still tasted the same. That is the wonder of modern chemistry. Pink frosting tastes like white frosting, and pink powder can catch a criminal with white-power tattoos on his arms.

We drove to the Võru police station to file charges, and answered specific questions about the price of each item stolen. Luckily we had receipts for everything. The detective would only tell us his name, but we found out—by accident—that the criminal would have full access to all our personal information, which had been required by the police in filing our charges against him. Address, email, telephone, children, how often and when we went to our cabin, and so on. Such is the legal system in Estonia. The detective, I think her name was Anne Pihus (she had talent in the palm of her hand!), raised a stink when we demanded that our personal information be removed from the case file, but she eventually complied.

I searched for the thief on-line, and found him. He owed money to half a dozen banks, creditors, casinos and so on. There was no way we were ever going to get any money back from this asshole, who had apparently never done a hard day’s work in his life. Then a couple weeks ago, I looked him up again, just a week before his scheduled trial. He now had a Facebook account, and I could see photographs of him. He was a musclehead. A member of three different gyms and weight-lifting clubs. So that’s how he could single-handedly lift the boiler off the wall while it was still full of water. You could see the tattoos on his arms, one of which was also anti-gay. Sentencing him to jail would obviously be futile, because he was so homophobic he would not be able to properly enjoy his prison time.

Then his trial was just last week. He didn’t show up. I sent him a reminder about it on Facebook, as Mingus, which of course is my real name. He didn’t respond. He did, however, manage to sell his Võru apartment in an auction, for eleven thousand euros. How he was allowed to keep this with all his debts and crimes is beyond my comprehension. And doesn’t skipping trial count as contempt of court? Shouldn’t the police have immediately gone to arrest him? Apparently the Võru police don’t use Facebook. This morning, while sitting in Pagaripoisid headquarters in Tallinn, on Vana-Lõuna Street, enjoying an aleksandrikook fresh from the factory floor, I looked him up again. He’d updated his current city to Madrid, Spain.

I know of someone else in Madrid. At least he used to live there. The local Nazi ringleader Risto Teinonen was hiding out there for years. Now he’s been kicked out of his own Nazi party because—surprise, surprise—he’s actually gay.

The staff are polite in Pagaripoisid, but ordering a coffee seemed somewhat tricky. “…and I’d like a coffee too, please”, I asked politely.
—What size? Krista the waitress asked.
“Just a small.”
—We don’t have small.
“What do you have, then?” I was a bit confused already.
—We have medium and large.
“How can you have ‘medium’ without ‘small’?” I just couldn’t resist exploring the logic behind this.
—What do you mean? Krista asked.
I explained the theory of medium being a comparison of small and large, and that without the former, you could not have a comparison.
—Do you want a medium or a large coffee? she asked, getting exasperated.
“I would like a small coffee, which you call a medium,” I compromised. But she actually smiled, finally realizing the oddness behind their sizing system.

But regarding the thief—I’m not angry that I won’t get money back, but I am annoyed that I won’t get my time back. The time I spent installing the system, roughly twenty hours, and I will have to do it again. Come to think of it though, I will have paid for the water system twice, once it’s replaced, and I would have probably paid an equivalent amount a third time as well, in the form of tax money spent incarcerating this worthless person who in no way contributes to society. Now it is Spain’s problem. He will go to jail there eventually, I am sure.

But wait! I will, eventually, pay that same amount twice more for his more expensive Spanish prison expenses in the form of tax money spent on a financial bailout. So I can’t quite decide if the police are doing anyone a favor by freely allowing the thief to skip the country. Estonia basically already has the highest percentage of its population in prison in the European Union, and it has to let other countries help clean up its mess by letting its criminals go to these countries to export their skills.

Why can’t Estonia export pastries instead of criminals? They could make a killing on these aleksandrikooks. Export cake to pay for its criminals. I don’t think Pagaripoisid is the best pastry company I’ve ever tried. Far from it. But I do think it’s the best in Estonia, and the aleksandrikook is heavenly. The main reason why is that they are not afraid to use flavor and moisture in their products. Eesti Pagar, Astri, Pere Leib, Lõuna Pagarid, and other similar bakery chains are just boring and dry. Some of them make good kringels, but that’s about it. Fazer is decent, but their products are available absolutely everywhere, and they’re Finnish, not Estonian, so I can’t really include them in this list. Unless of course you take into account that many of their factory workers undoubtedly come from Estonia to escape prison time.

Sämmi Grill, and Sohva

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 10:49:00 +0000

“Grassroots” is a term used to describe a popular movement that has risen from several places at once, from the bare basics. A grassroots movement begins without leader, it begins without aim. Many are criticizing the “Occupy Wall Street” protests that have popped up all over the world for these very reasons. It obviously started in New York City, then spread. There are now Occupy Wall Street protests in Canada, Britain, France, Spain, Italy, Japan, Australia, Germany, Holland, Russia—except in Russia they’re calling it “Occupy Estonia”.

Just kidding.

And the main slogan all these disgruntled people are using is “We are the ninety-nine percent”, meaning they are not happy because they are part of the majority of the world, not the wealthy elite. Even in Tallinn the other day, there was a small group protesting in front of the Parliament. The movement is spreading here, slowly but surely. It’s picking up speed in Narva, though. Just yesterday, thousands gathered in the pothole-infested asphalt parking lot in front of City Hall, chanting, “We are the ninety-nine percent…who don’t speak Estonian!”

Just kidding.

Some readers have written me lately, asking that I not make fun of Russians. “Say ‘our eastern neighbors’ or ‘non-Estonians’ instead,” I’m told. What a ridiculous request! A country of almost a hundred and fifty million people, a hundred and fifty times the size of Estonia’s population, and I should refer to them as “non-Estonians”? By that logic, the whole world is non-Estonian.

Genetically, we’ve recently found out, Estonians don’t have very much in common with the Finns, contrary to traditional Fenno-centric thought. Instead, Estonians are virtually indistinguishable from their southern neighbors, and the millions upon millions of non-Estonians in the northwestern corner of Non-Estonia, to the east. The only differences really are language and certain cultural/behavioral aspects. Estonian is not a Slavic language, yet the neighbors to the south do speak a Slavic language. Slavic languages, of course, stem from the Non-Estonian language branch of Non-Estonia. Therefore, from this moment on, I will use the term “proto-Latvian” to describe the people who “democratically” elected a former KGB agent their president and live in the land of Non-Estonia.

But all joking aside, we’re all on the same team, even though we don’t always know it. We all want to be happy, safe, comfortable, warm, loved. These are innate wants, wishes, desires, requirements. You could even call these things “grassroots” human needs. Problems start to arise when we get organized in our pursuits of happiness. When we allow people to lead us, and when these leaders disagree on the best way to be comfy, and that’s not safe. Languages branch out and become unintelligible to one another, churches split and form endless denominations, governments have non-stop parties, corporations avoid taxes with their endless affiliates and subsidiaries.

The United States used to have an unofficial motto, “E pluribus unum”, which loosely means “Out of many, one”. Then a few decades ago Congress made the new and official motto “In God We Trust”. I seem to remember something from history about a separation of church and state. Instead of celebrating our plurality, our diversity, we now chose to favor the religious. But that’s what all this “Occupy Wall Street” stuff is about. Favoritism.

Another popular phrase in Latin is “Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno”. Most would be familiar with this phrase in relation to the Three Musketeers. Soviet Russia and the early United States had the first part of this phrase in common at least. One for all. One land for everyone, or as it happened in later Soviet history, one loaf of bread for everyone. But today, the protesters are fed up with the “All for one” attitude of what they call the “One Percent”.

Now, you’re thinking, what the hell does any of this have to do with food?

Twenty years ago, there was basically no restaurant culture in Estonia. The few places where you could eat all served the same things. There just wasn’t that much that restaurant-owners could buy in terms of diversity of ingredients. Pork, cabbage, potatoes, pickles and ketchup (cucumbers and tomatoes, respectively, in summer).

Then there was a revolution. We’ve all seen the old Soviet-era Estonian commercials for lemonade and minced chicken. Tallegg, Estonia’s premier chicken manufacturer (yes, “manufacturer”…they’re not free-range), introduced the “chicken patty” (kanapihv in Estonian). The chicken patty is what I refer to as “mystery meat”. Roadside kiosks across the country sell these in oversized white buns under the name “hamburger”. But it’s not a hamburger. It’s a mystery meat burger. You can buy them by the hundreds in the frozen foods section of every supermarket. And frozen French fries. This is the most popular food in Estonia even today. It is an evolutionary step in restaurant culture, for it “combines” ketchup with mayonnaise, it replaces cabbage with Chinese cabbage.

Their biggest fans are the ninety-nine percent. They are the leaderless, they are the aimless, they are…are you ready? They are the rullnokks.

Of course, there are alternatives available. But only the one percent can afford them. Beef instead of mystery meat? Forget about it, unless you are able to drive a new BMW instead of a used one. Proper salad instead of Chinese cabbage? Forget about it, unless you are able to own a bank instead of build one. Barilla on your pasta instead of Felix? Forget about it, unless you are able to talk to people instead of text them.

Mystery meat is full of chemical additives. Potato seasoning is full of unhealthy salt. White bread buns, soda, sour cream, potato chips—all full of fat. Estonia is the unhealthiest country in the European Union. Yes, all this stuff is extremely popular and, well, let’s face it—it’s easy money. But if you open a fast-food joint, you are committing manslaughter—unintentional homicide. The same can be said about burning coal or gas to keep warm or drive around, and a number of other ordinary, everyday activities as well. But this is a food blog. I’m just talking about the food. So allow me to speak for the ninety-nine percent (even though I am a non-Estonian): We demand better.

Or instead, maybe a better thing to do would be to speak to the one percent (even though I clearly do not represent them): It’s your responsibility. But you don’t care. And neither do they, because they don’t know. So nothing I’ve said in this review really matters.

Oh right, the review! On the way to Tallinn, somewhere near the halfway point, eat at Sämmi Grill. You’ll see signs to it on the highway. The interior is crap, as are the side dishes, but the beef is excellent. And when you get to Tallinn, do not eat at Sohva. I think it was on Rataskaevu Street in the Old Town. The interior is excellent, but the food is crap.

I was in a hurry to catch a train and I stumbled across this attractive basement restaurant. “How long does it take to serve your Houseburger?” I asked Krista, the waitress. She looked at a woman on a sofa reading the comics in the Õhtuleht newspaper.
—How long does a Houseburger take? she repeated my question. The woman replied that it would be less than ten minutes.
“Ok, I’ll order one then.”

And in three minutes, a plate of fries covered in potato seasoning was delivered to my table. The Houseburger was steaming. Steam is what happens when you microwave bread. The bread was soggy. The grated cheese hadn’t melted inside the white bread bun. Kanapihv. I began to wonder if, when the concept of a beef patty was introduced to Estonia, someone hadn’t translated the wrong word. Does “pihv” really come from “beef”, even though it means “patty”? Anyhow, there was a pile of Chinese cabbage, a slice of cucumber and tomato each, and a small dish of sour cream. As hard as it is to admit it, I would have preferred ketchup. This cost six and a half euros. Go up the street a bit, get a much better burger for the same price in Drink Bar.

Sohva is where the one percent go to be seen eating mystery meat. Photographs were not allowed.

Vassilissa

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 10:11:00 +0000

The following dialogue is taken from “Tipp Kokk” (Top Chef), a classic Estonian film starring Toomas Kruuse and Valve Kiilmaa:

“Top Chef was created to teach TBS. Tomato Based Sauce. Ketchup. You are the top one percent of all kitchen food assemblers. The elite. Best of the best. We’ll make you better.”

This past weekend the Mingus family decided to try out a new Russian-themed restaurant on Kompanii Street, right around the corner from Town Hall Square. The premises used to be a nightclub called Who Doesn’t Like Johnny Depp? A more appropriate name would have been Who Doesn’t Like This Place? The answer to that question explains why it quickly went out of business. Then it was called Gläm, which as you can tell by its name was an Asian restaurant.

Now it’s called Vassilissa, named for a Russian fairytale. Setting itself apart from the other Russian joint in Tartu, this one serves—wait a minute, they serve exactly the same foods. Lots of herring, sour cream, pickles, potatoes, deep-fried stuff, and vodka. In fact, menu-wise, it’s not really that different at all from Estonian restaurants, either.

“You just cooked an incredibly brave dinner. What you should have done was boil your potatoes! You don’t eat in this restaurant, your customers do! Son, your ego is cooking food your customers can’t appreciate.”

We ordered our food and a couple coffees. I was surprised to see that the coffee—when it was delivered in just a couple minutes—was served in mugs labeled “Café Noir”, which of course is another restaurant in Tartu. The competition. Is it just me, or is that a bit odd? I went on a tour of the A.le Coq brewery, and at the end they served beer. But they were out of A.le Coq, so they served Saku. Nah, just kidding. Maybe the mugs were stolen.

The menus are nice enough, except they, too, are a tad misleading. Instead of the word “Vassilissa” written on the cover, it’s an advertisement for a winery. Our kids, however, really enjoyed the play corner. It’s conveniently located off to the side, enclosed in soundproof, bulletproof glass that maximizes parents’ dining enjoyment and protects innocent children from the FSB.

I overheard another customer, a large, bald man dressed all in white drinking red Louis Latour wine, ask Krista the waitress how to get to the terrace, which he could see through the window at his table.
“Where’s the door?”
—If you would like to smoke, just go outside.
“Noh yeah, where’s the door?”
—It’s over there, she said, pointing to the main entrance.
“I want to go here,” he motioned to the window.
—It’s closed for the season.
That was a shame. What could be but probably wasn’t considered the nicest terrace in Tartu was closed on this beautiful day. The tables and chairs were still outside, however.

“You’re a hell of a food assembler. Maybe too good. I’d like to bust your butt, but I can’t. I gotta’ send someone from this vocational school to Top Chef. You screw up just this much, you’ll be cooking in a cafeteria full of rubber dog shit in Annelinn.”

The kids’ menu offered wieners and fries and ketchup. Mrs. Mingus ordered Chicken Kiev from the Louis Latour menu. I took a bite. It was delicious, in fact. And quite honestly, the potatoes were truly amazing. No potato seasoning. After a few bites, however, she complained it was getting a little too greasy. As for my selyanka (commonly translated to English as “thick Russian soup”), it was alright. I’ve had better. The rule for good selyanka is the same as good Mexican. The best is always found in the worst places. We enjoyed our visit to Vassilissa, so it stands to reason their soup would be average.

I’ve been tricked into eating a lot of ketchup lately. I had to ask. “Don’t,” Mrs. Mingus protested. “It’s going to be embarrassing!” I told her to watch and learn.
“Excuse me,” I asked Krista. “This selyanka was very good. Could I ask what’s in it?” She seemed generally pleased that I was happy, and eagerly proceeded to tell me all the ingredients from memory, and even a couple variations for preparing it. I was so impressed. This had never happened in a Tartu restaurant. “So there’s no ketchup in it, for example?” I timidly asked.
—No, no, of course not! she answered with a real smile. The service was quick, polite, overall a very positive experience. What it should be. I tipped accordingly. Most Estonians say they don’t tip. I say they should. I have no reservations about paying for a smile. Scowls are free anywhere you go in the world.

When I reached home, I looked up the “Tartu Kutsehariduskeskus”, or Tartu Vocational School. This is apparently where they teach Tartu’s food assemblers. I think I finally understand why most of the restaurants serve basically the same stuff, and why the more gourmet food always consists of what I call the Tartu Holy Trinity—red bell pepper, blue cheese and pineapple. The vast majority of the teachers and instructors were themselves educated in food assembly in the same school, or the Agricultural University. And their teachers and mentors were taught during the Soviet occupation. These people are taught to use ketchup on pasta, just like Estonian driving schools teach their students to back into parking spaces.

“You’ve lost that loving feeling, oh that loving feeling. You’ve lost that loving feeling, now it’s gone, gone, gone…”

WuPa Meals

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 08:11:00 +0000

A Finnish man who was being transferred to America decided to hire an architect to build him a new house. He asked that a sauna be built in the basement and gave specific instructions on how this was to be done. When he and his family arrived, the architect gave them a personal tour of their new home. It was a beautiful house, and he took particular pride in leading them to the basement, opening the door to the sauna. And what a beautiful sauna it was! The Finnish man, however, was a bit shocked to see wall-to-wall carpeting on the floor.

On Küüni Street in Tartu, among the myriad of other fast food joints that have appeared in the past couple years, there is a new place called WuPa Meals that sells bratwurst. Bratwurst, you may ask? It’s a German sausage. Russians may read the word and think “brother sausage”. WuPa Meals, you may ask? Hip-hop fans might get excited about the Clan. The Wu-Tang Clan.

Mrs. Mingus told me about the sign outside that advertised “German sausage”, fully knowing that I would be there within a few minutes. When I arrived, I just couldn’t believe my eyes. It was true. You can now buy “brats” in Estonia. Why am I so excited about brats?

Where I’m from, brats are a regional specialty. They are as common on the grill as “šašlõkk” in Estonia, and like šašlõkk in Estonia, brats are an imported concept, like racism. We typically boil them in beer, then throw them on the grill. You can buy them at bars, ball games, fairs and festivals. Fat men stand in the backyard sprinkling water on the coals to put out the fat flames dripping from the meat. Brats are served in a large hotdog bun with ketchup, mustard and sauerkraut. Estonians should be familiar with all three of these condiments.

Mine was served in a most peculiar manner. I was reminded of the Finnish man’s sauna. The brat was on the plate, next to the bun, which had been sliced in the wrong direction, ketchup and mustard on the side. This was the first time I’d ever eaten a brat with a fork and knife. Cut off a piece of meat, dip it in mustard, dip it in ketchup, make an awkward movement of putting the fork in your mouth while simultaneously biting off a chunk of sliced bread. But at least it wasn’t a standard hotdog bun. Freshly-baked mini-baguette.

But it was good. I grew up eating brats, and I can honestly say this WuPa brat was decent. Is it imported? Local? No clue. My only suggestion for the owners is that they serve it like a hotdog, and consider making sauerkraut available. Stick a grill outside too, serve them to go. They’ll make a killing! Less than two euros. This is a great, wonderful alternative to the mystery meat burgers that run rampant through the streets of Tartu.

Everything is cooked as it’s ordered. That said, ask Krista the waitress to serve the brat in the bun in the proper manner. If you order fries, ask her not to put potato seasoning on it, or salt. That was simply overpowering. Here’s an idea: when I make fries at home (not very often), I bake them, put them in a paper bag, sprinkle in some garlic salt, paprika and chili powder, close the bag and shake the hell out of it. Chili fries rock.

In WuPa Meals you can also get baguette sandwiches. Not sure where they get the baguettes from, as I didn’t smell anything resembling a bakery when I was there, but these baguettes are free of burned cheese on top and they are relatively free of spelling errors as well. Most places that have any sort of baguette describe them as “baquettid”, “bägett”, “paakueetid” or even “pägot”. That last one is a tad offensive. WuPa is the one place in Tartu that appears to have cared enough about their business to put their menu through a simple brat-damned spell-check before printing it out.

Afterwards, I went to the shop to buy some gum. As I walked through the security gate at the entrance and turned to go straight to the only register open, a rather tall man, studenty-looking, rushed in front of me with his basket and then snail-walked, not letting me pass. We got in line. One item at a time, he slowly emptied the contents of his basket onto the conveyor belt. Sour cream, bread, a kohuke, doctor sausage, a Red Bull. One…at…a…time… Krista the cashier gave him an exasperated look. Then it came time to pay.

He pulled out his wallet, which I could see was completely empty save one card. He flipped through his wallet so slowly that even time got bored and started going in the opposite direction. He put his wallet back in his pocket. It was now three minutes earlier than when I entered the shop. He searched his pockets, turning them inside out. Now it was yesterday. He opened his wallet again, located the single card and put it in the payment terminal. He entered his code over the course of the last decade and then it was my turn.

Even though time was moving in reverse, Krista had somehow become an elderly woman. I wanted the man to move so I could pay before she retired. As I was handing her the pack of gum, the man interrupted and asked for a bag. Krista mumbled her dying words, “Ten cents”, then collapsed into a pile of dust. The man pulled out his wallet again and began the whole routine once more. I put exact change on the counter and started walking away. The man grabbed my sleeve and asked, “Can I have ten cents? I can’t find my card.”

I walked outside and almost got trampled by a horse. The rider shouted at me in German, eating a bratwurst. It was the day before the Second World War. I walked to the Estonian border and changed the direction of the arrow on the road sign that would tell the advancing Nazi and Soviet armies how to get to Estonia.

Seventy years later, when time caught up, Estonia had been spared the war, the occupation, the now-defunct political ideologies and massacres and deportations and decades of forced ketchup-consumption. Estonia had been free to develop in its natural manner. It was richer than Norway, the roads smoother than Sweden, the trains more modern than Denmark, there was not a single shaved guy in construction pants standing outside his old BMW drinking a Red Bull complaining about gay people. The man from the shop was walking ever so slowly down the street with a bag full of vegetables. I walked into a new restaurant that had just opened called WuPa and ordered a brat. It was served with chili fries and sauerkraut. Krista the waitress was smiling. A Finnish man moved to America and his sauna was still carpeted, however.

Muffin

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 10:47:00 +0000

Mrs. Mingus and I had a craving for muffins. I’d recently made beer muffins with graham flour. Delicious. We wanted to see how they compared to Võru’s finest muffins, so we drove to Kohvik Muffin, on Freedom Street. In a beautifully restored house, the first thing you notice upon entering is a cake stand. No muffins. The bar is covered in a selection of homemade pastries. No muffins.

“Do you have muffins?” I asked the waitress, Krista.
—No.
“No, never? Or you’re just out at the moment?”
—We’ve had them a couple times. Why? she asked.
“Because your place is called Muffin.”
—Right, but we’re not named after muffins.

She said this in a tone that suggested, “You should magically know this.” Magic muffins. Now that would be a great gimmick for a bad restaurant. Pass them out to all customers before their food arrives, and people will enjoy their meals! They’ll get the munchies, too, and order more food. Great idea especially if you serve cakes, like Café Muffin.

The menu shows breakfast is served all day. They also have a section titled “Steaks”. These aren’t your typical steaks, however. They have cheese schnitzel steak, chicken steak, trout steak and pasta steak.

“What kind of steaks do you have?” I asked.
—We don’t have steak here, she replied matter-of-factly. I should have magically known. I could really go for a magic muffin.
“Because your menu has steak, but there’s no steak.”
—We have pizza.
“Oh.” I looked at the four pizzas on the menu. Chicken, something else, something else, and minced meat. “What kind of meat is it?” I enquired about the last one.
—Minced meat.
“Right, but what kind?”
—Minced meat. She looked at me like I was stoned.
“Beef, pork, mixed, chicken, turkey…?”
—Pork.

Naturally. Minced pork is an internationally favorite topping for pizza. I asked more about the pizza. Krista assured me everything was made from scratch in the kitchen, including the crust, and that their pizzas were huge, for at least two people. I was intrigued. I ordered the chicken pizza.

Mrs. Mingus ordered the daily special. Chicken and potatoes. In my mind, I ate several magic muffins. This made me hungry enough to eat a two-person pizza, and I would enjoy anything they served me. Mrs. Mingus’s food came first. It was amazing! I was completely in love with the wise selection of Santa Maria seasonings. The potatoes had potato seasoning, the chicken had poultry seasoning. The peas and green beans mixed in were fresh from a Bonduel can.

Ten minutes later my pizza was served. “Enjoy!” Krista said.
—Thank you.
“Would you like some ketchup and mustard as well?” I looked at her. Yes, she was talking to me.
—Sorry?
“Ketchup and mustard? For your pizza?” The poor girl was just being polite and trying to do her job well. And she was.
—No, but thank you. I nearly gave myself a bloody lip I was biting down so hard in an effort not to laugh.

Smothered in athlete’s cheese, my pizza was perfect food for the munchies. I was jealous I hadn’t ordered the daily special, but luckily the pizza had the exact same chicken on it. Pizza Santa Maria, it should be called. Or maybe Pizza Santa Maria di Heinz, or di Felix, to describe the sauce as well. When you’re as stoned as I wanted to be at that moment, ketchup on pizza is exactly what you want. With mustard.

Luckily my kids ate the pizza. They finished it in a couple minutes, wasn’t so big after all. And as I had had so many magic muffins, I was still hungry. “Let him eat cake,” Little Mingus told her mother. We each got a slice, and I ordered one of the homemade pastries, a maple syrup thing topped in sliced almonds. I have to say this was delicious, regardless of how stoned I thought I was.

The cake and pies were lime, orange and jam. The jam couldn’t be identified, but it was red. Strawberry? Raspberry? Don’t know. Wasn’t too impressed. The orange pie tasted very good for the first couple bites, but it left an aftertaste that stayed with me for a few hours. Orange-flavored burps. Not very pleasant. The lime pie was very good. I make a lemon pie, and this was very similar. However, I could clearly recognize the green colored sugar available in any shop. That specific shade. Real lime should be more than enough to color it green. Was anything here in Muffin actually made from scratch, and not assembled from pre-processed food additives?

A good friend of mine has also eaten here. To quote him, “Muffin’s warm food blew chunks.” My response: “You just have to be stoned to enjoy it.” This place was packed, after all. It filled up right after we arrived. There was a constant line at the counter to order. They all magically knew all about the steaks on the menu. They were regulars, they liked their ketchup, and they wanted more. Each table had three or four adults sitting in complete silence, patiently waiting the twenty minutes for their meals to be assembled in the factory kitchen. They had all eaten their magic muffins before sitting down and staring at the table.

A Sunday in Võru

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 21:17:00 +0000

“Let’s get outta’ here!” Mrs. Mingus urgently suggested this past Sunday, early in the afternoon.
—You mean, go back to Tartu? I asked, afraid she was tired of being at our family’s countryside cabin in Võru County. I’d been cooking experimental dishes for days, and didn’t want to see the end in sight.
“No, let’s go to Võru. I want to try that new muffin café called Café Muffin. Get some coffee, too.”

That sounded reasonable. I was anxious to get some steaks, if I could find them. Surely from among the six or seven large supermarkets—which I think is probably a lot for a town of fifteen thousand—one would have beef. So we loaded up the Little Minguses and drove the fifteen minutes into “the city”, as locals referred to it.

Muffin was closed. It was Sunday. Not a good day for cafés to do business apparently, with everyone working hard. It didn’t look like people were working hard, however. There were throngs of pedestrians wandering the streets. Many were bald, many wore baseball hats that seemed to be a size too big, many wore suits and sandals with grey socks. We joined them, wandering around, looking for coffee.

“What about Õlle 17, on Jüri Street?” I suggested. It was closed. Looked like it had gone out of business. “There’s a Kalevi Café a couple blocks up,” I suggested as an alternative. It was closed. Now it was the Võru Café. It was closed. Next to it was an odor shop and café called Aroomipood or something like that. It was closed.

“What about the Spring Café, down by the water?” We’d been there before. The place is pretty cool, but the service slow, food bland. But they had coffee, and you could sit on a terrace overlooking the lake. We got back in the car and drove there. It was closed. There was a family camped out in a tent on the beach in front of it. I overheard a motherly voice say, “Quiet Kevin, they’ll open tomorrow!”

“What about Katariina Café, on Katariina Alley?” one of us asked. I can’t remember who anymore. Caffeine withdrawal was affecting my memory. Talk was their pastries were good. Their food was not. It was heated-up, readymade, store-bought meals. We drove there. It was closed. Renovations. Not open on Sunday anyhow. There were confused people walking around outside. They looked hungry. They were holding wads of euros in their clenched fists.

We ventured to a local mall called Kagu Keskus. There was a corner café called City Coffee in it. It used to be a burrito joint. Burritos, in Võru of all places. They were very good, and cheap. Friendly staff. They were closed. The new place offered Russian ravioli and sour cream. There was a line for sour cream. The coffee machine had a sign taped on it that said “Accident”.

We’d heard about an Asian restaurant, in Võru of all places. We searched for and found it, on Freedom Street. It was in a gravel parking lot in an old, abandoned Soviet factory. We drove on. Probably closed. Sunday.

“Fine, let’s go to Ränduri,” Mrs. Mingus acquiesced. We like Ränduri, on Jüri Street again. Thing is, we go there too much, and it’s pricy. It took us a while to get there because of all the passers-by traveling via the network of crosswalks that connects the city. The Võru Transit Authority, a friend once called it. There was a line. The place was packed, I should add. Ränduri knows how to do business. I saw a black guy sitting at the public computer, watching YouTube videos. In Võru, of all places. Two kids walked in from the street and approached him. “It’s our turn,” they said in unison. The potatoes and house cake are amazing in Ränduri.

On the way home (no beef at any of the shops…Sunday?), we passed a nightclub called Club Tartu. Out of town we found a village called Sänna, on the highway to Valga. There was a sign that advertised a “Skywalk”, and it sounded interesting. We had time to kill. At first, our kids were eager to use the playground, then they saw the goats wandering across the village square in front of the manor house. We found the sign for the Skywalk and followed it.

This is actually pretty cool. A tiny little village, and the manor house is being renovated. It already houses a library with WiFi. Never understood that term, “wireless fidelity”. We’ve been married eleven years, and we’ve never needed wires. We started walking down the wood-lined path, between the buildings and toward the tiny creek, called the Pearl River. The goats were off to the side in a tree-canopied pasture, running away from us, leashes dragging behind.

Basically you walk through the manor park, which has been partially restored, and every few meters you see a sign that displays information about a planet. This has absolutely no relevance to anything in the manor park, except that you’re on a planet when you do this. But still, I didn’t know that Venus had an axial tilt of just over two degrees.

Moving on, you eventually come to a hill with steps leading to a large model of the sun suspended over a platform with benches, shrouded in trees. It’s a nice walk, in fact, very easy for kids. “Where’s Pluto?” my older daughter asked. She cried when I told her it wasn’t a planet any longer, so probably wasn’t on the tour.

We decided to rent some bikes, as we’d seen an ad for it, and see the rest of the Skywalk. We asked an Asian guy (in Sänna, of all places!), who was wearing an official T-shirt for something, if the bike rental was open. “No, it’s Sunday.” We decided to stop by the shop, but it was closed. On the way out of Sänna, we saw hundreds of head of cattle. A cattle farm? In Sänna, of all places.

“Maybe they have steak,” Mrs. Mingus suggested. The autumn sun was high in the trees on this beautiful day in Võru. In Tallinn, there’s a Club Hollywood. In Tartu, there’s a Club Tallinn. In Võru, there’s a Club Tartu. In Sänna, there’s a library and a map of the solar system.

Lõvisüdame

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 20:08:00 +0000

Deep at the heart of the “Athens of the Emajõgi”—wait a moment, let me clarify that epithet a bit. Athens is a Greek city that needs no introduction. The Mother River (Emajõgi) is a river that does need an introduction. Tartu, a.k.a. Athens, sits on the larger branch of this river, known as the “Big Mother”.

Deep at the heart of the “Athens of the Emajõgi” sits a small restaurant on Town Hall Square called Lõvisüdame, or “Lionheart”, apparently named for Richard I of England. Richard the Lionheart, the king of England, neither spoke English nor lived in England. Estonia has lots of experience with leaders like these.

Estonia also has lots of experience with other things, like this restaurant, that don’t really belong. I’m not talking about dirty Finnish farners or neighbors from the East. I’m talking about attitudes. A lot of press has recently been given to the whole “love-it-or-leave-it” attitude. If you don’t like Estonia, leave.

And, well, there is a certain logic to it. I personally don’t feel that it’s a healthy way to look at things—either as the expunger or the expunged—but I will say that I think the wrong people are heeding this advice. Young professionals, promising university students, tons of valuable people are just constantly leaving. I’ve known a lot of them. They want a better future, so they go sell books door-to-door in the States, they pour beer in London, they work for the European Union in the Athens on the Mediterranean (this last one makes balls-all sense to me!).

Sit down and have a conversation the next time one of your friends wants to leave. “Money,” they invariably reply. “It’s too expensive here.” Well, that’s true. Beer in Holland these days costs less than twice as much as Estonia, but the salaries are much higher. Property in Estonia is generally on par with most Western markets in terms of price, but not quality.

But once you start this conversation, you have to have a couple drinks. Here’s where it gets interesting. Money quickly ceases to be the reason for leaving. “I don’t know, people are just so negative here. Grey.” I’ve heard this a million times. Or rather, a few hundred thousand. The whole population is only a million now. “People are just nicer abroad.”

It is not my intent to justify or defend this attitude. Just to catalogue it. Yet if I’m not wrong, and all the people who appreciate kindness and courtesy are leaving, who’s left?

The people who are left are the people who tolerate greyness? Mediocrity? I don’t think so, not necessarily. But I do think that the people who are left are specifically those who tolerate places like Lõvisüdame.

Lõvisüdame is the very first place anyone who sets foot on Town Hall Square will see. It’s the world’s first impression of Tartu. Compared to what else is available, the prices aren’t bad, but this review isn’t about price. It’s about tolerance. And taste. Mrs. Mingus and I ordered a couple of daily lunch specials here, and we were finished eating before we knew we’d been served. That’s how memorable it is.

Boiled potatoes with potato seasoning, a carefully and exquisitely chosen salad mix of cabbage, carrot and Luunja cucumber (Luunja is near Athens, just down the Big Mother). I should start calling this salad the CCCP salad (P is for pickle). I wasn’t sure, until I saw the receipt, if I had eaten chicken or pork. Yet as a meal, I can honestly find no fault with it. I would have no problem with my kids eating this in their elementary school cafeteria. This, however, is Tartu’s premier restaurant locale.

But as someone who chooses to stay and fight for a better life in the country they call home—as opposed to just going away—I must ask this question of all who would knowingly eat in Lõvisüdame: Have you no national pride? Don’t you expect better of your fatherland? I mean come on, there are literally dozens of better places for the same price within a two-minute walk. Why is this place even allowed to exist?

I recently ran to a Rimi grocery store in the evening to pick up a couple ingredients (I think I was out of Santa Maria’s kartulimaitseaine and Knorr’s kanapuljon). I couldn’t justify buying a plastic bag for my goods, but I didn’t have any pockets to put them in, either. The free, clear plastic bags had recently been removed from the customer’s reach at the register. Cost-saving measure, I assume.

“Could I have a bag, please?” I asked Krista, the cashier. She was a big mother, too, with a bad attitude.
—I don’t understand.
“A bag. Please.”
—What? I don’t understand you.
“A sack made of plastic, that I can put my stuff in,” I explained.
—We don’t have any, she said, staring at me vacantly.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing behind the register.
—What?
“That clear plastic stack of things.”
—That’s a “plastic bag”.
“Could I have one, please?” I repeated.
—No.
“Why?”
—I don’t understand.
“What the hell is that?!” I pointed behind her again, this time into the distance. When she turned, I took a bag.
—Hey, you can’t do that! she protested.
“What? I don’t understand.” And I left. I decided I wasn’t going to tolerate that stuff.

Pizza Grande

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 07:29:00 +0000

“I’m starving!” Mrs. Mingus flatly stated at eleven at night in Tallinn after a concert we’d recently attended.
—Where do you want to eat? I asked.
“Where can we?” came the reply. We weren’t too familiar with the after-hours food scene in the Old Town area of Estonia’s capital, so we asked our friends—foreigners who were long-term residents of the area and locals alike. Apart from the couple of kiosks that served mystery meat burgers soaked in a ketchup-and-mayonnaise potion, the unanimous answer was: Taco Express.

Tex-Mex food in Estonia? Is it authentic? Keep in mind that “Tex-Mex” is the term used to loosely describe Americanized Mexican food. No, this place was not authentic. We’d eaten at Taco Express before. This was hardly standard fare Tex-Mex. More like “Est-Mex”. Everything was straight from a jar and smothered in the ill-named “Athlete Cheese”—the cheap Estonian equivalent of North America’s fabled spray cheese for crackers. Taco shells served soggy. Nachos accompanied by sour cream and not salsa. Did we have a choice?

We waited for Krista the cashier to approach the register, and then placed our orders. Just before paying, she volunteered the most unusual information: “It will take at least half an hour before your food is served.” The restaurant was empty. We cancelled our orders and left. We were tired.

To be honest, I’m surprised at the lack of food available late at night in the capital of an entire country. Especially a capital that is representing all of Europe as its “Capital of Culture”. Like I said, there are those mystery meat burgers from Tall Egg that are assembled and sold everywhere…but is that how Estonia wants to be remembered by legions of visiting looters from the British Isles? Even Tartu has ample food in the late hours. And on top of that, Illegaard has arguably the best burgers in the country now, orderable until two. There’s even a Tex-Mex burger. At only two and a half euros. Whole-beef patties imported from Ireland.

Our host assured us he had snacks at his home. But our host was a notorious bachelor, and a Texan on top of that. We shared a package of flour tortillas. Just the tortillas. At least we weren’t hungry, and we did get some semblance of Tex-Mex. Ah, to be a gringo.

On the way out of town late the next morning, I decided that I couldn’t wait for the food on the train, that I wanted a quick, cheap, tasty and filling meal. I knew just the place: Pizza Grande, on Väike-Karja Street. According to the name, it was Tex-Mex!

Now, I am very familiar with this place. Over the past five or so years, I have taken at least ten visiting friends and family members to eat here. All are satisfied. “I didn’t expect pizza like this in Eastern Europe!” and “Good crust!” are common responses to the standard in-meal question most commonly asked by polite hosts: “So?”

This place is cool because it is literally located in a hole in a wall. Word on the street is it’s popular with the Russians, but when you’re sitting inside you wouldn’t know, because no one is talking. They’re all busy eating. After walking through a tiny, cozy courtyard, you descend the steps to the bar, where you order. A small is large enough for a hungry man, and a large is enough for three men with small appetites. That is, if you can all agree on what to order.

The selection is broad, and you can substitute ingredients at your whim. But do not dare bring your own drink into this establishment. Otherwise you are liable to be fined, or worse—your drink could be confiscated! Wait a minute, fined? Who’s going to fine you? Get caught drinking something you brought and I can fully understand having your drink being taken, being asked to leave or—most humanely—being asked to pay for a drink, but a ticket? That sounds horribly Danish.
“You must pay penalty. No own drink here.”
—Um, yeah, sorry about that. How about I just put it away and order a new one from the bar?
“No, you must pay fifty euro for break rule.”
—Come on, man. Be reasonable. I walked in with a bottle of water. It’s hot outside.
“No hot in Estonia. Pay fine or no pizza for you.”
—Sounds good to me. I’m going to Taco Express!

I can’t remember what I ordered, but it was a somewhat spicy pizza, with slices of jalapeños on it. Mrs. Mingus ordered a creation with pesto and chanterelles. Her pizza was interesting. Somewhat in the bad sense of the word. Chanterelles just didn’t fit with the whole concept of “pizza”. But that’s personal preference, and I was still very satisfied—as always—with my pizza.

The condiments are interesting. Apart from salt, basil and oregano, there was also soy sauce (soy sauce is always popular on pizza, right?) and not just ketchup, but a selection of ketchup—normal, and spicy. That is one thing America should learn from Eastern European pizza. Ketchup is a sorely missed ingredient in Chicago pizzerias.

Vomit.

Yet I do highly recommend this place. I don’t crave it, like I would crave a deep-dish calorie bomb in the States. But the premises are nice, and you can even have it delivered. Apparently there’s a pizza delivery service for any pizzeria in the city. What a great idea for business-owners. Instead of paying for your own fleet of acne-crusted moped-drivers without a license, there’s just one service for everyone. You call, order from anywhere you like, and they deliver. I assume it’s that simple. I don’t live in Tallinn and so haven’t tried it. I wonder if you can pay by card on your front doorstep.

That would just be too bad to be true, on second thought. Accessibility of junk food is a true hallmark of a modern, Western society. Instead of the old-fashioned method of hunting for hours for food under the drunken influence of Suka—I mean Saku—you just touch a piece of plastic a few times, wait a short while, pay by plastic for a plastic bag full of cardboard boxes, and inhale until you have to loosen your plastic belt. Now here’s a novel, modern, Western idea! A fresh salad delivery service! Visitors would definitely remember that one.

Ülikooli Kohvik

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 06:51:00 +0000

During my university days, I had the privilege of studying at no fewer than four schools in as many countries. Each had an official cafeteria for students, with the exception of one—the University of Tartu. And when I say “official”, I mean a whole network of places for students to dine in, at subsidized prices. You can buy meal tickets, vouchers, holes punched in a tram-style passcard—or in the case of my alma mater, the student card was used as a debit card.

These places were pretty good, too. Obviously my American school had separate pizzerias and burger joints, in addition to the standard cafeteria-tray fare of wholemade dinners dished out by angry lunchladies who somehow got promoted from the local elementary schools. Hairnets and nametags. A sixty-something woman named Olga (yes, we even have Olgas in the States) with an ample collection of facial warts that, both theoretically and hopefully, should not testify to the quality of the food served.

But what about the Ülikooli Kohvik, or University Café? Isn’t that the flagship restaurant of a university that has survived more wars than an Estonian octogenarian? No. It occupies university-owned premises, yes, but it is a private operator. Not to fret—the lunch specials in the café part are more than decent. Yet before I get to that, I should state that the “studenty” part, downstairs on the first floor, was being remodeled when I went for this review.

In the late nineties, when I arrived in Tartu, I kind of think I remember this place serving food. Mostly pastries, if memory serves correctly. You could buy coffee as well, but if you wanted sugar or milk, you had to pay an extra five senti or so. Per spoon. They would watch.

Then the whole building was completely gutted and refit. In all honesty, the entire complex is the most attractive and inviting eatery in all of Tartu. Despite still having to pay extra for sugar. That didn’t last long though. These vestiges of Soviet mentality are disappearing. You still have to pay for ketchup at local franchises of international fast food chains (but not in Finland!), but hopefully the condiment police will soon focus on more pressing issues in Tartu’s restaurants, like keeping food stocked (I have heard of three occasions in the past month where City Burger—guess what they serve—has been out of burgers).

Now suddenly I remember why I haven’t been to this place for years. It’s just a funny story now, as I’m sure nothing like this would ever happen in Tartu in this modern age of WiFi and instantly-available restaurant reviews. When Mrs. Mingus was expecting our first child years ago, we tried out the new Ülikooli Kohvik. She had a craving for herring, sour cream and onion on dark bread—an Estonian classic. Easy to prepare, quick. She waited for forty-five minutes.

When it was finally served by Kristiina the waitress—before she moved to Brussels—there was a tremendously long, bright orange hair smothered in the sour cream.
“Excuse me,” my wife said. “There’s a hair in my food.”
—It’s not mine, Kristiina replied.
“It’s not?”
—Of course not.
“But it’s orange.”
—And?
“I don’t have orange hair.”
—Perhaps it’s your husband’s?
“He doesn’t have long, orange hair, either.”
—What do you want me to do?

It was clear that an apology would not be given.

“Could you bring a new sandwich?”
—Yes, but you will have to wait.
“How long?”
—Probably the same. Or you could just pull the hair out.
At this point, I interrupted. “Just bring the bill for the coffee. We’re not paying for this.”
—But she took a bite.
“Well, not exactly. She tried, but as you can see, the bite is still on the fork, intertwined with your hair.”
—That’s not my hair.
We paid for the coffee and left to find a bald waitress in another café.

Years later, Mrs. Mingus and I took the Little Minguses to the playground and then for lunch in the Ülikooli Kohvik. A beautiful warm, sunny day, hints of autumn wafting over the newly cobblestoned city streets. The second-floor terrace is a mystery to me: why isn’t this the main bar of the university? It’s amazing. It’s underused. It’s populated by lost tourists with gray hair and scarf-wielding university professors who forgot they were on sabbatical.

As I made my way from room to room to photograph the simply splendid interiors, I was nervously followed by our waitress—Krista—who was afraid I might try to take the leftovers on the tables from some conference that had supposedly ended that day. Or the day before. I assured her I was just an avid customer, not a crumb thief.

If you buy the favorably-priced daily specials for just over three euros, the café is generous enough to give you a glass of water. On the house. In most countries, as far as I know, it’s actually illegal to charge for tap water.

On this particular day we were served roast beef. It was delectably tender. The kids bragged of how they could eat without using a knife, unlike grown-ups, who needed knives for soup even (kid logic). They simply broke the meat with their forks. The accompaniments, however, were savagely average. Surely the great chefs and cooks and food-assemblers of Tartu’s vast array of restaurants can come up with something better than meat doused in sauce next to boiled and skinned potatoes and Chinese cabbage salad with shredded carrots and chunks of beet. J’aime bien manger de beet.

Sadly there is often little diversity in Tartu, on many levels. But is diversity actually a good thing? The jury seems to be out on that one. Several people’s concepts of diversity would definitely contradict with those of Merkel or Sarkozy. Or maybe now even Cameron. Or maybe not. Personally, I think diversity enriches.

We did, however, enjoy the atmosphere so much that we went back again the next day, this time just for coffee. Mrs. Mingus had a latte that was simply too sweet for her to finish. My inner Yankee, luckily, has an awe-inspiring tolerance for glucose.

On the way out, I noticed something I’d never seen before—a shop for university memorabilia. How in the world they translated the Estonian on the sign, “University of Tartu memorabilia on sale”, to “University of Tartu souvenirs available at [the] office of the Student Council” baffles me. But it’s there. You can get mugs, pins, maybe a shirt, postcards and such. The website needs to be updated though, as Estonian URLs are now diacritically-friendly. Instead of tyye.ee, it can be tüüe.ee. I guess ut.ee could even now be tü.ee. The wisdom of enforcing that would obviously be questionable, however, as exchange students from the university’s fine partner schools in the States (for example University of North Carolina satellite schools) might have trouble accessing the server with a standard English keyboard.

Kapriis

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 21:00:00 +0000

“There are tons of great places to eat in Tallinn. They have so much variety there. The food’s good, you get a large portion, and it’s not really that expensive. It’s nothing compared to London, or Paris, or even Stockholm of course, but it’s not bad. Tartu, on the other hand, doesn’t have a single good place to eat. Probably because of the students. They’ll eat anything.”

This was said during a conversation I recently had with an Estonian friend who had grown up in Võru and now lived in Tallinn for six months. His job requires him to visit Tartu twice a month, often overnight. And like most “Generation Next” Estonians, he somehow managed to travel to the four corners of our spherical planet. He has an extensive planking collection in a Facebook photo album from five continents. And of course, Australia is one of them.

“What do you cook at home?” I then asked him.
—Nothing special, he replied. You know, the usual.
“No, tell me,” I pushed. “Are you that guy at the shop who buys a bag of kefir, a half loaf of black bread, a tube of bologna and a ‘kohuke’ every evening?”
—No, he grinned. Not anymore. I’m the guy who buys grilled chicken and boiled potatoes from the hot deli at the shop. I got a raise three months ago.
“And could you afford to eat better?”
—Yes, of course. But I would have to get a cheaper car. I love my car.

I knew I couldn’t trust his opinions on food any further than his travels had broadened his culinary horizons. How could you critique Parisian cuisine if “Parisian-style” boiled potatoes from Rimi could satisfy you on a daily basis?

But enough of that. Let’s get to the first review since last year. And why so long, some might ask? I don’t know. To quote my older child, who’s not very old: “Words! I ran out of words!”

Mrs. Mingus and I recently celebrated another anniversary. We decided to eat on Tartu’s Town Hall Square and people-watch. What are the choices? Taverna, Truffe, Pierre, Sõprade Juures, Suudlevad Tudengid, that other place that has changed names every other year for a decade, and Kapriis. We chose Kapriis. It’s the only restaurant on the Soviet-built side of the Square.

The interior is a tiny bit tacky, with unidentifiable hanging objects scattered about the ceiling. But for the size of the place, it can pack a lot of people in there. In a cozy way. They don’t have the normal circular or square tables taking up three times as much space as they should, like in most other eateries in Tartu. In Kapriis, the walls are lined with comfortable, soft benches, with long tables in between individual chairs. A few circular or square tables fill up the middle of the dining area for those who want to watch television while they eat with friends.

The menu is not robust, but the flavors of the sauces are. Being a beef man myself, I ordered the most expensive item on the menu: beef tenderloin in red wine sauce. Eight euros. Wow. The last time I wrote a review I was quoting prices in kroons. Where can you get an eight-euro steak in Europe? It wasn’t amazing, of course. It’s on Town Hall Square. Nothing on Town Hall Square is amazing. But I get ahead of myself.

My steak was rare. Better flavor that way. Yet for some reason I couldn’t really enjoy the taste of the beef. Maybe that’s because I couldn’t taste it. The red wine sauce, while good, was simply overpowering. Mrs. Mingus ordered the less expensive beef filet. It was wiry, tough, but it had some sort of garlic sauce. A thick, flour-based sauce. Bad for the arteries, and it couldn’t do anything to save that slice of cow, but it did compliment the boiled potatoes that covered most of our plates very well. I ate my steak and her potatoes.

The vegetable side, however, was good. I thoroughly enjoyed all four bites. You can’t go wrong with stir-fried zucchini. Never. It’s always a sure win. Euro for euro, this is a good place to eat.

I couldn’t help but wonder, however, how the other restaurants on the Square kept their licenses, or stayed in business. Well, wait just a moment. Pierre and Taverna are acceptable. Taverna has decent pizzas (some of them) and Pierre generally offers a nice, cheap lunch buffet (puhvet in Estonian). Truffe is…it used to be good. Expensive, but good. I don’t know about nowadays as I don’t eat there any more. But I have a beef with two other restaurants that I think should be closed down for two reasons.

Restaurants on the Town Hall Square of a city the size of Tartu should be closely scrutinized by the city government. These establishments are, in effect, the flagship diners of an entire half of a country. It is unacceptable to be served cold crap by an angry waitress more than an hour after first sitting down. But tourists think that because it occupies the prime real estate in the city, these places would divvy up the best prime ribs the city has to offer. They walk away angry, and hungry, and realizing that their expectations of Eastern European food and service have just been justified.

I’m talking, of course, about Suudlevad Tudengid and Sõprade Juures (Kissing Students and At Friends’, respectively). They are the same restaurant, the same, massive restaurant with a tiny kitchen. That’s one way to look at it. Another way to look at it is they are two restaurants owned by the same person and both share one measly kitchen.

“Hi, I’d like to order this and that,” Mrs. Mingus and some friends and I ordered one summer afternoon.
—We don’t have this, and we’re out of that, Krista the waitress timidly replied.
“Oh. Um, can we get that and some of this then?” we asked.
—Yes. Are you hungry, though?
“Sorry?”
—Are you hungry?
“Yes,” we cautiously answered. None of us had ever been asked that at a restaurant. Images of being offered toilet paper for sale at the Tallinn bus station’s pay toilet years ago flashed into my head. “Why do you ask?”
—It will take at least an hour.
“Why? An hour? Are you serious?”
—Well, we only have one kitchen, and we are a large restaurant. You could even say we are two restaurants, and we share a small kitchen.
“There’s no way we could get food faster? What if we order something simple?”
—I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.
“Yes, there is. You can cancel our order.”

That was the third time I’d unsuccessfully tried to eat there in a row. Even the newspapers continuously give these restaurants less-than-tolerant reviews. And if people can get this pissed off by boiled potatoes taking a long time to be served, how do these places stay open? Tourists alone can’t do it. What could the reason be? What could it be…?

People are tolerant of being screwed over. Not so much the Next Genners, at least not as much as their predecessors, who served in the Red Army twenty years ago. It’s funny the things people are tolerant of. Brown food is alright, but not brown people? OK I won’t go there right now. But it is ironic. To me. A little. Hee-hee.

And that is why I write restaurant reviews. Embarrass those who deserve it, praise those who merit it. The idea is to, what? Make myself look like an ass? I’m pretty good at that. It would be a waste to not use my talent. My only talent, to be fair. But I do have good intentions.

Werner

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 08:08:00 +0000

I’m reminded of two things by this holiday’s snow. One is that popular catchphrase accredited to Marie Antoinette that is associated with the kickoff to the French Revolution. The other is a book and movie titled The Road. Christmas dinner, celebrated at the Mingus-in-Laws’, was delicious as usual. Blood sausage, pork roast, sauerkraut, vodka. A meal that can easily compete with the American Thanksgiving dinner. We were all too full to finish the gargantuan cake served for dessert. We did, however, manage to snack on gingerbread cookies and my homemade Pfeffernusse and eggnog while opening presents.

Mrs. Mingus-in-Law sent us home with a box of leftover cake. In our family, we combine traditions. Santa visits twice. Once in the evening for gifts from the Estonian side of the family, when he rings the doorbell and comes in and chats, and again during the night via the chimney to drop off gifts from the Americans. We had to tell the kids that because of the snow, Santa would have to make his second visit hopefully sometime next week. The packages never arrived. I woke up on Christmas Day and spent much of it shoveling out my backyard so I could drive to the shop, as the sidewalks were not yet passable in my neighborhood.

When I finished, I was very hungry, so I ate cake. It was my own fault for not thinking ahead and stocking up on food for a storm that ilmajaam.ee did not predict. Neither did ilm.ee really, which just predicted “snow”. Snow happens in winter, and I usually think nothing of it. We also had cake for dinner. I entered the pantry and found a can of chickpeas, and made some hummus. “What is it, Papa?” Little Mingus asked.
—It’s a treat, I said. For you.
“Mmm, it’s good. I’ll never have this again, will I?”
—No, probably not. This is quite possibly the last can of chickpeas in Tartu.

I had to bribe a snowplough driver Soviet-style to get my road reconnected to the network on Sunday. We piled into the car and drove to the Tasku mall for a cup of delicious chai in a café called Cookbook. The mall was closed on what is one of the biggest shopping days of the year in the West—Boxing Day—and it was our fault for not magically knowing this. Let me clarify: one of the parking garages in Tasku said it was open, but the door was shut. I thought the opening mechanism was just frozen, as there was no sign indicating it was locked. The other garage allowed us in, and we even made it into the mall itself, only to find all the shop doors closed, the mall populated by elderly bus travelers snacking on cans of fruit on benches.

Starting to get very weak at this point. Must get food. “Let’s go to Werner, on Ülikooli Street,” Mrs. Mingus suggested. “Or let’s at least drive by and see if it’s open. They have some really good pastries and I hear the kitchen serves good stuff.” Werner. I hadn’t been there since, well, since they had chessboard tabletops and the venue was populated with local intelligentsia sipping tea and contemplating where to send their rook. If you managed to get a table there and didn’t play chess, you would soon be joined by complete strangers, who were usually the only Estonians and Russians to have any communication between them. Not spoken communication, mind you, but the international language of math as expressed by little plastic figurines vying for domination of a checkered board.

Wener, as their webpage calls it, was open, and had been completely remodeled. An extensive cake display would have made my mouth water on any given day, but I needed savory, warm food. “Do you have a menu?” I asked Krista, the waitress. She informed me the kitchen was closed. Cake it was, then. I ordered a white chocolate cheesecake topped with gelatin. It was mild. I got up to ask for a fork, as I just cannot figure out how to eat cake with a spoon. “Um, let me go to the back to look for a fork,” Krista responded. I looked around. No chess tables. A nice interior, and about twenty other people sitting with their cake and spoons.

My mother used to say, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Of course that’s not her phrase—we all grew up hearing it—but I think it should apply to restaurants as well. If you can’t serve anything nice, don’t serve anything at all. Other restaurants and cafés open this day, if there were any, were probably serving stale leftovers. The cake was decent—not my personal favorite, but it was presented well and the lattes were large. About half the price for what you’d get in Komeet in Tallinn, but in Komeet you also get a killer view of the Old Town.

So this review of Werner doesn’t really count as a review, as you can’t judge a café by its cake. Or can you? I’ll let you decide. But I still have things to say. What can I talk about? The big topics at the moment are Tallinn mayor Savisaar accepting Soviet-style bribes from the Russians and the last few days of Estonia’s own currency, the kroon. Next Saturday we’ll all be paying in euros. Basically, the topic of the day is Western integration, and moving away from Estonia’s Eastern history, so I’ll talk about that.

I’ve lived in Estonia for more than a decade. I came to the startling revelation yesterday that I didn’t know any Russians. Well, a couple, but they were only half Russian, either the product of a Russian-Estonian marriage or one of the relatively few Russians whose families had been here for centuries. They weren’t Soviet-style immigrants and so didn’t really count, at least not for this conversation.

What I know of these mystery people mainly comes from Russian literature from more than a hundred years ago (I love the classics—Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev to name but a few) and derogatory Russian jokes as iterated by Estonians. I did have one close encounter with a Russian once. The day I got my Estonian driver’s license, I went out for a celebratory drive. I was annoyed by a large SUV tailing me at less than half a meter. He felt the need to pass on a single-lane, one-way road with cars parallel parked on either side. As he drove by, I flipped my middle finger in the window. He didn’t like this. From my point of view, showing someone the middle finger while driving is no more serious than honking the horn. I didn’t know it was a capital offense in Estonia, as I was new to the local driving culture.

He stopped in front of me to where I couldn’t drive, and there was a car behind me. I was trapped. A huge muscleman who looked like Mr. Clean got out and approached the car. Fortunately I hadn’t locked the door because he would have merely broken the window. Opening the door while I was trapped by my seatbelt, he slapped me twice with the butt of his hand and screamed in Russian, to which I replied in Estonian, “Sorry, I don’t speak Russian.”
—Kussa oled? he continued, now in Estonian. This means, “Where are you?”
“Olen Tartus” (I’m in Tartu), I cautiously answered. What was this guy on? He didn’t know where he was.
—Nyet, kussa oled? Anglisky, Deutsch, kussa oled? I realized he was trying to say, “Kust sa pärit oled”, or “Where are you from?” So I used my knowledge of Russian literature.
“I’m from France,” I answered in Estonian. He immediately calmed down.
—Tell people in France, “Meh meh meh!” And he stuck his tongue out and showed me his middle finger. Then he left.

I understood immediately that this man didn’t behave like this because he was Russian. It was because he drives an SUV. I have had a lot of very positive encounters with Russians in Estonia as well. “There are people who have lived here for fifty years and can’t say ‘Hello’ in Estonian,” I am told by almost every person I meet when they discover I speak Estonian. And they have a point: Why do so few Russians speak Estonian? I think a more relevant question would be: Why would Russians speak Estonian?

There has been a lot of controversy of late because of new integration laws basically forcing Russian-language schools to switch to Estonian, and the Language Inspectorate “raiding” businesses and schools to make sure everyone’s speaking the official lingo. It’s not like Russian cashiers are being fined for speaking Russian with Russian customers, but a lot of Russians do feel harassed. You can’t blame someone for how they feel. From an Estonian’s point of view, if you want to live in this country, you gotta’ learn to talk Estonian. Period. This is common throughout the world. Russian is the language of the occupier. But has the Russian point of view been considered? They lost their empire, and they didn’t even choose to come here in the first place. To learn Estonian would be to admit defeat. And let’s face it—Russian culture is rich. They even have their own unique religion. While I’m no fan of organized religion, this is still impressive. Even if their Santa Claus is blue. What possible benefit could a Russian, who lives in a region of Estonia where almost a hundred percent of the population speaks Russian, gain by learning a language spoken by just a million people?

What I am ineptly trying to say is that both sides need to give concessions. It probably is a good idea for young Russians to learn Estonian. But Estonia has a problem: nearly a hundred thousand ethnic Russians in Estonia don’t have citizenship in either country. Estonians say that the people in question don’t have to choose Estonian citizenship, and there is no such “go back to Russia” rhetoric that I’ve picked up. Obviously there is some, but no more than English people telling Normans to go back to France. But the problem is that many of these people don’t have health care or access to proper schools because of their residence status. Why would they go to Russia? They don’t even have Facebook there, as you can see in this image of European Facebook usage. Why would they choose Estonian citizenship? They don’t feel welcome. Then again, I also don’t see these Russians taking much initiative to “get out of Narva”, as it were.

A lot of people will understandably be angry with me for saying this, for even talking about this. “You’re not Estonian, you don’t understand the situation,” many might respond. And these people would be right, I’m not Estonian. To these people, I would reply, “But this is how it looks.” Consider that, please. It doesn’t really look that bad, but it could be a lot better. Mrs. Mingus is Estonian, and our children are dual citizens. We are raising them to be proud of two cultures. I write this not to be an unsolicited critic. I write this because I care about the country my children will grow up in. If I did not care, I would say nothing.

I hereby designate the seventh of January as National Hug a Russian Day (the sixth of December is Hug a Dutchman Day). Go to your neighbor, the one you’ve never spoken to—the Russian neighbor—and give him a hug. Speak English to him. It’s a neutral language I’m sure everyone can accept. All schools in Estonia teach it anyhow. The way I see it, Estonians have already chosen not to force Russians to pay in kroons. Both sides together chose to pay in euros. That’s good progress.

Café Bianca

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 05:42:00 +0000

Be warned before you continue reading that I am friends with the owners of Café Bianca. That means I can’t really say anything bad about it, except that it sucks! Just kidding. No really, I’m just kidding. It’s a great place to have a lunch or grab a quick coffee. Located at Kalevi 13 in Tartu, just a couple buildings down from the courthouse, I think everyone knows the building based on this first image.

I’d been waiting for months to finally sample what I fully expected to be the best neighborhood café in the city, and there are aspects of it that proved my expectations fulfilled, though not just for the law-and-order region of the city. I’ll talk about why soon enough. It kind of reminded me of Nop in Tallinn, but with even better food.

This is one part of town where the city government really fudged things up. Several houses boasting the most amazing and often unique architecture are immediate neighbors. Many of them are, or at least were, owned by the city itself. The city refused to fix them up, or even sell them to people who wanted to fix them up, and the result was abandoned, decrepit playhouses for street children. I personally had to call the fire department years ago because one of the houses had an external chapel, complete with a burning mattress. The same dispatcher who answered the phone could be heard on a loudspeaker just seconds later at the fire station a block away.

The city could have made tens of millions (of kroons) selling off these properties during the Boom, but ultimately decided it would be a somewhat better idea to wait until the economy was near rock bottom and the houses, like the housing market, were near collapse. One house, finally being restored, is supposedly going to be an animal shelter. It has been a mark of shame for the city for nearly 20 years.

Anyhow, back to the café. Both partners in this small business were present the day I visited. The American-Estonian partner, Christian, greeted us at the door. One very cool thing that we noticed was a moment later, two older ladies entered. Christian sat them at a table, took their orders without writing anything down and then recommended books they could peruse during their brief wait. Books on architecture, history, art—books from Christian’s personal library at home. In any other café, the only thing the staff would bring from home would be a virus.

It seems that the menu changes on a daily basis. Even Christian doesn’t know what’s going to be on the menu the next day. That’s left up to the other partner of Café Bianca, the namesake, the wife of the fabled Romanian cooking godfather from Vilde—I’ll call her Krista. We stopped in the day before as well, though just for coffee. I didn’t know there was food available, so I’d already eaten. The menu had lasagna listed, one of my favorites. I was hoping it would be served again when I went to eat, but the dish of the day was instead roasted vegetable soup with a grilled cheese sandwich.

The soup was very good of course. What amazed me was the grilled cheese sandwich. Never in Estonia had I been served such an amazing grilled cheese sandwich. Then again, never in Estonia had I been served a grilled cheese sandwich at all. As far as grilled cheese sandwiches go, it was good. It’s kind of a hard thing to mess up, after all. A grilled ham and cheese sandwich. It’s simple. Perhaps too simple for other restaurants and cafés, which insist on serving food that has French prepositions and spelling in the name. Croque monsieur à la Chalève. No, Krista’s not pretentious. It’s just a freaking grilled cheese sandwich! I feel like I’m overreacting here, but it is the perfect accompaniment to soup. Why hasn’t anyone else realized this?

Mrs. Mingus and I decided to share a quesadilla as well (phonetically spelled ke sa DI ja in Estonian). While it was not exactly Tex-Mex in flavor, it was very enjoyable. If I understood correctly, this menu selection was a regular, available every day. But the coup de grâce was the Christmas cake. A tiny bit rich for my personal preferences, but that’s what a Christmas cake is supposed to be—rich. And a wealth of ingredients was used. Cranberries, cherries, oranges, dates, blueberries, prunes and raisins.

When Christian was asked for the bill, he didn’t need to bring one. He instead chose to quickly recite everything ordered along with the prices. Payment in cash. Card payments soon available. You can get a receipt of course if you want one. This place just opened—there’s not even an official sign yet.

Obviously this café doesn’t occupy the whole building. The Tartu Centre for Creative Industries (Loomemajanduskeskus) operates here. What is that, you might ask? Well, the name doesn’t really mean anything to me in English or Estonian. It’s a local business incubator. It helps local businesses to get on their feet, with a bent on art. Funded by the city government. I have friends who have received help from them, and they all speak favorably of it.

And now for the negative part of the review. There’s a doorstop at the top of the stairs in front that bewilders me. Why is it like this? With all the safety regulations in modern Estonia, has no one thought that perhaps this is deadly? One slip on the tile and that’s the end of you. At least if you landed on this, you wouldn’t have to worry about sliding down the stairs after.

Ruunipizza

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 20:12:00 +0000

After more than a month of living on a diet, I am proud to say that I lost most of my dignity and finally ate at Hessburger. I should have photographed my meal, because I don’t think I’ll eat there again, and thus will not review it. But if you just have to have fast food while on a diet, it’s the place to go. The quarter-liter drinks and miniscule fish fries won’t make you too fat. Fish fries? Well, French fries, but because they don’t seem to change the oil too often, they taste like fish sticks. The burgers though—let’s just say I was surprised the patty filled even half the bun. They really make ‘em thin there. And due to my promise to myself and my family to never eat at McDonald’s again, I think that pretty much cuts fast food out of my life. Win.

But where in Tartu can you eat if you’re short on time, and don’t want to feast on industrial leftovers that aren’t good enough for even Mickey Dee’s? Let’s face it—most of the restaurants here are slow as escargot, unless you score a lunch special somewhere. Vilde has a pretty good one, at under three euros. Oops, that’s next month. Let me try again. Vilde has a pretty good one, at forty-five kroons. However, I’m talking about dinner.

In a rush one snowy night last week, I decided to give Ruunipizza a try, on Rüütli Street. The first thing you notice, apart from the fairly extensive menu, is the ceiling. Reminiscent of a frat boy’s bedroom ego, I’m fairly certain you could look down the blouse of that hot teenager sitting in the corner across the restaurant. It’s covered in mirrors. That’s not the current owner’s doing, however. This space used to be a bar called Rüütli Pubi. Pubi means pub, if you didn’t catch that.

Rüütli Pubi had its jaans where the kitchen is now located. Just if you’re interested in knowing that. Ruunipizza built an external jaan that juts into the dining area. Made of cheap drywall and a lack of soundproofing material, I suppose I don’t need to complete this sentence.

I’d heard their food was good and cheap and fast. Rumor was right. It is cheap, and if you don’t mind cheap, then it is also good. And if you’re on a diet, then you won’t mind the portions being small either. Then again, for the price, gram for gram it’s still a bit less expensive than a more reputable establishment. Just a bit, mind you.

I ordered a crêpe with bacon, garlic and cheese. Mrs. Mingus ordered some other crêpe that had canned vegetables on it. That may sound overly harsh, right? The menu says, “Canned Vegetables”. Look toward the bottom of it. Her crêpe was nice and full, completely appetizing, in all honesty. Mine was flat as, well, flat as a pancake. I took a peek inside and it was mostly empty, compared to hers. The bacon was pre-sliced and cold as a bone. Some of it didn’t even make it into the crêpe. I sent my plate back.

Krista, the cashier (maybe also the food assembler?), never apologized, but she took it back with a smile and a moment later re-served me, again with a smile. Now my crêpe was appetizingly stuffed as well. And it’s not bad. Not at all. At least when it’s warm. I am curious though as to what kind of cheese was in it. The menu lists Saare cheese, presumably from that big western island resort place owned by Finns (like Hessburger), but I suspect the all-popular atleet juust, or “athlete’s cheese”, one of the most unfortunate food names I’ve ever heard.

Then suddenly a young man burst into the restaurant, with half-centimeter long hair, an argyle sweater vest, piercing eyes, a crooked smirk on his face that never left and a laptop bag. He loudly asked Krista from the door, “Do you have a plug for a Macintosh?” The brand name was heavily emphasized. He was proud. Krista pointed to the wall under the table next to me. That Macintosh plug was very similar to normal plugs, if not identical. He sat down and pulled out his prize machine, neglecting to plug it in. The back of the screen said, “Dell” in big letters, and there were tape stains surrounding it. I would wager he didn’t know his self-adhesed label was lost.

A moment later he started listening to rap at a few hundred decibels above what is considered polite in a public eatery. In addition to not plugging in the power cable, he didn’t plug in the earphones sitting between the laptop and the trackball mouse, which was plugged in. After a moment, I started to stare at him. He sensed it, and his smirk became smirkier. So finally I just leaned forward and ventured an “Excuse me,” which was met by his “Mis asja?” (“Huh?”) and disdainfully reluctant eye contact. I tapped the back of my fork against his earphones and firmly said, “Please.” He obeyed.

As we drove home (my diet was over, so no more walking), Mrs. Mingus remarked how our car didn’t handle the snow very well. I suggested that we sell it and buy a Mitsubishi. And then chisel off the make and stick on a Volvo symbol with wood glue. It’s true though, it’s very hard to drive on the streets of Karlova with the way the city ploughs the roads here. The city obviously hasn’t heard of snow-day parking, used widely throughout the snow cultures of the world. Park on one side of the road one day so the other side can be properly ploughed, and if your car is blocking the road, it gets towed.

That doesn’t happen though. It’s a practice that more than pays for itself in terms of ticket fines and tow-truck fees, but apparently tow-truck technology hasn’t been discovered here yet. Neither has shovel-out-your-backyard-and-park-there technology. On a more positive note, most of the sidewalks have been beautifully ploughed this year. Not shoveled, but ploughed. It’s just pure pleasure to walk in the neighborhoods and gaze at all the snow-covered trees in the parks, the asbestos roofs masked in white softness. An ATV with a small plough attached to the front drove by at more than a hundred, in a hurry to find the Rimi parking lot and get to work. Too fast for me to get a photo. I think he’s still looking for that parking lot, too. Selver’s not very far, and I should walk more anyhow, especially as it’s so pretty outside.

Itaalia Köök

noreply@blogger.com (Mingus) — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 19:14:00 +0000

The following is an excerpt from Streets of Tartu. Read it like they talk in the Big Apple.

It was a case of mistaken identity. It usually is. You get the job—find someone or something—you take the money ‘cause you need it for alimony, and the rest is up to you. You, alone, on the streets of Tartu. When the broad walked into my office, I knew those legs would be trouble. She wanted noodles. The Italian variety. And she was willing to pay double. I didn’t tell her I was Norwegian, and hoped my blue eyes wouldn’t tip her off.

The choices were simple. La Dolce Vita had already been taken care of. All that was left was a little joint on Gildi Street called Itaalia Köök. Köök means kitchen or cuisine, depending on what neighborhood you’re from. The owner is from the neighborhood where it means “restaurant”. At least that’s what the menu said. But how could the menu know? The cover was in the language of love. I guess “dauphins” is French for Italian. But I don’t know. I skipped that class in detective school. For all I knew, it could be a wine region.

On the street it looked like the right place. The rusted metal was a big clue. I had to pull the dame away from the wall so she wouldn’t rip her pantyhose. It was ten to noon—lunchtime. They didn’t have a page on the web, just an angry comment on a site called Tartu In Your Pocket. It said they opened at eleven. The door said something else. Twelve. We had ten minutes to kill. How was I supposed to keep her busy till then?

The joint opened on time. Gotta’ give ‘em credit for that. We were the first ones in. Sitting down, the seashell curtains made my skin crawl. One seashell for every victim? A nice blonde broad named Krista gave us some menus, but I already talked about that. Inside though, I knew it was a case of mistaken identity. And not just because of the name. Names. I wanted beef, but the beef in yoghurt said it had maple syrup too, but not in my language. So I got the classic, the osso bucco. Veal legs. I like baby cow. Something about the flavor. It was a mistake. The Estonian said it was beef. That’s not a baby cow. That’s an adult cow. And from the taste of it, I’d say it was an elderly dairy cow. Not a cattle cow. Probably from the meat market. Probably had no papers. My butcher has better meat hanging in his locker. He can get papers for anything.

Krista was real nice. She could see we had trouble with the menu. She asked if she could recommend something, but I knew what I wanted, and so did my client. She got the pasta with chicken and chanterelles. Now that’s classy. She knows her stuff. She just couldn’t finish it. She gave me a bite. I knew that taste. I’d had it before. Mushroom bouillon cubes. Made by Knorr®.

But my problem with my grub was that I know osso bucco. It’s veal, a white wine braise. I doubt it was originally served with gigantic potatoes baked and fried and overcooked and all that mumbo jumbo that local menus like to go on about. But the joint was packed. People know what they want, what they like. Not a single uomo in this place had hair, and it wasn’t ‘cause the garden was dried up, if you know what I mean. I shoulda’ followed my instincts. I knew those legs would be trouble. I just didn’t know which legs.

The bruschetta though, that was a real doozy. Don’t get me wrong, it was served in about five minutes. And, it was served before the main food. But Krista, bless her soul, asked us, “For two, right?” I nodded. I don’t gotta’ say it’s just for me when I’m sittin’ with a classy broad. She knows what to do. We got three pieces. For two people. I guess she was hoping for one of those Lady and the Tramp moments. We both eat the same piece and end up smooching. Like I said, my client wanted noodles.

But the bread, I knew that taste again. It was from Selver, those cute little buns made of flour so bleached you can taste the chlorine in it. But I wanted my client to see my soft side. I bought her a dessert. A tiramisu. It was the best part of the meal. The cakey bit was the premade cake you can buy in a Selver as well. The ones in the plastic. The sweets tasted like vanilla pudding from a tube, but it was good. She knew I’d take care of her if things got dicey.

That’s when she said I’d failed. I hadn’t done my job. This wasn’t Italian. Like I said, it was a case of mistaken identity. They’d pulled one over on me. What I thought was Italian wasn’t. It was processed Dutch. But we didn’t go Dutch. No, I had to pay for this stuff. I’d have to let my associates know in the city. And once that happened, I knew I couldn’t let this dame come back here alone. Not that she’d want to. But still, it wouldn’t be safe for her health.