Moka

Back in the nineties, there were four main places to get pizza. Taverna, Pizza Opera, Pizza Pronto and Reinu. Unfortunately, Reinu does not have a restaurant, as far as I know, so I will never be able to write about how thoroughly disgusting I find their pizza. Who uses Whiskas® as a topping? In fact, the only good thing that I can remember about that company was that they could deliver cases of beer at four in the morning to your apartment doorstep.

Pizza Pronto, on the other hand, had a pizza dough machine. It looked like a candy dispenser. It was thin crust—I’m a deep-dish man myself—and thick with taste. Forty kroons for a daily special wasn’t bad, so long as you didn’t actually order the daily special. I did once, without looking on the chalkboard by the register, and was surprised to get egg, pickle, onion and corn on a pizza.



Two remakes and ten years later, Moka occupies the same premises, kitty-corner from the university’s main building (next to Volga). They still have the same pizza machine, popping out the same pizzas, and I would imagine the owner is still the same as well. The restaurant has, however, changed dramatically. The bar resembles a pâtisserie, and the menu looks like something that should be in an upscale Manhattan diner instead of this rather unassuming eatery. The only thing that gives it away is the prices. They’re dirt cheap for what you get.

After growing tired of the pizzas, I was completely unaware of the changes on the inside. A friend said the chef had repeatedly prepared what he called the best Chicken Kiev he’d ever had, and what’s more—if the same chef was at work when you went, and they weren’t packed, he was absolutely willing to prepare anything you wanted, from the menu or not. This hints at a chef in Tartu who enjoys his job. I know from inside accounts and personal experience that this isn’t a common thing. But my friend, whom I’ll refer to as Jaan, always says everything is the best he’s ever had. That’s why I waited a couple years before trying Moka.

A couple weekends ago, we had some visitors—the same who experienced Suudlevad Tudengid (Kissing Students) with us for my review. We visited Moka on a gloomy October Sunday afternoon. To our surprise, Moka was celebrating the cuisines of different countries each weekend. That weekend was American cuisine. I just wanted a salad, but I couldn’t resist the steak and brownies.

Other upcoming weekends on the menu were Belgium, Ukraine and Switzerland—not exactly places known for their food. That wasn’t what caught my attention on the menu though. First of all, the Estonian says, “National Cuisine Weekends.” The English below it says, “Multi-Cuisine Weekends.” What multi are you? I’m American. And what do you do? I’m a chef fe cuisine.

Dee and eff may be companions on the qwerty—an understandable typo—but if you’re going to print out an attractive menu like this, especially as it’s just an insert and not the whole thing, wouldn’t you at least look at it once before sending it to the publishers? This is like if I wrote my name as Toomas Hendrik Lives (I am, after all, the one true Present of Estonia). Fortunately, as I found out when the food arrived, the chef de cuisine, Andrus Vaht, pays much more attention to what he sends out of the kitchen. And if it wasn’t the head chef working at one on a Sunday, that says even more about him as the leader of his kitchen. Rumor has it he even converses with customers. The waitress did happen to point him out as he was walking by…he looked at our baby carriage and smiled. When does that ever happen in Tartu?!

The presentation of the food was something deserving of at least a couple Michelins, probably all three due to the price. It was almost absurd, to be perfectly honest. I felt guilty about eating my entrecôte, whatever that is. Usually in Estonia it’s something similar to a rib-eye, but not this one. Don’t get me wrong—I enjoyed every bite—but it was far from the best steak I’ve ever had. It was full of tendons, or something else, as I couldn’t be sure what cut it was. I’d also specifically asked for it medium-rare, and Kristiina—our waitress—even repeated it too me. I think the chef got the message too, but as I was evidently served a budget cut it just wasn’t possible to do anything bloodier than very well done.

The mashed yams, or sweet potatoes, were the best I’ve ever had in my life. To add weight to that statement, I hate yams. I think they’re disgusting. I rank them right up there with green eggs. To clarify that statement, I really did love the yams. I could eat them here or there, I could eat them anywhere! I don’t know what the chef did, but it was simply delish! It’s a true pity that it was a one-off menu item. I would go there every month if he brought it back. I hope you’re reading this, Andrus. You are one Estonian chef who could teach a thing or two to American chefs. At least about yams.

Now for the rest of the food items, they were very good. I cannot say they were better than very good. It wasn’t quite on par with the presentation. But for the price, I would never complain, and I would recommend it to others. I already have, in fact, and I guess I am with this review. Keep in mind though, they do have stuff in the twenty-dollar range as well.



I got the American dessert—the brownies, as mentioned. It was a bit dry and full of nuts. I think a lot of Estonian desserts are a bit dry for the Yankee palate, but that’s not a bad thing, I think we could all agree. The four kids who were with us shared a single dish of ice cream. They ate their fill and we finished off the rest. Think about that: four children couldn’t eat all the ice cream in one helping.

Too bad I didn’t discover Moka during the summer. Küütri Street was redone a year or two ago, and it’s a very attractive outdoor setting. On a side note, why is there a blanked-out space on Küütri if you zoom in via Google Maps?

Mrs. Mingus-in-law tends to be rather picky and is prone to routine. And that’s fine and dandy. She’s over …-ty years old. She lunches in Moka at least once a week. That may or may not be a compliment to Moka, but I intend it as such. If only more people took pride in their jobs. Passion, I dare say.

Ungari Köök

At eleven o’clock on a Monday morning, in a Selver grocery store parking lot a couple kilometers from downtown Tartu on Sõbra Street, a metal security door raises and reveals a cozy enclave that specializes in two things: soups, and lángos. A lán—what? The closest thing to a lángos in the States is an elephant ear at the state fair: a deep-fried nightmare for your arteries. But this thing, this thing is a masterful concoction of deep-fried goodness and healthy toppings to counteract the trans fats of fried Hungarian flat bread. The eggplant and beef with mushrooms are my favorites.



There are other, slightly simpler toppings as well, that are sure to surprise you. The owner and chef can do wonders with a basic spread of sour cream and Estonia’s ill-named Athlete’s Cheese. Actually he uses an imported German cheese now. He says it’s cheaper, better and easier to grate. Rumor has it that for all of Estonia’s cheeses and cheese “producers,” they’re all made in the same cheese machine. I’ve heard the same about potato chips in the States.

When Ungari Köök opened a couple years ago, only this lángos was offered. A Hungarian specialty. The Hungarian owner is happy to chat about it with you in Estonian or English. People kept asking him why he didn’t sell meat burgers and fries, not masking their disappointment upon learning that they would either have to try something new—heaven forbid!—or rudely walk out. It turns out the customers did in fact like it, so he quickly expanded to soups. I remember the beginning of that change—one soup, sold out within minutes. Now there are three soup containers or boilers or vats or whatever they’re called (the thing in the photo) every day, with the daily special printed on the front door. There are customers who eat there every day, all year. He also makes his own bread quite often.

I went in five minutes before opening today so I could ask questions about his story, but within four minutes of the metal door going up, there was already a line of three people. Between customers he was able to give me a sentence or two, so I think I’ve been able to piece together the story of the Hungarian Kitchen. It makes me a little angry.

See, there are only two things I don’t like about Ungari Köök. One is the location, and the other is the selection of food. It’s not enough! This is good cuisine, and the guy has proven his culinary abilities. I want more.

As a newcomer to Estonia, there are few options available for work (I’m not talking about students). Something involving language teaching, and food. That’s usually it. The owner of Ungari Köök for example has a degree in art history. What’s he doing making soup? He was able to rent a few parking spots at the grocery store, build a small structure that is up to code for the health inspectors, and sell the food that he knows best—his national cuisine. He loves doing this, as he says, “I don’t want to get rich, I just want to be happy and make good food. That’s why I don’t raise prices.”

The soups are sold out by two at the latest, every day. It’s that good, it’s that popular. And what’s funny is that people can tell the difference between the soups he makes and those of his staff. He wants to expand now, but is having serious troubles. Expansion involves a larger kitchen obviously, which in turn requires a new location—downtown. That’s fantastic for people who aren’t able to drive to the current place. It also opens up the tourist market. Let’s face it—tourists in Tartu all eat foreign cuisine. There’s only one real “Estonian” restaurant (aptly called “Estonian Restaurant”) and the rest is Italian, Georgian, Turkish and Chinese. I’m just talking about the authentic stuff. Everything else is themed.

The Hungarian doesn’t want a traditional “restaurant” though. From what I understand, he wants to be sort of a cross between a restauranteur and a street vendor. There just isn’t that much of a selection downtown that would meet those criteria. He’s considered building again. The City Government is more or less doing anything they can to prevent it. One location, on the “wrong” side of the river and by the Narva Street dorms, doesn’t have anything there. It’s a park in fact, that in its current form exists mainly to frighten lone women walking by at night. “We don’t want anything built there,” says one city official. An official who works for a city that is hell-bent on telling everyone how much it was wronged in the past century, but that would never do anything to fix the situation. Looking at old photos of that same park, you can see tons of buildings, cafés and restaurants. A center of life in Tartu. And this is just one of the hurdles and tripping stones the Tartu City Government lines its streets with.

The owner of Alvi Kebob has a similar story. He wanted to buy an old putka (not the Bulgarian vulgarian meaning, but a food kiosk) to open up a kebob place. Before paying, he talked to the city government, who promptly gave a resounding “No!” because they “don’t want a putka culture in Viljandi.” Well then, what kind of culture do they want?

Viljandi is the self-described cultural capital of Estonia. That would mean they just want Estonian culture then, right? The only food I’ve ever been able to find in Viljandi is from Soviet söökla culture. Shredded cabbage and carrot salads, fried pork in thick, white flour sauce that they call Béchamel, and two-kroon condiments. That means you have to pay more if you want ketchup on your fries or sugar in your coffee. Modern culture, around the world, is a healthy blend of different national cuisines. I think what’s really needed is for people to look toward the future, not try to recreate a past that no one can agree on in the first place.

Or maybe this argument would work: Tallinn has a putka culture, and right across the street from the Old Town, at Balti Jaam (Baltic Train Station). Why not you? There was interest in Tartu putkas banding together to build a putka house—a single structure, like a mall food court, in one of the empty downtown parks. Then some ridiculous rules appeared, something like, “only if you paint it pink.” Basically it just wasn’t going to be allowed. Despite Estonia being a free market economy on paper, there are still strong elements of a planned economy.

The way I see it, if you’re shy then there’s no better way to say you don’t want foreigners than to hide behind the guise of health and cultural protection. So many people have tried to open restaurants (foreigners and Estonians alike, I’ll admit). There are so many restrictions and requirements from the Health Inspectorate that it’s often impossible. And let’s be honest—the Health Inspectorate serves the same function as the Consumer Protection Board. It’s consumer protection. Only consumer protection doesn’t exist in Estonia. Look at the laws: if it’s broken or defective, you can’t get your money back. The shop just has to repair or replace it. I know from several, several first-hand experiences that even that isn’t enforced. The city governments just don’t want to move forward, and they’re counting on their constituents—who just might in fact want to move forward—to demand not a thing. A city’s cuisine is a direct reflection of the city itself.

I’d like to see a list of grandfather clauses in force for Tartu’s restaurants. There are some real holes that would not be allowed to open today. Like how old Moskvitches are still allowed to drive, despite today’s stricter emissions laws. I think there are no grandfather clauses in the food industry. Just some pasty white guy behind a brand-new flat-screen computer monitor trying to make everyone else suffer for his lack of vision.

Here’s the cheesy part of this review: I consider myself a Tartu patriot (I could never live in Tallinn, for example), and what I want is for a tolerant, multicultural Tartu. Multicultural only in that if you want some variety from time to time, you can get it. I just want a choice—I don’t want to force people to live among people they are too scared of. So I choose to eat goulash and lángos and kebobs and sushi and I probably single-handedly support the import of Mexican food products in Tartu’s grocery stores (meaning just Santa Maria tortillas and chilies). And I think I’m not alone. I’m sure delicious food isn’t the only reason all these people are starting to eat at Ungari Köök.

Black Pepper Grill

Having joined the ranks of people with back problems, the day came when it was time to replace our old mattress that we got in January with an expensive plank of wood. Off to Tartu Mööblimaja, or Tartu Furniture House, on Sõbra Street. Actually you turn off Sõbra and go down the road a bit...apparently the new road doesn't have a name of its own yet. In an old Soviet-era warehouse or factory building—can’t tell which—that was fixed up last year, there are several home decorating shops that more or less sell the same things with astonishing price differences due to how close they are to the door. (Two blocks away is another home decorating “mall” called E-Kaubamaja, or E-Department Store, again selling the same stuff.)

In the first shop you can enter, there is a chair that is also for sale in the last shop, at the very back of the building. The price difference is over a thousand kroons. The second shop you see is home to a small table I photographed for City of Good Thoughts that cost almost three thousand kroons (the exact same table was on sale in Ikea for somewhere around five percent of the Tartu price). That shop is now roped off, closed to business, although all the goods are still on display, complete with an old man who was playing solitaire on the store’s computer.

Mrs. Mingus was better at navigating the rows upon rows of seemingly identical mattresses, so I perused the selection in Expert, the home electronics store. It seems kind of small to be honest, and I remember comparing all such stores to the maxi mega monster Circuit City’s and Best Buys of the States, but last year when I paid more attention, the selection—while a bit better—wasn’t that much better. Prices of course were fractions of what they are here, and the goods were slightly more modern (as in six months, not more), but the main difference between Tartu Mööblimaja and the equivalent in the States is the choice of food. Usually, on the Western edge of the Atlantic, there is a Subway and maybe a teriyaki grill (I’m not talking about malls with food courts). Here, there’s usually nothing. And if there is, it’s a söökla, or cafeteria, primarily for the employees. At the furniture place, there’s the Black Pepper Grill, or grill „Black Pepper“, as the sign implies (or even Pepper Grill, as the website implies).

The name conjures up images of an American-style family restaurant with a kids’ menu, a selection of honey-glazed baby back ribs and a Wurlitzer in the corner. While it’s not quite that, the name—and cafeteria itself—are a step above your typical joint called Tiina or Linda, which simply advertise that they serve “hot food” and offer a broad selection of potatoes smothered in potato seasoning.

One thing that really irks me about these cafeterias is that they weigh everything, and that takes time. You generally pay by hundred-gram increments, so if you have salad, sides and soup, the cashier takes an identical plate, weighs it, takes the plate off the scale, takes your plate with the same hands that handle cash and places it on the scale, subtracts the weight of the empty plate, enters it in the computer, then hands the plate back to you instead of putting it back on your tray. They never seem to remember how much their dishes weigh. The process is repeated for the sides and soup. I’ve even been to places that have a fixed weight for the food—you tell the cafeteria worker what you want, they serve it for you, weigh an empty plate, weigh your plate, skim off a couple grains of rice, weigh it again, skim off another grain of rice, weigh it again, and then serve it to you.

Not the Black Pepper Grill. You pay by the plate, and you can put as much or as little as you want, all for the same price. They even advertise it, too, because they know this is unusual for Tartu. You can’t do this with the meat of course, but still. I was in and out of that line in record time. And there was not a single Santa Maria label to be seen anywhere—my potatoes had real rosemary, and they took extra time to garnish them with—can you guess? The potatoes weren’t peeled, either.

The dished named after the restaurant—the Black Pepper skewer—was not a spicy hot chunk of beef that only the strong of tongue, the man of the family, can handle. It was just a regular pork shish kebob, slightly blackened. It was decent, as was the price—but at Kalevi Köök (Kalev’s Kitchen, a pretty good hole in the wall that I will try to review soon) you get almost three times as much meat for just a little more money. The only food I didn’t care for much was the over-steamed frozen veggies. Mrs. Mingus took the “over-baked” pork with cheese. It tasted just like the Caribica pizza at Taverna, on Town Hall Square (that’s a good thing).

When I reached for the skewer, I had no idea that the heating lamp was so low. In fact I just assumed that the food was kept warm from underneath, given that the plates were also pre-warmed—a one-of-a-kind service in a Tartu cafeteria. I burned my forearm a bit, and the cashier—probably named Kristiina, I don’t know—just continued to stare at me as if nothing had happened. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow, much less ask if I was fine. She wasn’t heartless though, because immediately when we sat down, she joined her young son at another table and helped him color a picture.

Our kids were with us as well, and our almost-two-year-old of course made a mess of her face. We decided it was easier to clean her up at home rather than walk the couple hundred meters to the jaans, at the far back corner of the shopping center. But on the way out, I noticed something odd: the parking lot was almost completely empty, but the street curbs were packed with cars. It probably seemed easier to parallel park in an unmarked area than use a real parking lot and walk an extra twenty seconds. The parking lot is unregulated. It’s free and no one will care if you leave your car there overnight.

In general I like the whole area. Old, broken asphalt and dirt roads, asbestos-lined sheet metal sheds and grassy fields littered with refuse and trodden paths for homeless people to access the river for food—this is what it was. Now there’s a grocery store, a delicious Hungarian place, a normal parking lot or two (one is even multi-level), a shiny, black glass building that doesn’t look absolutely ridiculous like the apartment blocks across the street (it’s pretty nice actually), and a lot more room left around it for development, especially out towards the river. The only thing on these banks of the Emajõgi River is a failed realty project, something that slightly resembles a Rubik’s Cube. The project originally included five identical buildings. One was finished, with just a few flats sold. I wonder how the rest of the area will be developed when the economy recovers.

And while the Black Pepper Grill is, as I said, a step up from Tiina or Linda, it’s just not quite enough to induce me to revisit this part of the city. Maybe I’ll go back if I need a new mattress for my back? Maybe I can find something else in the grocery store parking lot?

Volga

A long time ago, in the decades between the Wars, a small cabin was built deep in the woods of Võru County, just a hop, skip and a jump from the Latvian border. It was built of logs, it was built by hand, it was built to last. At the beginning of the Soviet occupation, a man named Aksel Kikas wrote his name and the current date in pencil on an interior wall. He died less than two weeks later, a victim of Soviet persecutions. I suspect he was an Estonian partisan—a “Forest Brother.”

Throughout the following decades, the cabin—originally a farm, complete with a barn, feed barn and sauna—was later used as a ranger station until the Soviet Union fell apart, when it was acquired by a local who wanted to sell it for profit.

Then it was abandoned. For ten years it was left to rot, exposed to the elements. Anything with metal was harvested by locals to be melted down for cash. The front door was stolen. The barn and sauna collapsed. Yet the cabin itself remained, determined to survive. That’s when we found it. We hired a guy from Setu country to do some work on the buildings. He said he could do it and spoke very convincingly. He built us a new floor, repaired the feed barn and built a new sauna.

The little cabin in the woods survived nearly nine decades of occupation, war, Soviet occupation, neglect and weather, but it did not survive Ahto Raudoja. After failing to allow proper ventilation under the new floor, and then using sand as a filler and untreated logs, it started to rot. The rot ate up the floor from underneath, and spread to the foundational logs. We discovered it just before it was too late. All we wanted to do was get a new façade. Instead we had to practically build a new house. Correcting this man’s mistake cost us our summer, a very large sum of money, a few years of our lives in terms of stress, and a great many new restaurant reviews.



Summer’s over, and Mingus is back to tell you how Tartu’s restaurants treat their customers.

***

Mrs. Mingus and I have been married for nine years. On our anniversary, in late July, we found a couple hours to hit the town. Basically we just had dinner in Volga, Tartu’s most expensive restaurant. It’s not that expensive really if you’re on a Western budget. We’re on an Eastern budget, but nine years is something to celebrate, especially in this day and age, so I did not flinch at the bill. About a hundred euros for apéritifs, hors d’œuvres, wine, steaks, desserts and digestifs.

Volga is part of the Ateena theater (or is it Athena? I think it’s both), built around the sixteenth century. It most recently housed a movie theater and a Soviet-era restaurant also called Volga. In the nineties it went out of business and, like our cabin, was left to rot. Just across the street from the main building of Tartu University, it occupies a choice cut of real estate. Through the land privatization debacle of the last decade, it came to rest in the hands of a disinterested Aussie, I believe, who was neither interested in fixing it up nor selling it for huge profits. For a long time it stuck out as a sore thumb in Tartu’s tiny Old Town, emitting fungal odors to the street from its broken windows. Eventually it was somehow wrested from its owner and beautifully restored in its nineteenth century fashion.

And now there’s the new Volga, where Estonians dress up to the nines to be seen eating steak and T-shirt-wearing tourists drop in for a cheap meal.

The interior is stunningly gorgeous, if not perhaps a bit too overdone. Snooty, but comfortably so. Costs were not spared. Except for the fire alarm next to our table, which was crooked by about ten degrees, and for such a large place we only found one cramped jaan for each gender, with no toilet paper or soap and the light bulbs were burned out. The smoking room even had sofas and lounge chairs, not to mention the DJ’s headquarters—unguarded. I’m sure the tourists would get a kick out of it if I snuck in and spun a few Phil Collins tunes, to fit in with the other eateries in Tartu. But I was satisfied listening to Glenn Miller, non-stop, for the entire evening.



There was even a hostess to seat us. The two times I can recall having a hostess in Estonia were very positive. Unlike in the US, the hostess will let you choose your table. But why is it that when a woman wears a nametag, it’s always at the tip of her chest—exactly where you’re not supposed to stare—and it’s usually covered up by a vest or something else? Her name started with a K, and it’s only important to me because I wanted to be courteous and thank her by name. Usually, if visible, I simply say, “Thank you, Õpilane,” which as I’ve mentioned before seems to be a very popular name for Estonian wait staff (though not as common as some others), and while making eye contact—eye contact signifies that you’re a foreigner.

Modern, politically correct English dictates the title “server” for people who serve you in a restaurant, but I still prefer to call Tartu servers “waiters” because, well, they make you wait. We became intimate with the intricacies of the woodwork. And it is well done! Like my tuna steak, which I ordered rare (it was rare in fact, but the outside was seared a bit too much for what I’ve always had as “rare”). Our waiter—Kristjan—was very polite indeed, but he seemed a tad flustered. He was left alone to wait on three tables. When I was his age—around twenty I believe—I waited tables for a summer in the States. A typical evening for me would have a turnover of eight tables an hour per server/waiter, and American diners are very demanding. Not in a bad way, but they know what to expect and tip accordingly. It’s the opposite in Estonia.

Eventually we got our drinks, and Kristjan failed to leave my water in the bottle as I had specifically requested. I wanted to pour the water to dilute my liquor a bit, as is my custom on anniversaries (I just love Ricard’s pastis de Marseille), and I made a bit of a mess pouring it from one glass to another. Not to worry though—the wet spots were camouflaged with drops of red wine. Kristjan hadn’t learned to twist the bottle after pouring.

Now, I don’t give a dadgummit about the finer points of a waiter’s finesse. But this is Volga after all, and I thought I should just mention it.

The salad was fantastic. My tuna was fantastic, and Mrs. Mingus thoroughly enjoyed her chateaubriand—and while the menu claimed it was Estonian-grown beef, not even the chef knew precisely where it had come from (we asked out of curiosity). We also enjoyed the two helpings of rolls we were offered. The portions were very small, considering we’d been doing hard, physical labor all summer and worked up quite an appetite waiting at the table. As we finished our meal, a slightly sweaty Kristjan ran back to our table and poured some more wine on the tablecloth for us.

I liked the guy, and felt bad that he wasn’t having more fun while we celebrated the last anniversary before I have to cough up some sort of rock to put on a ring for Mrs. Mingus. I ten-percented him, but for some reason I couldn’t write the tip into the bill, like you can at every other place in Tartu. I certainly wasn’t going to stiff him after his trials, so I had to abandon the wife and run to a cash machine, two blocks away. No one carries cash in Estonia these days.

We will definitely go back to Volga in the future, though most likely only to show guests from abroad that not everywhere uses potato seasoning in its food. Overall, I liked it. A dangerous new trend in Estonian cuisine, however, is that chefs are beginning to think that less is better, while forgetting that that “less” had better be mouth-wateringly delicious to make up for quantity. A parallel could be drawn to fighting the country’s recent weight gain, which is odd considering that ketchup has suffered greatly from inflation, but I think it has more to do with la présentation.



*This last image is from Volga’s own website. I like how the bill is visible, next to the dessert. Just to remind you.

YamYam

As mentioned before, the guy who owns Café Truffe also opened a “gourmet fast-food kiosk” behind Club Tallinn, in Tartu, on Narva Street. It’s called YamYam. And it’s pretty good, fast and cheap. Not so cheap if you compare the quantities with other places though. Gram for gram the prices are average.

Where else could you get sushi in Tartu in less than three minutes? Not sushi technically, but maki. YamYam has a good selection too, especially considering its kioskness. I’d like to be perfectly honest though—I love sushi, but it all tastes the same to me. Sushi, maki, tuna, salmon, cucumber, cream cheese and so on—regardless of what it has in it, it tastes the exact same on my tongue. I am only able to notice subtle differences in ingredients like soy sauce, sugar and rice vinegar in the sushi rice, wasabi and gari. I might only notice a difference if you served it with raw buffalo liver.

The other Asian foods—stir-fried rice or noodles basically—are also decent, but nothing special in the end. Estonian restaurants tend to offer thick, gooey sauces that ultimately are a bit sweet for my taste buds, and claim they are Chinese. I’ve never been to China or Indonesia, but there are enough authentic (albeit “localized”) Asian places in the States to lead me to believe that Estonian Chinese is really some sort of Indonesian creation. Which makes sense because Tsink Plekk Pang, the first Asian restaurant in Tartu as far as I know, has Indonesian cooks. It’s not bad at all, but it’s not Chinese either.

Some other items I’ve ordered on my two visits: the Caesar salad wrap, the chicken kebob wrap (I couldn’t really tell the difference between the two, but at twenty-five kroons or so each they were still good), fish and chips for the kids, and of course the hamburger. The woman at the window—Kristiina—couldn’t immediately confirm that the meat inside was in fact beef, but there were two small patties overlapping, resulting in large swathes of delicious hamburger minus the burger. Eating this reminded me of a high school girlfriend who one day turned vegetarian. Not quite knowing what to eat exactly on her new diet, she once ordered a Philly cheesesteak sandwich and asked the waiter to hold the steak.

The fish was delicious, the three or four small pieces in the order. But the chips—fries in American—were absolutely horrible. HORRIBLE. YamYam has brought Estonian frying to a new low. It’s not so much that these chips were greasy, but soggy. Both times they’ve been included in an order, on different visits. They were also smothered in potato spice. I can’t understand why this stuff is everywhere. Estonians can’t seem to get enough of it. Whenever I ask for the kitchen to hold the spice, I’m met with looks of disbelief. “How can you not just adore Santa Maria’s potato spice?!” Because as strange and foreign as I may be here, I’m quite content with salt, and salt alone.

When I eat something, I usually eat it for the natural taste that comes with it. If I don’t like the real flavor, I won’t want to eat it with all manner of perfume for the mouth either. Bacon, cheese or dill flavoring isn’t going to change the fact that I just don’t like a certain food. Which leads me to believe that Estonians, for all the potatoes they consume, don’t actually like potatoes.

The main problem I’ve had at YamYam is the other customers. The staff have been extremely polite, willing to answer any questions I have. When I asked Kristiina, for example, what the Chinese in their logo meant, she eagerly asked the cook, who of course didn’t know. But instead of giving me the typical “Ei tea” (dunno), she suggested that it might mean “greetings” or something or other. I conjured up images of an English restaurant with English cuisine opening in a place where literally no one spoke English, and the logo had some gold-toothed chav and the word “Hi” boldly printed on his Burberry hat.

But the clientele problem is largely due to the location. Yeah, you make money, but you get a ton of teenagers whom I suspect of consuming something a bit stronger than beer and cigarettes, coming out of Club Tallinn. The first time I went there was after a late showing at the movies with a friend who got the midnight munchies. The kids standing outside in the road didn’t want to move so I could drive up to the kiosk. As the food was on its way, I took a good, hard look at today’s youth. A massive, six-foot-plus neo-Nazi in a bomber jacket speaking Russian (which always confuses me—didn’t Hitler hate Slavs?), mid-pubescent girls scarcely clad in pantyhose and some guy named Priit who kept going around the corner to pee.

Mrs. Mingus and I went there one sparkly afternoon, and while we were looking at the large menu mounted on the wall, a group of kids pulled up, got out, and stood directly in front of us, blocking our view. One of them felt the urge to hock a loogey and it almost landed on my foot. Sometimes I just can’t get over how rude people are. They say that lack of respect comes from the parents. And these parents got it from their parents. But I’ve seen these grandparents—very nice people who have lived through great hardship. What gives? It’s something that’s happened very suddenly, most likely due to one main cause and several contributing factors. What could they be? It’s not poverty. I’ve been in some truly destitute places and the people are amazingly hospitable. No, there’s another force at work here.

Potatoes and milk can supposedly provide all the nutrients a person needs to be healthy. The only problem is that most of the good parts of starchy spuds are in the skin. Estonians don’t eat the skin—the best part, in my opinion. It would even help if you boiled the potato and then peeled it. So Estonians are in fact consuming pure starch and carbohydrates—calories—with very few vitamins. I postulate that if you were to take away all potato products in the country, or at least teach people to eat the skin, a very large part of the rudeness would just go away. And the coming obesity epidemic. Why eat something if you don’t like it?

Anyhow, YamYam is a good place for a light dinner or snack. It won’t break your bank, but it won’t fill you up either. I don’t know if I’d call it gourmet though.

Big Ben Pub

Sunday brunch is a popular tradition among many North Americans. It is somewhat associated with grandparents for many—I have lots of childhood memories of sitting through an agonizingly long church sermon and then being further bored in a hotel restaurant, watching Grandfather Mingus extending his tongue to meet the approaching food on the fork. I also recall playing with lava stones used as mulch below plastic seventies-style plants while a guy in a tux tapped away on a piano on the patio.

Not that I’m old enough for my turn in this pseudo-stereotype, but Mrs. Mingus and I decided to go for a Sunday brunch last weekend, minus the church bit of course. We searched on line for a place to go—hotels are always a sure thing—and we found that Eesti Restoran (Estonian Restaurant, a uniquely named eatery in the Barclay Hotel) offered an all-you-can-eat buffet for just a hundred kroons or so, and it was available to the public until eleven. We arrived an hour and a half before that, and it was already over.

So we footed it to Entri, under the Hotell London (Hotel London, in English). The food looked alright, but it was a hundred and twenty a head, and they wanted fifty for each of our two kids as well. They might eat a piece of ham, spit part of it out, and then that would be their meal. No price reduction either. We moved on.

Another hotel had a promising spread but the doorman firmly suggested that it was typically reserved for their hotel guest, who apparently wasn’t awake yet. The dining room was empty and they were turning away customers, in this economic climate. None of the other restaurants were open yet, except for Suudlevad Tudengid, which I’ve reviewed before. Their breakfast menu consisted of a plate for forty kroons that—according to the menu—had an egg, a pickle, beans (I saw a customer who’d ordered it, and they were just raw, cold kidney beans, not the normal baked beans you’d expect) and a piece of dry toast.

—A side note on Suudlevad Tudengid, if you will (Kissing Students). Their chef must have changed. Mrs. Mingus has eaten a couple of their lunch specials, which used to be very good. Last week they served her a fish tail and a pile of mayonnaise. She gave it the benefit of the doubt and tried it again the next day. Another fish tail. We’ll not eat there again.—

Eventually, on the way home, we saw that Big Ben Pub on Riia Street, in the Hotell Pallas (Hotel Pallas, in English), offered a buffet, at half-past ten. They charged a hundred kroons about, and I asked how much it would be for the kids. Nothing! The waitress, whose worn name tag said, “Kri tiina,” told us not to worry about it.

Now I wouldn’t expect the overly developed, sumptuous selection of a large, American hotel, but I also wouldn’t settle for the boxed and processed products at a small American motel, either. Big Ben boasted a healthy combination of both. Scrambled eggs with ham mixed in, fried potatoes with ham mixed in, crêpes rolled up with some ham mixed in, and crêpes rolled up with some tuna mixed in. Small sandwich choice, cereals, coffee and juice, wieners and frozen meatballs for kids, and ketchup.

It wasn’t the best I’d had, but it was far from the other end of the spectrum. Just the fact that they didn’t charge for the kids makes me think very positively about it. But the food was relatively good, despite the abundance of pork. There was also a lot of fish, not just the tuna crêpes. That’s pretty typical of Estonia, just to prepare any bacon-hunting Canadians or Americans.

I like the place itself—the décor, I mean. It’s a theme pub, fashioned after London. I guess the owner’s not simply some fat guy called Ben. But there are leather seats, highly ornate wallpaper true to British interior fashion, lots of wood, and the toilets even have hot and cold taps! The men’s jaan also has an extra feature.

After washing my hands, I couldn’t help but notice the thickly padded leather cushions mounted on the wall over the urinals. Right at head level. Makes you just want to lean against the wall while you’re there. Then I noticed what it was for, on the opposite wall. The decorator apparently visited some vintage porn shops in Camden. I asked Mrs. Mingus if there was anything unusual in the ladies’ jaan. “Like what?” she asked. I told her nevermind. Too difficult to explain.

This wasn’t the first time I’d eaten in Big Ben. No, that was a few months ago. I got the hamburger because that is what we Yankees eat. That’s all we eat. I did ask if the burger was real beef. The waitress had to ask the kitchen, but yes, it was real beef. And it was surprisingly the best burger I’ve had in Tartu, if not Estonia. Now still, that doesn’t say much, but it had thinly-sliced red onion, a great sauce and even lettuce. I don’t think it was made from scratch in the kitchen though. The patty I mean. Most likely bought pre-sliced and frozen.



A distinctive feature of Big Ben is its patio, or veranda, or rotunda, or whatever you call the large, protruding glassed-in deck suspended over a single load-bearing steel post. It’s pretty cool, but I think it’s been de facto reduced to the largest smoking room in the country. They keep most of the windows closed, so even though it’s outside, it still stinks of cigarette butts. While checking it out, I also got my daily fix of Michael Jackson.

I went back to the table and called the bar to order a drink. Literally. Picked up the phone on the table and placed my order. I could see Kri tiina talking to me, receiver in hand. I left a tip, even though it was a self-serve buffet. This place has gimmicks, and they work.