I have, for instance, completely revised my appraisal of pork products in general, and certain cuts specifically. A hefty slab of well marbled pig flesh known locally as "karbonaar" seems to come from the region near the spine of the beast, south of bacon and due north of the internal organs. It comes in approximately 2 kilogram portions with a few centimeters of fat surrounding one edge like the rind of a grapefruit. This delectable chunk of oink was the first local meat that I experimented with, and its early manifestations involved cubing, browning, and use in soups until I discovered its true calling. For this is a meat-unit designed for slow cooking in its own juices, ideally after a brief acquaintance with the business side of a hot skillet. Despite my lack of adequate kitchen facilities the karbonaar has graced our table more than a few times as a very convincing approximation of pot roast, complete with carrots and potatoes and what is possibly the most savory gravy this side of the former Soviet Union. Leftovers--ideal for shredding and use in soups, sandwiches, and midnight snacks--are rare.
Potatoes and fried things still rest secure in their positions at the top of my list of dislikes, which is unfortunate in the case of the former only because they are inexpensive and not at all in regard to the latter. Because these are staples of the local diet they appear frequently in all manner of restaurants and cafes, and it is a struggle to avoid them. For this reason when we do descend from the sixth floor of Raatuse to mingle with the masses at mealtimes, our options are limited by self-imposed constraints. In fact there is only one restaurant in the whole of Tartu that I feel, at this point in time, is worthy of my precious kroons. But La Dolce Vita is really all I need.
It's a lovely place, a few steps down from the street into a dining room with a low domed ceiling and wood fired pizza oven visible from the 10 tables with their checkered cloths. All restaurants in Tartu are fairly small, but I am always surprised when we don't have to wait for a table. As the name suggests, it's an Italian Joint. Appetizers include caprese salad with buffalo milk mozzarella, three kinds of bruschetta, a beef carpaccio that I am determined to sample in the future, and a whole two pages of other delicious sounding items. The list of salads is equally long, equally delicious sounding, and having seen them delivered to salivating customers I can attest that they are among the only "salads" in Tartu served with a realistic quantity of actual lettuce. Soups include the traditional minestrone and a couple of others I can't recall, and of course there are pages of pizza and desserts. I cannot go into detail about the flavors and aromas of any of these dishes because I have not eaten them. Determined as I always am to branch out when making a rare visit to this temple of food, like my dining companion I am helplessly under the sway of pasta. It is among my favorite foods, they do it better than I can, and it's also the cheapest meal on the menu.
There are a lot of other great things I've found to cook and eat here so far: tomatoes are more flavorful and less expensive here, cabbage can be had for almost nothing and seems somehow easier on the digestive track that I recall, and there are these tiny (quarter sized) Russian dumplings called "pelmeenid" which I am developing an unhealthy taste for. In supermarkets savory pastries can be had for between 4 and 10 kroons depending on what they're stuffed with, and especially when they're hot from the grocer's oven the flaky pastry filled with spinach, or smoked ham, or the mustard filled "wiener pastry", make an excellent lunch.
So, while it's not exactly a food destination, Estonia in general and Tartu in particular has more to offer than I expected. Still, caution is advised. Yesterday we decided to try the Russian cafe "Kalinka" during their 40%-off-food-at-the-six-o'clock-hour hour. I ordered a soup called "Seljaanka", which I had been recommended days earlier, and my dinner companion inquired about the special written on a chalkboard in Estonian.
http://www.tavernkalinka.ee/?id=0
"Fish," the traditionally dressed blond waitress informed him.
He looked at me uncertainly. I shrugged.
"Okay, fish sounds good."
We waited a long time for our food, supplied only with a basket of rather stale bread, distinctly stale O shaped pretzels, and yellow tube of the locally made and tremendously spicy mustard. As I squirted yellow paste carefully onto the little pretzel Os I said, half jokingly,
"I hope they don't bring you herring."
"I don't mind herring."
"We'll see."
"You know," he went on, looking suspiciously at the table next to us, "the daily special is usually whatever they need to get rid of. I hope they don't give me bad fish."
"Well, with fish at least you'll know if its bad. But it'll probably be pickled anyway."
All joking aside, our Russian-costumed server finally approached our table with a large plate and a steaming bowl. I was so distracted by hunger and enthusiasm that I began mixing the dollop of sour cream into the tomato-red broth without looking up for some time. As I brought the first spoonful toward my face I saw the fish. It was a whole fish, about 12 inches long and a deep black green. My dinner partner picked up his fork and delicately lifted the upward facing half of the fish's scaly body away from the downward facing half.
"At least they took the guts out."
So I shared my soup, which has a tomato broth chock full of pickled cabbage, beets, onions, and is rumored to contain seven types of meat. I saw only some chunks of sausage, but it was still delicious. And I helped him eat the fish, which was cold, and smoked, not pickled as I had predicted. Actually it wasn't bad. I wouldn't order it, and I don't think he will again, but it was entirely edible and we ate it in its entirety. As we waited for the check I lifted the thing's head a few inches off the table. With its wobbly spine dangling in the air I pinched either side of the fish's mouth, just below the eyeless sockets, between my thumb and forefinger.
"Eat me!" the fish insisted in a squeaky version of my voice, opening and closing its mouth with each syllable. With my help it gaped a few more times, for emphasis.
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