Michael Ruhlman arrives in the Baltics not merely as a tourist seeking sustenance, but as a cultural decoder, arguing that the region's culinary landscape is the most honest map of its complex history and shifting identity. While travel writing often glosses over geopolitical scars with superficial charm, Ruhlman insists that "a country's food and drink reflect its nature," using the menu to navigate the lingering shadows of Soviet occupation and the vibrant emergence of a new European consciousness.
The Geography of Taste
The core of Ruhlman's argument rests on the distinct national personalities he encounters, which he finds mirrored in their respective kitchens. He observes that "Estonians seem very taciturn at first, unwelcoming," a demeanor his guide attributes to a survival instinct born of recent history: "'We keep our heads down, we try not to be noticed,'" particularly in the context of Russian aggression. This historical weight is palpable; just as the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic was a site of intense cultural suppression during the 20th century, the local food culture reflects a quiet resilience. Ruhlman notes that while they are reserved, "they quickly open up," much like the flavors in their traditional dishes: "absolutely addictive fried rye bread, dense, buttery and chewy."
In contrast, he finds Latvia to be a place of stark division. He writes that "half of whom are Russian [are] in large measure stone-faced and unwelcoming," creating an atmosphere where "the place has a heavy Soviet feel to it." The author describes the tension of leaving his hotel: "every time we left the hotel or entered, a woman at the desk stopped us to ask what room we were in," a detail that evokes the surveillance state reminiscent of the KGB era. However, he balances this by noting that younger Latvians are friendly and helpful, suggesting a generational rift that mirrors the country's struggle between its Soviet past and its European future.
"The pleasure of being in a place is in direct proportion to how difficult it is to get to."
Ruhlman's journey takes him away from the capitals into the countryside, where he finds the most authentic experiences. He describes driving through Latvia's flat, wooded countrysides, noting that "half of it given over to rapeseed, currently in vivid yellow bloom." This agricultural abundance contrasts sharply with the urban gloom he felt in Riga. At Zoltners, a remote guest house, he finds a sanctuary where "there are no sounds other than birdsong and rainwater dripping off leaves," serving dishes like "braised veal with potatoes and greens" that feel timeless. He argues that the best food is found not in the city centers but in these hard-to-reach havens, a sentiment that challenges the typical tourist itinerary.
Critics might note that Ruhlman's generalizations about national temperaments—Estonians as taciturn, Latvians as stone-faced—risk oversimplifying complex social dynamics into culinary stereotypes. Yet, his personal observations of specific interactions, such as the helpfulness of young Latvians versus the brusqueness of older generations, ground these broad strokes in lived experience rather than mere prejudice.
The Renaissance of Spirits
Perhaps the most surprising claim Ruhlman makes is that the Baltic States have become a global epicenter for craft cocktails, a movement he traces to a specific timeline: "The virus for making cocktails hit Europe around 2002 with Milk and Honey in London," spreading to Copenhagen before hitting Helsinki, Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius around 2015 and 2016. He is "downright gobsmacked" by the quality, noting that unlike in the United States where house cocktails often disappoint, here they are "outstanding."
He details his visit to Whisper Sister in Tallinn, a speakeasy where he meets bartender Yišī Mališ (whom he calls George). The bartender explains the resilience of these bars during the pandemic: "'We survived because we were a speakeasy. ... A lot of speakeasys these days are more like pretend, but during Covid you cannot find out who has the real speakeasy.'" This insight into the subculture reveals a community built on secrecy and authenticity, values that resonate deeply in a region with a history of operating under the radar.
Ruhlman also explores the "miraculous milk punch," a drink with roots in 17th-century England created by Aphra Behna. He describes the process where "the alcohol, in the heat, causes the milk to curdle, forming protein curds," which are then strained to create a clear, heady concoction. This historical digression serves to elevate the cocktail from a mere drink to a piece of living history, connecting the modern Baltic scene to a long tradition of culinary innovation.
"Cocktails didn't exist here before 10 years ago."
The author's enthusiasm is infectious, yet he remains critical of the American cocktail scene, arguing that traditional drinks like martinis are often poorly executed abroad. This bias might alienate readers who prefer classic simplicity over the complex, experimental flavor profiles Ruhlman champions, such as a Bloody Mary variant containing "garlic, lemon, spices" and whiskey. However, his detailed descriptions of specific drinks like "The Rapscallion" (Talisker, cherry liqueur, pastis) provide enough evidence to support his claim that the region has developed a unique and sophisticated cocktail culture.
The Human Cost of Memory
While the article focuses on food and drink, Ruhlman weaves in a profound reflection on war and memory during a car ride reading J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories. He highlights "For Esme with Love and Squalor," noting that Salinger was in the second wave to storm Omaha Beach and suffered from PTSD after liberating a concentration camp. Ruhlman writes that the story is "'a masterful story about human connection in a world gone mad from war.'"
This literary interlude serves as a crucial counterweight to the travelogue's lighter moments, reminding the reader of the human cost behind the historical context. The mention of Salinger's trauma parallels the "dead faces" Ruhlman observed in Riga and the taciturn nature of the Estonians, suggesting that the region's hospitality is built on a foundation of unspoken pain. He also recommends Sebastian Barry's novels, which deal with war and loss, further emphasizing the theme that understanding the Baltics requires acknowledging its tragic history.
The author's decision to include these literary reflections adds depth to his culinary journey, transforming it from a simple food review into a meditation on how cultures process trauma through art and sustenance. However, one might argue that the connection between Salinger's American war experience and the Baltic Soviet occupation is tenuous, though both serve as metaphors for the universal struggle of healing from conflict.
"A country's food and drink reflect its nature."
Bottom Line
Ruhlman's piece succeeds by refusing to treat the Baltics as a monolith, instead using specific dishes and drinks to illuminate the distinct national characters shaped by decades of occupation and recent independence. His argument that the region's culinary renaissance is a direct response to its history holds up against scrutiny, offering a nuanced view that balances appreciation for modern innovation with respect for deep-seated trauma. The biggest vulnerability lies in his occasional reliance on broad generalizations about national temperament, but these are largely redeemed by his detailed, empathetic observations of individual interactions and the profound connection he draws between food, memory, and resilience.