Itaalia Köök

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.

St Urho's Pub

After more than a decade of life in Estonia, I finally crossed the water and spent a day in Helsinki. For years, I’d heard tales of life on the “other side”, untouched by Soviet occupation. I expected diamonds embedded in the pavements, funded by Nokia’s profits. I expected hoards of drunken masses, fueled by cheap booze from Tallinn. As for food, I didn’t know what to expect. Boiled potatoes and fried pork? Estonians love to say how similar they are to the Finns.

As I stepped onto the ferry early one morning, called the Viking, it was difficult to find people on board who didn’t actually work on the ship. I sat down in a large room, alone, and started planning for my day’s business. I was hungry, but there was no need to pay big-city prices for cheap cafeteria food on a boat. I could do a review of the ferry on the way back to Tallinn, when I had more time.

Several hours later in Helsinki, I had a break in my work and wandered out to get my first food of the day. What gems of Western society were hidden among the bilingually named streets of Finland’s capital? The avenues and boulevards are stuffed with locally owned diners and cafés, but from the window they more or less all seemed to offer the same sandwiches in baguettes for upwards of seven euros. I was more in the mood for an old taste from home. Chain restaurant junk food. That was it. And sure enough, I found a Subway.

And for seven euros, I ordered a club sandwich. The image on the menu looked delectable, full, tall. I’d forgotten how big Americans had to open their mouths to eat some of the food we love. What I got, however, was a bun of bread loaded with green pepper and a couple slices of deli meet and cheese. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t quite what I remembered, either. I left a bit hungry.

Work ran late into the night, and after ten, famished, I went out to find dinner. Passing by the Parliament building, I happened across a line of bars, one of which my friend, Jussi, recommended: St Urho’s Pub, on Museokatu Street. Right after we entered, Jussi grabbed my arm and pointed at a bearded man. “Wow, that’s Kimmo Wilska!” I asked if it was the same man who had been on the front page of every newspaper that day, allegedly getting fired from his TV anchor position on a news program just the night before, for pretending to drink a beer on air. It was. I went up to him and introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Mingus. Sorry to hear what happened, but it was still pretty funny to watch. I can’t believe they did that to you.”
—Thanks. At least someone’s laughing!
“Can I buy you a beer?”
—Nah, that’s alright. I think I’m done with beer.

Everyone at our table disappeared one by one and came back with a beer. So I followed suit and asked the bartender—Kristian—if they by chance had any Estonian beers. “We have Sakah Tumah, a strong, quality Estonian porter. Try it, you might like it.” I asked if he had anything else. “Um, yes, we have a beer called, er, Rock. It’s on tap.” I ordered a Rock. I assume he didn’t know it was also Saku, and therefore pronounced Suck. But when in Helsinki, you can’t be choosy about which beers you drink from the muthahland. It was a good excuse for me to finally try Rock. I’m a fan of Tartu’s beers, myself.

Back at the table, food started to arrive. “Oh, did you guys order for me, too?” Everyone shook their heads. They had forgotten to tell me there was no table service in St Urho’s Pub. I went to the bar again to order, looking at the pizza menu. Kristian informed me that there was a line for pizzas, about thirty or forty to go. I should order from the other menu. He recommended the Toast Manala, a hot sandwich with chicken breast and Cheddar. Excuse me, Cheddar? People in Finland cook with Cheddar? Fantastic! I paid by card and had to sign for it. A signature? The last time I had to sign anything was, well, I can’t remember. My signature was illegible. I secretly hoped my bank would think it was fraud and cancel the transaction. But only after I ate.

A brief fifteen minutes later on this busy night (we got the very last table), my Toast Manala arrived. The waitress—Kristiina—asked if I needed any mayonnaise for my fries. Or perhaps ketchup or mustard. I carefully examined what was on my plate. No potato seasoning, just rock salt. I declined Kristiina’s offer. “No thanks, salt is good enough for me. Why didn’t you put seasoning on the fries? I mean, it’s good you didn’t, but I’m just curious.
—Why? Why would we?
“Where I live, it’s very difficult to get fries without cheap seasoning.”
—Oh. Uh, I guess we just like the taste of potatoes in Finland.

My Toast was delicious. Hard to eat, yes, as the shape of the chicken caused it to get pinched out of the sandwich every time I picked it up. But the right choice of ingredients (namely, Cheddar) was well worth the hundred seventy point fifty-five kroons. This little bar, over by the Parliament building, was not, apparently, overpriced. I would pay even more for this meal again. My first time to Helsinki, and I already have a favorite restaurant.

The next morning I had to catch the ferry mid-morning. I skipped breakfast so I could eat at a place called Southern Fried Chicken I had seen on one of the main drags, Mannerheimintie Street. My mouth was watering as I almost jogged down the road, just itchin’ to get me some proper fixin’s. A friend had recommended it. It was closed. At ten in the morning. Opening in an hour. I would be on the boat by then. I was perplexed as to how a fast-food restaurant could be closed in the morning, especially as it was a Southern-style joint. Southern-fried breakfasts are notoriously delicious. Buttermilk biscuits, dirty rice and so on (yes, I like dirty rice for breakfast).

I looked at the menu in the window. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Maybe I was lucky SFC was closed. The only thing it had in common with the real KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) apart from blatant copyright infringement was fried chicken. KFC served buttermilk biscuits. It did not serve kebobs, and it did not serve fried chicken on white rice.

But I was starving now. I walked up the street and saw a Robert’s Coffee. I knew this place from Tallinn. There I could get coffee and maybe a pastry or even another sandwich. It was open! As I walked in to the shopping center, I saw the employee locking the door to the stall, hanging up a sign that politely informed me he’d be back in half an hour.

Maybe Kamppi, the five-floor mall in downtown Helsinki? Time was running out, and it was only a block away. I wandered over to one of the food areas and found a place called I [Heart] Food The Restaurant. It looked decent, and I stood browsing the overhead menu for about five minutes. When I went up to order, the man at the register—who’d been watching me and waiting for my order—told me before I opened my mouth that they didn’t have any food or coffee ready yet.

I saw another place called Scan Burger. I didn’t want to find out why it was called that. I was out of time, and used the last of my energy to quickly make my way to the port. I could eat on the boat. Obviously there wouldn’t be a line, as no one had been on the boat the day before.

Chaos! And once I got on the ferry itself, more chaos! I couldn’t even find a seat where I could work. Forget about food, forget about coffee. There were lines outside the on-board bars and cafés with people waiting to get inside and stand in line again. This persisted for the duration of the trip across the Gulf of Finland. I had trouble typing, my hands were shaking so much.

And then I saw Estonia. My stomach had never been so happy to be in Estonia. Finland was great, but it wasn’t paved in precious gems, and fortunately the people in the city were quite polite (and they had different skin colors—yeah!). The drunks I guess only go to Estonia. They don’t appear in public in their own element. I found a seat at a table and shared it with a hugely obese couple and their little boy. In the course of two hours, they each did three shots of vodka, each followed by a pint of Suck. I don’t know how they made it through the lines. Maybe they were the line. The little boy was sucking on a giant Chupa Chups lollipop as big as his head.

It took about half an hour to get off the boat. That was unexpected. All the cabs were gone, too, so I stumbled to the bus station in my ravenous delirium and bought a hot dog from a Finnish R-Kiosk. Ketchup and mustard, please! I paid by entering my personal identification number in a sleek payment terminal and happily waited for my bus to Tartu.

Sõprade Juures

On the very last weekend of the very last month that could in any way be considered summer, Mrs. Mingus and I found ourselves doing the very last thing we would have expected—waiting to eat dinner at three in the afternoon outside on Town Hall Square. I even tried to stop it, but as evening approached, we were bound to stay and eat our dinner, which had finally been served. Watching the good people of Tartu greatly helped us while away the time.

“Since the kids are gone now, should we go get a coffee and enjoy the weather?” Mrs. Mingus asked, as we drove away from her parents’ house.
—I’ve had enough coffee today, but a glass of water sounds good. We have all afternoon to do anything we want, I replied. It’s only two o’clock.
“I think the tables are still out on the Square. Let’s go there.”

There was some sort of science exhibition going on, something involving bikes. A DJ was standing by the fountain on the Square going on and on about them. Maybe to promote the new bicycle lanes popping up everywhere. I love how the city is painting all the crosswalks red, too. I assume it’s so hurrying motorists won’t be distracted by splat marks.

The roads in the Old Town had been closed off, and we were offered no warning until we saw the signs that read, “Road Closed”, blocking further progress to our preferred free weekend parking zone. The four cars behind us were equally surprised, and we spent a quarter of an hour trying to turn around.

We ended up parking way off to the end of the downtown area, by Kaubamaja. I was glad, actually, because I was eager to see the progress being made on revamping the promenade from Riia Street to the Square. Ancient Soviet asphalt being replaced en masse with brand new cobblestone. I think the area near Zum Zum, immediately by the Square, is very tastefully done. The rusted metal boxes around the trees are a surprisingly positive addition. They remind me of the new hospital facilities, with their rusted metal façade details. I’m serious—I do like it. I’m just worried that it might be a bit too trendy, quickly turning into yesterday’s scrap. Like the old Hansapank building on Barclay Square. Ultra-modern a decade ago, now ultra-out-of-place and ultra-for-rent.

After sitting down at a table in a place called Sõprade Juures (At Friends’) with a good view of people, and in the sun, we started perusing the menus left out by the previous customers. Where’s the water? There it is. With or without bubbles? With. When I first came to Europe, I couldn’t believe how people would purposefully drink carbonated water. At a café in East Berlin once, I was greatly annoyed that I couldn’t get a glass of water. They only had the bubbly. “Tap water please?” —You can’t drink it. You’re not from here, was the reply. I trusted the waiter’s gastric opinion and ordered a glass of sparkling water. It was like drinking Sprite while holding your nose. An acquired taste. Now I quite enjoy drinking water with an injection of carbon.

We waited for the waitress. “You know, it’s half past two now. Maybe we should get something to eat. That early lunch we had at eleven is already long gone,” Mrs. Mingus suggested. Not a bad idea, so I glanced at the menu, and was delighted to see a full list of Estonian national foods, something I had been looking for of late. Herring, cottage cheese pancakes, potatoes, eggs, mushrooms, liver and “brawn”. By “brawn” they meant sült, or headcheese. The parts of a pig you normally wouldn’t eat, molded in a gelatinous solid from its own juices, served with vinegar. I like the flavor, but I’m a texture maniac and can’t get past the meat jelly aspect of it. Apparently “brawn” is British English for boar meat, too. The only green thing I saw on that menu of traditional Estonian food was a pickle. I decided on a main dish of turkey instead. Served with baked tomatoes.

The waitress—Krista was her name—approached us twenty-five minutes later, just before three. We ordered. Krista thanked us and left. Ten minutes later, I got my glass of water. Some friends walked by and joined us. “I’m pretty hungry,” one replied. I asked if they wanted to eat with us. “No, this place takes forever. We’re going to get something to eat on Rüütli Street, around the corner.” We were left alone again.

Krista ran in and out of the restaurant, servicing and waiting on other people waiting at tables. A random waitress approached us. “Your food will be ready soon. Very sorry for the wait.” —Who was that? I asked Mrs. Mingus. She didn’t know.

A few minutes later, our friends walked by again. “Still waiting?” they asked with a smirk. “We’re already done.” At four o’clock, I finally began to get annoyed. —I’m going to find our waitress and cancel the order. I want to go to Rüütli Street.

I saw Krista walk into the restaurant next door—Suudlevad Tudengid (Kissing Students)—and I followed her to the bar, where she was ringing up someone’s order. “Excuse me,” I said.
—Yes?
“I’m very sorry, but I have to cancel our order. We have to leave, we don’t have any more time to wait.”
—I’m sorry, but you need to speak to your waitress about that.
“You’re our waitress.”
—No, I work here. You’re sitting next door. You need to speak to someone from there.
“But you took our order.”
—Yes, and I gave it to your waitress.
I was beginning to feel like someone was carbonating my stomach. “Can you tell me who our waitress is then?” I desperately held on to my patience.
—Sorry, I don’t know who she is.
“But you just said you gave her our order.”
—Yes, that’s right.
“So you do, in fact, know who she is?”
—I don’t remember.

Jaded, I left the restaurant and proceeded to go back next door. Mrs. Mingus was talking to that same random waitress. Kristel was her name. I heard the end of the conversation, “…give you a discount for your wait.” A minute or two later, our food was served.

I had forgotten to ask Krista or Kristel to hold the Santa Maria potato seasoning for my French fries. They were doused in it. The turkey was mediocre. I thought the blue cheese topping would be interesting, but it was a bit too strong. By itself the turkey was bone-dry, a common problem with this poultry. But only if you don’t know how to cook it. It’s a North American bird, and the most common variety available throughout most of Europe is, if memory serves correctly, a cross of this wild turkey with a Danish pheasant. When I cook a turkey for Thanksgiving, it’s very moist and juicy, pleasant to eat. This dish was only saved by its savory mustard sauce. If only I had some water, which I had finished an hour previously.

Mrs. Mingus found the fried egg served over her pork to be overcooked, rubbery almost. Ultimately, we were most unimpressed with this early-and-now-late dinner. Sõprade Juures and Suudlevad Tudengid are essentially the same restaurant. They share a kitchen, share seating outside and, from time to time albeit apparently unofficially, they share wait staff.

When we got the bill, we did indeed notice a discount. Sixteen kroons. One euro basically. So I left a one-euro tip. That sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? One euro for a dinner tip. Sixteen kroons doesn’t seem that bad though, at ten percent. People are right, we’re going to feel very poor in three months.

The way I see it, this restaurant is in a very good location. The size of its outdoor presence could easily fool unsuspecting visitors and farners into thinking that this is the flagship restaurant of the city. The reputation it has among the locals for being slow is well-founded, and quite honestly I think the city should step in and tell them to hurry up their service. Our food was warm when served, but if the kitchen can’t handle this many people at once, it should be enlarged. It presents a clear and present danger to tourists. They could all die from hunger.

Obviously I’m exaggerating, but it’s still ridiculous. When I paid by card, like I do everywhere, I was surprised that I was asked to sign for it. Don’t we use personal identification numbers now? It had been so long since I had signed anything with a pen that my signature looked like a child’s scribbling, instead of an adult’s scribbling. But the jaans were clean and spacious. I am thankful to Sõprade Juures for allowing me to spend the entire afternoon outside, enjoying the last nice, warm weather of the year.

Where Are They Now? Volume II

After fifty reviews of restaurants in Tartu and around the country, I’ve been asked if it was my intention to retire Tartu – City of Good Food the way I sent my previous blog the way of President Arnold Rüütel—replaced with something green. That’s a good question, and the answer is even better: no way, I’m just getting started!

For this jubilee review, during these economic times and considering all the turmoil the restaurant industry has suffered through, it seems appropriate to recap who’s still around, changes that have been made, and tales of subsequent visits. There is a theme, as well. Ketchup.

I’ll start with paraphrasing a keen observation from this blog: “The whole world is trying to curb the fast-food culture. Estonia, however, seems to be expanding it.” In the past year, there are a number of mystery meat burger outlets that have appeared—City, Le Bus, Fasters and Teine Koht, just to name a few. The last one means “Second Place”, depending on how you translate it. Even if you call it “Another Place”, the name is less than appealing. I tried it once, got the rukkiburger (a standard burger on whole-grain black bread). Forgettable, but open all the time. It’s on Barclay Square in a former casino.

Recently, on the way to Tallinn, the Mingus family stopped at the Lõuna Keskus mall to get a quick bite at Le Bus. When I reviewed it, I mentioned the difficulties of eating without a plate or tray. This time, I asked Krista the waitress for a tray. “We don’t have any,” came the confused reply.
—What are those flat looking things stacked up next to the microwave? I asked.
“Those are trays.”
—May I have one?
“Of course.”
—And I’d like some ketchup as well, please.
She proceeded to pull out a tube of ketchup, and asked me to pay for it.
—Could I just have some ketchup on a drink lid like I did last time? I enquired, motioning toward the large plastic bottle in front of me.
“Oh, that’s hot dog ketchup.”
—Hot dog ketchup? What’s the difference?
“Hot dog ketchup is for hot dogs. These tubes are for everything else.”
—It’s ok, I don’t mind.
She hesitantly took the bottle of ketchup and squirted a perfect ring around the perimeter of the drink lid, the way she would on a tubular hot dog bun.
—How much is it? I offered to pay.
“Nothing. Hot dog ketchup is free.”

When a visiting friend wanted to go out for a beer, we found a new place on Rüütli Street called Möku, which means “wimp”. Tiny little place, but a good atmosphere. We got hungry, so I asked Kristjan the bartender if they had food. “Yes, we do. I would recommend the baguette with kebob meat.” So we ordered it, and Kristjan picked up the phone to place the order. “I’m sorry, they don’t have baguettes right now.” I asked where he was calling. City. Möku is just too small to have a kitchen, but they have a delivery deal with City, right next to Barclay Square. I asked for a kebob instead. “Do you want pita bread with kebob meat?” It was actually pretty good. Can’t quite figure out what animal “kebob meat” would come from though. A camel? It tasted like beef.

Though still not as good as Alvi Kebob. I’m unsure of how many owners this place has gone through by now. They have ceased to add jalapeños unfortunately. Recently I waited for fifteen minutes to place my order while I watched Krista the food assembler try in vain to salvage a hamburger bun that had broken apart on the grill. Eventually she tossed it and put a new bun on, quickly serving it to the guy waiting outside. When she came to take my order, I ordered a tortilla with kebob meat. Here, “kebob meat” is supposedly duck, chicken and turkey, all somehow on the same skewer. “I’m sorry, we’re out of kebob meat.”
—You’re out? What is that? I pointed at the tower of durcken meat.
“Kebob meat. But it’s not cooked yet.”
Disappointed, I left. Why couldn’t she have volunteered that information while I was patiently standing there? I’ve had problems with Krista before, however. I speak with an accent in Estonian of course, but when I ask for a kebob, it’s pretty obvious that I’m asking for a kebob. “A burger?” When I asked for extra “yalapennos” I saw smoke coming from her ears. Or maybe it was from a burning bun on the grill behind her. But it’s still the best kebob with kebob meat in Tartu.

One of my favorite places for lunch, Ungari Köök, almost kicked the bucket this summer. Business was slow during the heat wave, yes, but the reason the owners considered closing was so they could go back to Hungary, where the climate for doing business is a bit warmer than Tartu. “I had a complete plan to build a restaurant downtown across the river, by Atlantis. Although the city helped us with all the paperwork, we felt the resistance to our idea, and ultimately they decided to keep the empty grassy area.,” the owner recounted to me. Rumor has it the city has also blocked other attempts to open a delicious langosh and soup kitchen accessible to pedestrians in the immediate downtown area.

The way I see it, the park by Atlantis is nice, but it’s relatively unused and unlit as well, a bit dangerous in the dark. It was populated with restaurants before the war, but because it’s just a grassy knoll these days, any attempts to rebuild after the war are shot down by politicians hiding in City Hall. Sounds like someone just wants a bribe. But business is booming in the Selver parking lot at the corner of Turu and Sõbra Streets. Must be a reason.

Last week Mrs. Mingus and I went to Vilde to enjoy that amazing grill stone meal, the one you cook yourself at the table. The Romanian saw me and invited me to the kitchen for a full tour after the meal. I had never been in a restaurant kitchen before. The only times I ever see them are on television, usually as a setting for a gangster gun fight or when the police discover a cadaver in the meat locker. “We’re changing our menu this month,” the Romanian explained. “We’ll still have the grill stone, but it will be for two people, it will be cheaper by thirty percent and more food will be served. We have to ax the lamb chops though. That’s half the cost right there, for such a small amount.” That’s too bad about the lamb—one of my favorite items—but at least it will be more affordable if you don’t want to organize a dinner party to try it.

When we stepped out of the kitchen, we heard uproarious laughter coming from the back room. “What’s happening?” I asked.
—Comedy night.
“Wow, I didn’t know they had live comedy in Estonian.”
—No, it’s in English, he explained. Some farners put on shows here sometimes.
“English? Is it any good?” I asked.
—Well, I haven’t had a chance to watch much, as I’m usually in the kitchen, but from what I’ve seen, it’s really good. They sell out all their shows.

Mrs. Mingus and I caught the last half hour of the show, and it truly was hilarious. The first time I’ve ever seen “stand-up comedy” live, and it was in English in Estonia. In Tartu. Word on the street is these guys have open-mic nights in Möku every month. I think Tartu just got a lot more fun.

The main chef from Moka (not Möku) has relocated to Illegaard, and has made quite an impact on their food. The Authentic English Bloke who owns the place let me sample an English-style doughnut, as I mentioned in a previous review. I went back for their pizza. They didn’t skimp on the toppings, and the crust was pretty good. I prefer deep-dish over thin crust, but I still enjoyed it. Good competition for La Dolce Vita, but for less than half the cost. I look forward to trying the other “non-bar food” in this bar.

While visiting friends in Southern Estonia, by the Russian border, we decided to try the Seto tsäimaja once more. The food is good there, but the service is a disaster. Kristõ, who takes orders, is fairly rude. “You can’t order food right now. No potatoes.” When asked, it was revealed that they were only then starting to boil more potatoes.
—Couldn’t we just order a main course without potatoes?
“Grrd.”
—Does that mean no?
“Yes.”
—No yes, or no no?
“I can’t sell you food without potatoes.”
—Why not? I don’t mind.
“I wouldn’t know how to charge you for it.”
—I’ll pay full price. We’re just really hungry.
“Come back in half an hour. Should be ready then.” And she proceeded to turn down the next customers as well.
—Excuse me, I still haven’t ordered yet.
“We don’t have any food.”
—Nothing?
“We have soup.”
—Great, I’ll take three soups, please.
“It’s cold.”
—Is it supposed to be cold?
“Do you want it cold?”
We drove to Põlva for mystery meat burgers. They were out of ketchup.

I have had so many odd experiences with eating, but don’t get the wrong idea—it’s only mildly more bizarre than eating out in the States from time to time. And I have yet to see Parmesan in a regular American grocery store that isn’t already grated and sold in a green can. Here, the stuff is plentiful. Nopri Talu (Nopri Farm) down south near Vastseliina sells an experimental Parmesan that is only available from their shop. I really hope they start selling it elsewhere soon, because the Alfredo sauce I made with it was unbelievable.

Apart from the fatten explosion (meaning, fast food), overall quality and service in Tartu has jumped by leaps and bounds in the past year. Everyone who visits me asks for authentic Estonian food in a restaurant. There aren’t many places for that, and the two or three locales I can think of aren’t that great. But I’ve had incredible Estonian food before. Just not that often in a restaurant. Why is that? Our visitors always ask Mrs. Mingus for her Estonian recipes after dinner.

Nop

“Happy Restoration of the Independence of the Republic of Estonia Day!” I told Mrs. Mingus last Friday. Whether you say the full phrase or just refer to it as “Reindependence Day” or “Independence Day Two Point Oh”, it still makes me think of rocks. Big rocks. The ones that were used to block the streets when the tanks came rolling in on that fateful day nineteen years ago.

My binational little mongrels will grow up celebrating three independence days. Ironically, on this day we had a friend visiting from England. He doesn’t have an independence day to celebrate, but I do—from his country. We walked around Kadriorg Park in Tallinn—the presidential palace and gardens—and I recounted the finer points of Estonia’s Singing Revolution to him. Perhaps one day an Estonian and a Russian will walk the streets of Belfast together, learning about the olden days, during the British occupation. I’m assuming the term Whiskey Revolution will exist by then.

“We really should leave,” my friend stated.
—Yeah, I’m hungry, too. I know a breakfast place nearby.
“No, we really should leave Northern Ireland.”
—Oh. You honestly feel that way?
“Of course. There’s no reason for us to be there.”
—Why don’t you just leave then?
“We made a mess there, and I guess a lot of us feel the need to stay and clean it up.”
—I’m very glad the Russians don’t feel responsible for their mess in Estonia.

Sometimes I think that Estonia is very lucky—it gets to be nineteen again. The why is certainly unfortunate, but the experience to learn from one’s own mistakes is not. Let’s hope Estonia’s leaders exhibit this wisdom.

We wandered out of the park area toward Köleri Street and a restaurant called Nop. It was late morning, and we wanted some breakfast. In Tartu, there’s really no place to go for breakfast unless you want a hotel buffet, which can get pricey and still isn’t that great. Filling, yes, but it’s usually just scrambled eggs, fried potatoes and varieties of porridge. And bread and cheese.

In Nop I ordered scrambled eggs and potatoes, and Mrs. Mingus ordered blueberry porridge. “Scrambled eggs” in Estonian is translated as “egg porridge”. The menu described my dish as having bacon as a side, but the fatty ham (not bacon) had been fried and mixed in the eggs. That’s just how it’s served here. It works. A bit greasy for eggs maybe, but it tastes great. I ate all the tomatoes on my plate as well, hoping to balance out the cholesterol I was consuming.

The four-grain porridge with blueberries was a bit disappointing. Very good still, but the berries were dried, not fresh. In summer, and during blueberry season, I think it only natural to assume fresh blueberries would be served. What made the place memorable, however, was the banana bread with cinnamon butter. Simply sumptuous.

Where can you get anything even closely resembling homemade sweet bread in Tartu? Illegaard now offers English doughnuts with whipped cream and jam. Now that is a treat. And now my mind draws a blank for other options. Tallinn is four times the size of Tartu, and so is its variety.

This small restaurant or café or whatever has a cozy patio round the back, where you can sip on iced coffee or iced tea. Instead of "going Tartu" on its trees and cutting them down, Tallinn—and Nop—incorporates trees into its living space. I just loved the bench built round the thick trunk.

Nop also has its own shop, next to the dining area. Fresh bread, a decent selection of cheeses and other—some organic—products are for sale. What this place would remind me of is GenKlubi in Tartu, but only if GenKlubi got their act together and swept the floors from time to time and fixed up anything that could crumble into your drink. Nop has a comfortably worn feeling to it, but it’s clean and the owners keep up with the repairs. And instead of drinking tea in a plastic disposable cup, you can order delicious, freshly squeezed orange juice in a reusable glass glass. It was so foamy it could have been a healthy smoothie.

The Guatemalan coffee was good. They offer coffee from a pot and “machine coffee”. I experienced a definite nineties, grunge-era nostalgia. Formerly pierced yet not-so-formerly tattooed yuppies who drive Land Cruisers with windsurf boards on the roof and dress in tight, pink shirts are frequent patrons.

Krista the waitress was very polite in answering any questions we had. “Excuse me, my wife ordered banana bread. Is that almost ready?” I asked, as we had all finished our meals and wanted to leave.
—Of course! I forgot, I’m very sorry. One moment please.
And one moment later, it was served with a smile.

On the way back to Kadriorg Park we passed two houses. I was surprised to discover that Barbie and Ken were in fact neighbors, not lovers. And they live on Green Ass Street. There was a grotesquely expensive black car with black tinted windows parked in the driveway. I can imagine how he does business. “You a come over to a my housa, we will eat a together and talk, you and me. I live in da pinka housa.”

Horrible joking aside, some of the houses in that neighborhood are truly works of art. Unfortunately, some of these works of art have been left to rot. Just across the street from where the president hosts foreign dignitaries, there are windowless shells of formerly gorgeous homes, doors boarded up, weeds tall enough to harvest with a Soviet sickle. And then immediately next door is another restored beauty. This is Estonia’s First Neighborhood.

If you take a stroll in Kadriorg Park with your children, whatever you do, don’t walk by the playground. You will spend the rest of the day there. The museum is amazing though. Redeeming for parents who are punished by having to chase toddlers through a labyrinth of swings and slides.

The park itself is largely similar to Hyde Park in London. The paths are clean, they go everywhere, and they have the coolest bins for dog matter. The dogs in Tallinn are apparently gargantuan. There’s even a duck house on one of the ponds.

When you get to the presidential palace, it’s interesting to stand near the guards and look at the flags. Estonian Reindependence Day, with the Estonian blue-black-white flying next to the euroring. At least the state seal over the front door was made by a friend of mine, not imported. Walking around the park though you can clearly see the influences from the various ages it’s lived through. The palace itself was built for Catherine the First, of Russia. I assume she chose Estonia for the location because she was supposedly Estonian. From a tiny lakeside village southwest of Tartu called Rõngu.

When the Soviets occupied the country, they laid their signature concrete ruins sporadically throughout the grounds. Later, the Estonians built their signature museums and playgrounds everywhere, pretending not to see the concrete ruins. I personally think President Lennart Meri’s single greatest act of patriotism was the toilet press conference at what is now called Lennart Meri Airport. He should have given a lot more of these press conferences.

These parks of old are all modeled after the French style, because it was chic at the time. The Russians wanted to be French—that’s why the upper class spoke French and not Russian, and Messieurs Tolstoy and Dostoevsky would lead you to believe the serf lords could not even communicate in Russian—and these parks are copied and pasted straight from Versailles. English and French gardens have their welcome places in various countries, but honestly I have to say I prefer the modern Estonian garden.

Big rocks and logs with a mildly wild feel to it. Municipal gardens, I should specify. I am not a big fan of the private backyards with Japanese water fountains and garden gnomes. Gnomes make me want to buy an air gun. Fieldstone walls, the neighborhood hedgehog making its nocturnal rounds, untrimmed lilacs and white roses are what it’s all about. All shrouded in evening mist with a midnight sunset. This summer was the greatest ever.