Going in for a Kill

Being a hearty meat eater, I’ve many times pondered over whether I’d actually be capable of hunting down my own prey and doing the necessary “dirty work” in order to savor the end product. A beautiful steak is a beautiful steak, but before it sat on the plate in front of you to satisfy your lust for bloody juiciness, it was an actual living creature that hopefully had a happy life. My intention is not to raise a discussion on the moralities surrounding the issue, but I strongly encourage you all to reflect on it as I did a few days ago, when I found myself hunting wild boar, somewhere on the Piedmontese fields at 5.30 AM.

My excitement gave me no sleep the night before the big day. It was going to be my very first hunt. I flounced around in bed, restless, like a dog chasing a cat in his dreams. When the alarm rang, I was already up. Vincenzo, my hunting mentor, had knocked on my door earlier to tell me that he was waiting for me downstairs. I got dressed for the occasion; proper boots and other hunting gear. I ran down to the garage to help Vincenzo, I didn’t want to miss a single detail. He threw me an apple and gesticulated that I should hop in the truck, “Andiamo al bar”. For a minute I got confused, hunting under the influence of alcohol didn’t sound wise. My brain must have been still asleep at that point, since normally I know that ‘bar’ means a coffee shop here in Italy.

When we pulled over by the bar, it dawned on me. The rest of the hunting gang was already there, eating sweet puff pastry, drinking strong black espressos and talking wild boar talk. The vivid conversation came to an abrupt halt when I stepped in. A girl! A Finn! What? Why? I definitely created confusion in the highest degree. What a comical scene is was. An icebreaker was badly needed, so cracked a few stupid jokes with my mediocre Italian skills. It worked. I felt that most of the elderly men came around and accepted my presence. First test passed. I could enjoy my cappuccino with extra foam with comfort.

In a flash, we were back in the truck, driving on little curvy countryside streets. The air smelled of smoke and the fog characteristic for the region covered the whole landscape in its gauze. Vincenzo lit up his first cigarette of the day. No words were spoken – a moment of soothing tranquility. Just as I sat back relaxed to take a bite of the beautiful red apple that I had tucked in my pocket, Vincenzo made a sudden turn and drove off road onto the field. He had spotted five deer and was ready to get them. Before I knew it, there was a riffle horizontally right across my lap, “Can you shoot?” he asked me. My nervous laugher spoke for itself, “I can try”, I answered pathetically. Vincenzo laughed. He was only pulling my leg.  We had been too slow anyway, I understood, the deer had already lifted their heads. I assure you, I was now wide-awake.

We parked the truck on a field in the middle of nowhere. It was time to inspect the ground, search for paw prints and half eaten corncobs. Not a single trace would pass Vincenzo’s hawk eyes. There were prints everywhere, “only deer, damn it!” he grouched, “where are the fat bastards?”. After a while we spotted the first wild boar prints, “These are from last night though. See, the grass straw in the middle of the print is already standing up again”. Fascinating! Not only could Vincenzo tell how long it had been since the animal had walked there, he could also tell the direction it had taken and approximately how many they were. The city girl was stunned. We kept walking and I kept on learning more and more.

For a while I felt bad, worrying that I had brought bad hunting luck. We had walked around for hours and there were no wild boars insight. Maybe the others had caught them all during the time I was taught the ABCs of hunting. I was about to express my sincerest apologies, as the half time report echoed from the walkie talkie in Vincenzo’s pocket. It was something in Piedmontese, the local dialect with a slight French sound to it, but I understood that it was coffee time.

Again, the whole gang reunited at a roadside bar for a hot energy booster. It seemed that I hadn’t been the only one half asleep earlier on. The magnitude of gestures and volume of conversation had at least tripled. Many were also curious about why there was a Finnish girl tagging along. My reasons were simple, “I’m here because I want to learn everything there is to know about the food here and all details related to it. I love to eat and I’m extremely curious”. For a second, the elderly men looked at each other in silence. And then they all clapped my on the shoulder, “BRAVA!!!”. I believe it was the second test passed.

At 10.30 AM we were back on the hunting track and the sun was embracing us with its warmth. I was picturing in my mind how the wild boar would be dealt with once we’d caught one. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d feel about watching the beast getting killed. I don’t know whether it was the three espressos I had had within four hours or the adrenaline rush of the situation, but my heart was beating hard. I clung on to my camera with both hands ready to document each bloody detail. It was calm and the air stood still. The only sound I could hear were the bells around the dogs’ necks clinging as they ran frenetically back and forth with their noses in the mud.

At 12.30, like clockwork, rifles were stacked away. There was only one thing on everyone’s minds. Food. It was lunchtime. I must admit that it was the sweetest part of the whole experience. All the big, tough, manly men had a little cooling bag filled with nicely wrapped food items. Before I knew it, I was enjoying a full-scale picnic composed of leftover from the night before, cheese, bread, salami and other cold cuts. Everyone had something in their Tupperware that they wanted me to taste. Did I mind? Guess! I was having the time of my life, sharing food and talking about the wild. My hunger was satisfied and I was good to continue. I stood up so as to make a gesture suggesting I was ready to rock, but I was stopped by Vincenzo who handed me a plastic bottle, “Have some wine, my friend here made it”. Without hesitation I took a sip and handed the bottle to the man standing next to me, “No, no, it’s just for you. We’ll have some later”. With gratitude, I took another sip. “Brava Edith!”. A third test passed. Life was sweet.

A few hour later, still no wild boars. I could feel the hunters’ disappointment. Honestly, I was pretty bummed out too. I had prepared myself for a kill, physically and mentally. Nevertheless, I felt content. I had experienced something very special. It became clear to me that these Saturday early morning hunts were much more than just that. Being the inquisitive observer I am, in the end, I didn’t really mind just taking the experience as an anthropological inquiry. To perceive the different moods, roles, phases and routines within the group were utterly fascinating. Unfortunately, most of the dialogues didn’t open up to me as they were spoken in the dialect, but somehow I still understood. It wasn’t about what was said, it was the atmosphere and the experience as a whole that moved me.

As we hopped in the truck and drove toward Bra again, Vincenzo looked at me at asked “same thing next week?”. My response was positive. He smiled, I smiled. I got home, dozed off on the couch and dreamt of killing wild boars.

Food is Love

What a week! I’ve tried to grasp it, understand it and realize what transpired but I remain utterly amazed. Ever since I set foot on Italian soil I’ve been overwhelmed by the people, the food and the energy that surrounds me. Even though I spent months daydreaming about how it would be here before I actually arrived, I never imagined it to be like this. Officially, class hasn’t even begun yet but I’ve already been hunting wild boar for the first time in my life! (Stay tuned for more on that adventure)

Sure, I picked an exceptional time to start my year here. To be honest, I might not be fully sane nor sober writing this. Getting sucked in to the preparatory madness of one of the biggest gastronomic events in Europe (Salone del Gusto & Terra Madre) immediately on arrival certainly had its impact on me. Nevertheless, I’m fully convinced that I’ve found a place where my heart, my soul and my appetite will dance and laugh in delight, even when the “Salone reveling” will set.

In a nutshell, the Salone del Gusto & Terra Madre -fair was an absolutely dazzling experience. I couldn’t have wished for a better welcoming party. Actually, it’s better to call it a five-day long food orgy because that’s what it was: five days of joyous food-loving people, mind-blowing flavors and unforgettable taste experiences. Where ever I’d look there were smiling faces from all over the world, all reunited to eat well and enjoy the pure and simple things in life.  Half of the time I thought that I had died and gone to foodie heaven. I’m sure I’m not the only one still feeling a bit dizzy.

After day two, I expected the fatigue to slow people down at some point, myself included, but I was totally wrong. Sleeping was the last thing on everyone’s mind. Turns out, when you eat the best produce this world has to offer, you hardly need any sleep. Each time I was a little low or was lacking energy, one of my many new friends I had the privilege to encounter at the fair would come up to me with a bite of something so delicious that I was back in the game in a flash. A friendly tip: start your day by filling your belly with beautiful fresh mozzarella and topping it off with the most exquisite olive oil. You’ll be on cloud nine, I can guarantee that!

During the five days I was really racking my brain to understand what exactly made the event, in particular the atmosphere and the energy, so special. It turned out to be very simple. Food is love. And once you surround yourself with it and people who experience it as you do, you reach a state of divinity. What more do you need?

Living Bra:

  Towards the Gastronomic Year of a Lifetime

Yes! It’s finally getting closer. Only less than 24 hours to go until I’ll board a plane taking me away from the darkening and cooling Helsinki towards Bra – a little town in the Northwest region of Italy, Piedmont to be more precise. Ever since July 3rd, when I received the official “Dear Miss Salminen, We are delighted to inform you that You have been accepted to the University of Gastronomic Sciences” –mail, something inside of me has been bubbling, burning and tingling. Mildly put, I’ve been extremely restless in anticipation and excitement for the year ahead.

Most of the autumn I’ve already been there in my thoughts and in my heart. I’ve certainly grown a grandiose appetite for new culinary adventures and a tremendous hunger for Italian cuisine. I’ve been picturing my life in Bra; the people I’ll meet, the knowledge I’ll gain, and the food, mamma mia, the food I’ll eat…Each time, I’ve gotten utterly lost in the world of my daydreams where everything edible could be a potential new flavor, a bite of something amazing that I’ve never had before.

Bra, Bra, Bra. I’ve laughed and made all the silly wordplays over and over again: it’s going to so ‘bra’ in Bra. The food can only be ‘bra’ in Bra. (Bra means ‘good’ in Swedish, by the way). I’ll be in Bra without a bra… I think I can stop with the examples, you’ve surely got the point. Jokes aside, Bra is in fact located in a marvelous culinary region and is only a stone’s throw away from the well-known Langhe area famous for wine, cheese and truffles. Even though Bra and the neighboring gastronomic haven Alba are somewhat rivals, Bra too has claimed a strong identity as nucleus of fine wines and food. After all, none other than the Slow Food Association was first founded in Bra in 1989. Bra is also the home of rising culinary genius and unconditional love for food, as most of the students of the University of Gastronomic Sciences pilgrim here from all over the world.

As if there wouldn’t be enough excitement for this autumn as it is, two days after my arrival to Bra, the biennial world class gastronomic fair Terra Madre and Salone del Gusto in Turin opens its doors. Not a total coincidence I must admit, but still, the food event of the year just happens to conveniently take place the same week that I set my foot in the little town only an hour’s car ride away. Perfect!

When I realized this fact, it was some time this summer, I couldn’t see myself there as just another visitor. Oh no, I knew I’d need to get my hands dirty straight away. After dozens of emails, calls, visits and puppy eyed pleads, I finally managed to get deeper into the game. I’m honored and thrilled to get to participate hands-on in various preparations and represent Finland. I’ll barely have time to sit down and order a Spritz for aperitivo and indulge myself with a (gluten free) pizza before I’ll already be busy as a bee heading full speed ahead towards the delicious event.

So, boys and girl, if you wonder why my post for the next year or so will most certainly be very Italy-related, now you know the reason. I also have to warn you and maybe even excuse myself for the future posts. Something tells me that their content will be even more extravagant and foodgasmic than ever before. Let’s face it, what else can I except from a year studying and living in Italy, side-by-side with a hundred other food loving young adults, drinking amazing wines and stuffing my face with sensational Parmiggiano, than mind-blowing finger-licking culinary moments.

Bra here I come!

Purest Indulgence

Ever since last winter when I dove into the flourishing restaurant scene of Helsinki for the purpose of my Master's thesis, I’ve been licking my chops in anticipation of actually tasting the food that I analyzed and wrote about for all those months.

During a time period that seemed like an eternity, I was kept in suspense. In my thoughts, I had relished the new Finnish cuisine a thousand times. In reality though, it wasn’t as simple as walking in to one of these restaurants to just sit down and eat. There was a reservation to be made, money to be saved and the ideal season that would tingle my taste buds to the maximum to be selected.

At first, summer seemed like the most obvious choice. But I wanted to try something different and more special by not choosing the season that is in many ways the easiest for chefs, as the raw material availability is at its peak. Even though I have no doubt about these chefs’ skills in their ability to prepare “something out of nothing” amazing dishes even during wintertime, I still didn’t want to go that far. Neither was I prepare to wait that long.

Spring turned into summer and summer into autumn and I started feeling like it was time. Autumn in Finland is a fantastic food season with game, apples and mushrooms just to mention a few seasonal delicacies. It sounded just about right. Autumn it would be. I had also made it through the worst of my personal economical crisis and was ready to invest in myself – literally.

On October 2nd, I woke up like a kid on Christmas Eve. The day I had been waiting for had finally arrived. I often spend my days fantasizing about food and flavor combinations, but on this specific day, there were no limits to my imagination that was running far ahead of me.

I had made a reservation at Chef & Sommelier – a Finnish culinary oasis located in the picturesque part of Helsinki called Eira. Previously, I had been to this lovely little restaurant just to talk with Executive Chef Sasu Laukkonen. Smelling the beautiful odors coming out of the tiny kitchen that afternoon, as the team was preparing for yet another fully booked dinner was the closest I had come to eating the exquisite food they serve. Those smells made a huge impact on me and already then I knew that the days I’d return there I’d certainly do a lot more tasting than talking.

When I made the reservation, Sasu informed me of their upcoming game theme. Perfect! I love game.  Not only for the fabulous aromas, but also because, apart from reindeer, it’s something that I rarely cook myself. Besides, restaurant experiences should be something out of the ordinary and not comparable to home cooking in any way. To order something that you cannot make yourself is the best.

On that chilly October evening I was welcomed by a smiling team of positive and energetic culinary professionals, “How nice of you to come here for dinner tonight!” (As if dragging my ass to one of the city’s absolutely finest restaurants had been the most disgustingly horrible effort). “The pleasure will be all mine, I assure you”, I answered and sat down at my table. I felt overwhelmingly happy and I hadn’t eaten anything yet! I had to cover my mouth with both hands so that I wouldn’t accidentally scream out of immense joy.

A few minutes later, Sasu welcomed me like I’d be the only guest there. He handed me the menu for the evening and I swear I almost fell off the chair. It was beyond belief. Here’s what it said:

Pheasant and cabbage

Reindeer and lingonberry

Roe deer and hay

Sea buckthorn and fir

Elk and onion

Wild duck and porcini

Pike-perch and mushrooms

Cranberry and apple

Finnish cheese

Two hands covering my mouth didn’t help at this point. Sasu explained the process and content of each masterpiece and I was drooling like a dog. I think the elderly couple next were slightly uncomfortable due to my “ooohs” and “aaahs”… never mind them. I was ecstatic. Luckily, I didn’t have to choose one over another. Besides, I never do anything half hearted any way. “Bring it on, all nine of them!” I said. Sasu seemed pleased, “Okay, let’s get stated, it’s going to be a long night”. Boy did I love the sound of that.

Right when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any better, the second half – the sommelier –approached me with his wine recommendation. To my surprise, two out of three wines were natural wines. Fabulous. It would be a first for me.

When the first dish arrived in front of me, I wanted to relish that moment forever. I took a look at the kitchen, the dish,  I glanced at the people around me, then the dish, again, the wine, and then, the dish, the gluten-free bread baked just for me (!), and finally, I only had eyes for the pheasant that was about to melt in my mouth. And I can tell you boys and girls, it sure did! It was perfection!

As the dishes started rolling in, one by one, perfection after perfection after perfection, not only did I feel like the luckiest and happiest girl in the world, I knew I was the luckiest and happiest girl in the world. No doubt about it.

The game tasting at Chef & Sommelier was something I had never experienced before. Not only was the food amazingly delicious, it was the first time I knew for a fact that the smiling man dressed in white standing right there, a few meter away in his kitchen where I could see him, had personally selected only the most exquisite raw materials and prepared each dish with utmost love and care. His food philosophy shone through and surely created one of my most memorable dining experiences.  The words I wrote in my thesis made absolute sense to me now. Boosting the purest raw material in a righteous way and trusting in their naturally characteristic flavors absolutely pays off. And there’s nothing bland about it!

I can but only salute Sasu and his team for staying true and trusting both in their incredible know-how and the finest fruits of nature.

Thank you Chef & Sommelier!

Honey I’m home!

I recently got to taste something almost too perfect to be true. The sensation this divine treat created in my mouth was out of this world! I couldn’t stop myself from having more and more and more. And here’s where it gets overwhelming. This morning when I opened my eyes, this delicacy was the first thing on my mind. I even arrived late to work because of it; just one more spoon, this one is the last one, maybe one for the road, okay; seriously this is the last one... Hands down, I got hooked and currently I’m a happy but struggling addict.

It came into my life so unexpectedly. It happened last week on a gray and rainy evening in Helsinki. I was on my bike pedaling home as fast as I could. I’m not made of sugar, so it wasn’t the rain that made me want to arrive home with speed of lightning. It was something I had in my bag that made me rush. I couldn’t wait to get acquainted with it.

At home, I was too impatient to wait any longer. Dripping all over my kitchen floor, I unzipped my rucksack to get a closer look at the preciousness I had brought home.  It reminded me of my childhood, when food items were still bought directly from producers in the neighborhood. Lovely, already it made me happy and I hadn’t even tasted it yet.

So this big, light yellow honey jar from Marbacka Beefarm in Liljendal, Finland had been preoccupying my thoughts for the whole day and the moment I had been waiting for – the tasting – was at hand. Something told me it’ll be good, but at that point I still had no idea of what I was about to experience.

I sat down at the table in my tiny kitchen and twisted open the jar. The aroma it unleashed was exquisite! It had been a while since the last time I had this type of honey; the hard, sun-colored kind. Like I said, it looked and smelled like the divine nectar that this old nutty village beekeeper living a few houses away from my childhood home used to make and that my Dad kept on the table. After taking the time relishing in the first perception, I badly needed a cup of hot tea to save me from the cold creeping up my spine. Also, I wanted to do something I always used to do when I was a kid. When the kettle was steaming, I poured myself a big cup of tea and placed a spoon in the mug. I used to let the spoon get really hot and then, let it sink into the hard honey. I loved how I needed no force to get a big scoop, as the spoon would sink in without any effort.

I usually don’t like having too big expectations when it comes to experiencing tastes. Not only is there a far bigger risk of getting very disappointed, but you also psychologically deprive yourself from tasting whatever it is you’re about to taste to the fullest. Also, expectations sometimes take away the pleasure of surprise.

I tried my best to distance myself from the  taste memories of the honey I ate as a child. I closed my eyes and let the spoon of honey slowly melt in my mouth. The hot spoon burned my lips slightly, but the only thing I could feel was the absolutely gorgeous taste of honey. There was nothing that could’ve distracted me from that sensational tasting.

It was like a roller-coaster ride of deliciousness, with various twist and turns. It was dangerously close to perfection. Not only did this honey have a smooth, vivid, and especially characteristic taste, it had this amazing silky texture. And at no point was it cloying! At least that’s what I thought at that point. After my fifth spoon, I had to hide the jar in my cupboard so I wouldn’t have it in my immediate sight.

The next day at work, I was daydreaming about performing my honey routine all over again as soon as I’d get home. Again, I biked home fast and arrived out of breath. I ran up the stairs and placed my key into the key whole. I turned the key, opened the door, “Honey, I’m home!” Seconds later, the jar was on the table and the spoon burned my lips again, again and again. This is why I absolutely love the simple little pleasures food brings into my life.

Massive Goodness

So I went to London last week for a four-day-long mini holiday to meet a dear friend, a new friend to be and to eat as much as my belly, appetite and wallet would allow me. Prior to my trip, my only experience of England foodwise had been a week at youth camp in Kent and a very hectic afternoon on Oxford Street when I was a teenager. Safe to say, neither youth camp in Kent nor Oxford Street had much to offer in that domain.

My intention isn’t to insult anyone or anything, but England, a lot like Finland, even though for different reasons, isn’t one of the countries that come in mind when thinking about amazing gastronomy. Because I’m a Finn and I know for a fact that my country has been underestimated and undervalued over and over and over again when it comes to food, I didn’t want to get caught up in the cliché of English food only being bad, heavy and greasy. On the other hand, London can’t really be sided with the rest of the country, as in this transcultural metropolis with just under 8 million inhabitants, you really can find whatever food you could possibly imagine eating. I can’t say for certain, but at first sight it sure seemed that the actual English food was rather underrepresented.

The most British food I tried.

Already on the three-hour flight from Helsinki to London, I learned that the word to use in London is ‘massive’ and the food to eat is curry. I wanted to arrive a.s.a.p.! I was curious, impatient and hungry for my first London experience (the previous one doesn’t count). As soon as the plane landed and I had barely made it through passport control, an older Englishman already came up to me and wanted to buy me a fish and chips and a G&T. It must’ve been written on my forehead that I was both hungry and thirsty and I almost accepted his kind offer, but I was in hurry to get to my friend’s house, so I politely declined.

Actually, it was my friend’s friend’s house, to be precise. Such details are unnecessary, the only thing you need to know is that I was hosted by two very lovely Bulgarian women, Plamena – an ex-colleague and a dear friend and Yana – Plamena’s old friend, who has been living in England for a while now and who also, to my contentment, turned out to be quite a foodie and a living London encyclopedia. What I know about Bulgarian food isn’t nearly enough, but let’s say that I had already been convinced by the country’s culinary potential, and thus had certain food-related expectations. When the girls greeted me at the train station, their hair smelled of oven-baked peppers. Very Bulgarian and very delicious, I couldn’t wait to dine! However, a part of me wanted to know British food.  But something that I almost immediately understood about the culinary scene in London was that it’s all about multiculturality at its finest. Suddenly, having a Bulgarian dinner didn’t feel that off track at all. It in fact, it fit like a glove and I ate with great pleasure.

Beigles and 'fika' – world's apart but next door neighbors on Brick Lane.

And then, an hour later, Lao/Thai street food.

It’s funny when people who love food meet. It’s like nothing else has any importance and everything revolves around food. After dinner, very full and very content, Yana took me through London’s divers districts on the map, “This place is great, there’s … Oh and there’s this amazing café that has massive pie that are just too good to be true”. I’m absolutely awful with maps and directions, but somehow, I managed to follow. It was easy; there was always some ‘you have to try it’ food-related twist to each place. I’d just have to follow my strongest inner drive – my appetite and I’d stay on track for sure. I hadn’t seen anything yet, but London already seemed like my kind of city.

The next day, I got up inhumanly early. Must have food! On the double decker bus with The Smiths singing in my ears, I had made sure to have a travel snack in my rucksack. The little organic deli at Herne Hill had delighted me with home-made flapjacks, fresh plums (from Kent!) and aubergine and tahini salad.  With a fork in my pocket, a map with plenty of yummy destinations pointed out all over London in my hands, I was good to go. I know I often tell you how excited and psyched I am when I’m living life through my many culinary adventures, but what else can I say?! I guess food simply has that intoxicatingly exuberant effect on me. And to describe it another way would be a lie. And I love it! So there I was, in London, the sun was shining, I had a map and good food in my immediate reach, good music that I had downloaded for the occasion (80’s hits) on my iPod, I could only be excited, psyched, high on life, ecstatic and beyond! Even though I’ve traveled a lot since I was a child, this was my very first time to be discovering a huge city solo. Plamena and Yana both had work to do, so I promised I’d eat for all three of us.

I'm not a beer drinker at all, but this was divine and as local as it gets. The brewery was located next door.

One of the sexiest fruits. Also one of my favorites. 

Pop-up street food in Shoreditch.

During the four days I spend eating my way through London, like any good Finn, I firmly kept my promise to the girls: Pop-up street food, grilled burgers, vegan burgers, Jamaican chicken jerk, Brixton Market, Dalston Market, Brick Lane Market, Borough Market (where I cried happy tears when I found a young and charming baker who sold gluten free and sugar free banana loaf cake), countless cafés and bars, pubs, deli stores, China town, meat pies, cheese, fruit, fish and chips… I don’t think I’d exaggerate if I told you that there wasn’t a moment where I didn’t eat, wasn’t on my way to eat or wasn’t planning on going somewhere to eat. How I managed all that eating? I walked. You must think I’m crazy, which I probably am, but seriously, London is totally doable on foot. Sometimes I had to cheat and hop on one of those massive red busses, but it was like a joy ride. I always, except once, got the first row seat with the big window on the second floor. Nice and touristy.

Meet my beloved...

...baked in this bakery.

I must say, the city offered my appetite and I an unforgettable culinary stimulation. Not only will London make you feel like you’re in about twenty countries at once, but you’ll be able to eat in all of them too! What’s amazing is that the many immigrant communities are so well established foodwise that you’ll really get that authentic and genuine feel of the countries’ food cultures.

Very tasty. Brits make good cheese.

A favorite? I don’t know if I could pick favorites out of my many yummy London discoveries, but there was one I’ve never done before. A very well-informed and well-eating Londoner called this place the best Pakistani restaurant in town, “You know how people tell you to have curry here, well this is even better!” How could I resist? This place called Tayyabs, located on 83-89 Fieldgate Street London E1 1JU, is a stone’s throw away from Brick Lane. Tayyabs serve amazingly delicious food, but no alcohol. Bringing your own is allowed though. Not that you need alcohol, but for a Finn to be told to bring your own booze to a nice restaurant felt so impossible, illegal even. When in Rome…

An absolutely gorgeous plate of grilled meat.

I made my way to the restaurant from Brick Lane together with Plamena on my last evening in London. The map we had didn’t show further East from Whitechapel, so the rest of the way we had to follow the delicious smell of grilled tandoori. With a plastic bag containing two big ice cold Magners we entered foodie heaven. We ate. We ate again. And we ate more. The waiter couldn’t believe his ears when we ordered a second round.  I really don’t need to praise the food further. It honestly speaks for itself. Go and try it!

Ready for more!

In the end, I didn’t have curry, but I damn sure can say London offers massive goodness!

I Learned From the Best

I’ve written about the amazing karjalanpiirakka – Finnish/Karelian rice pies – before.  I even made an attempt to bake some little less than a year ago with rather satisfactory results. On top on that, I actually managed to inspire a young Turkish woman to try making them. That was cool! And she did an excellent job, to say the least.

But now, I can write about this superb Finnish delicacy again, since this time, I can say that I know how to make the traditional pies the way they really should be made. Not only was my teacher an elderly woman from Karelia, but she is, in fact, ranked among the country finest karjalanpiirakka bakers! That is cool!

People have different ideas about how to spend a sunny Saturday night.  Parties, dinner parties, dates, cinema, theater, concerts... What is expected out of a Saturday night is for something out of the ordinary to take place. Something intoxicating – literally and figuratively speaking. Usually, the preferred activities involve reaching a euphoric state of mind in one way or another. Expectations are most often sky-high and disappointments are commonplace. Sure, I can recognize the aforementioned in myself too, but still, for me, staying in on a Saturday night making karjanlanpiirakka with a jolly old lady couldn’t be more perfect.

I arrive to the home of the master of karjanlanpiirakka in the late afternoon that Saturday. Seija Raitanen greets me with a big smile and a hug that almost breaks my ribs. It has to be a part of the charm of Karelian women, I thought to myself, and squeeze her back as hard I can. She’s full of energy and all ready and prepared for the occasion, “I woke up at 6 am today, so I’ve already prepared the rice porridge” (the filling for the mouthwatering pies). Damn she’s effective. I need to step it up to stay in her pace and not disappoint her. Even though I have the advantage of age, she would beat me any day in what she has been doing all her life. I simply have to hand it to her, respect!

Before I know it, her fingers are working the dough. It’s beautiful watching her work and soon I find myself utterly dazzled by both the speed and perfection that surrounds her culinary performance. “Earth to Edith! Did you come here to daydream or to work?” she asks. I love this woman! No time for apologies or unnecessary babbling, I have pies to make.

So this is the drill. The dough is rolled into a long slab about the thickness of a big carrot. Then, the slab is cut in small 2cm wide pieces. The pieces are then flattened with a push of a thumb. The stack of flattened round dough pieces optimizes the work. Logical and efficient, it all seems pretty easy and I’m, seemingly, doing a great job. I keep trying to lock eyes with Seija for her approval. She approves with a firm but encouraging “Hyvä!” (good). No need for nonsense and worthless praising. She’s happy with my work and that’s all I need to know.

When the stacks of flattened dough balls are done, we are all set to start rolling the dough pieces thinner than thin pie bases. Seija starts talking, “I used to hate this sound” (the karjanlanpiirakka roll pin makes a pretty distinctive and constant knocking sound as it hits the table when working the dough). “My mother woke up early on Sundays to make karjanlanpiirakka and on purpose made a terrible racket as to wake me up. I usually came home late from a dance on Saturday nights and making karjanlanpiirakka was the last thing I wanted to do. But I had no choice. Newly baked steaming karjanlanpiirakka were an integral and vital part of the Sunday lunch. That’s how it had to be and that’s how it always was”. All the while Seija talks, her hands work. A scoop of rice porridge on the thin dough base, fold the sides and do the “rypytys” (literally “wrinkling”) and voilà! Her reflexes and the technique lie on decades of experience. “I used to do much more beautiful pies and a lot faster. I’m old now and my fingers hurt”. So modest and unpretentious. I can only smile.

Seija made five Karelian pies or so and left the baking duty to me. After a few not so pretty ones, I start getting the right feel to it. Some of the pies were exquisite, if I say so myself. When the first oven plate has about a dozen pies lined up side by side, Seija puts them into the extra hot oven. “Be sure to have the oven as hot as possible”, I nod and register the information. A few minutes later her little kitchen smelled heavenly. My mouth is watering and I suddenly feel very hungry. Seija asks me to prepare the “munavoi” (egg butter – hard boiled eggs mixed with butter) and I obey her command.

When Seija opens the oven, the sight of beautiful, sizzling, golden brown Karelian pies made my legs weak. Psyched out of the feeling of joy, I start jumping around the kitchen like a little kid. “Now we dip them in a mixture of milk and butter and let them cool down”. Oh no, I still have to wait before I can sink my teeth in the most perfect karjanlanpiirakka I had ever seen.

I hate waiting and ten minutes felt like an eternity. When Seija finally told me to eat, I thought I’d explode of happiness. I took a warm and crispy karjanlanpiirakka in my hands and smeared a thick layer of egg butter on it. Orgasmic! Amazingly delicious! One pies, two pies, three pies, four… after that I stopped counting. Seija’s smile when she watched me eat was priceless.

Thank you Seija!