Pizza Grande

“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

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

“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

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

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

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.