Drunk at the Riga Market

The last thing I expected while market shopping was a challenge to my drinking prowess.

Riga Central Market is one of the largest and most-visited marketplaces in Eastern Europe. The indoor stands and stalls are spread across five pavilions, built using dismantled airship hangers that once housed German zeppelins.

Whenever I travel, I try to route via Riga with enough time to visit the market. They offer a wide variety of fresh produce, smoked meats, fermented vegetables, and fast lunches ranging from traditional savory pies to sushi to glasses of sauerkraut juice, which are said to be an excellent hangover cure.

I should have gone for the sauerkraut juice.

It can be difficult to manage early morning departures or to make it home from late-night flights into Tallinn. I quickly worked out that it was cheaper to spend the night in Riga than to pay for the more expensive flights at more convenient times. This allows me to go shopping at the market on my way home, which makes me very happy, but as I generally travel with carry-on only, I must be careful not to purchase anything that might be considered a liquid. I still have not quite recovered from my altercation with Scanner Guy in Switzerland.

There’s a counter in the middle of the third hangar manned by a series of platinum-blonde women of varying ages, possibly clones, which advertises a honey brandy made in Riga. I’ve often been intrigued but I definitely couldn’t take a bottle of booze in my carry-on luggage.

Until now.

On my most recent trip, I decided to save even more money by traveling from Riga to Tallinn by bus. The bus station is next to the market, just the other side of the railroad tracks, and there are ten coaches a day heading to Tallinn, all with comfortable seating and wifi. I can leave my carry-on bag in the luggage compartment without having to worry about lifting it over my head, which, at just under five foot, is difficult even if I haven’t overpacked and, let’s face it, I have almost always overpacked. But the bus compartment is at ground level and there’s no queuing to get on early or fighting to make sure you get space. As an added bonus, I could pick up a bottle of this honey liqueur or whatever it was and take it home with me.

That morning, I purchased the items on my shopping list and a bundle of bright red radishes because they looked too good to resist and then wandered over to the honey liqueur counter. Maybe someone else would have done a better job of reading the signs over the counter that made it clear this was not liqueur, but all I saw was “white honey brandy made in Riga from pure honey” and approached the pretty platinum-blonde woman to discuss purchasing a bottle.

Maybe that someone else would have pointed out to me that the spirit was 43% by volume: for the Americans reading, that’s 86 proof. Not that that would have stopped me buying the bottle, but it might have stopped me from asking for a taste at eleven o’clock in the morning with no breakfast.

She had glasses conveniently stacked up on the counter with a sign that informed me that I could have a taste for €2.20. This seemed reasonable as I could imagine she would otherwise get constantly hassled by people wanting to try it without any intention to buy.

I handed over my money, expecting a sip or two. Instead, she picked up the large glass and filled it to the brim with the clear spirit.

“Oh,” I said. I instinctively accepted the glass as she offered it and quickly took a sip to keep it from spilling. The smell was somewhere between grappa and Impulse body spray. The liquid burned its way down my throat. “Oh,” I said again.

She smiled. I took another sip. Beneath the bitter burn was a subtle taste of charred apricots. The glass was still full. I looked around. A shopkeeper selling jars of unidentifiable products quickly looked away, as if she hadn’t been staring. And was I imagining the condescending look accompanying the blonde woman’s smile?

“I didn’t expect quite so much,” I told her.

“It’s only 40%,” she said with a light laugh. I stiffened my shoulders and took another sip.

I cannot explain why my stubbornness comes out when it comes to drinking; all I can say is that I come by it honestly, with a tradition of functioning alcoholics on both sides of the family. I took another sip. “It’s lovely,” I said, leaning on the counter for support.

She continued to watch me, a silent dare in her gaze. In hopes of distracting her, I wandered over to a neighboring stall, feigning interest in her turmeric-infused pickled cabbage leaves. Then I wandered back and continued drinking my drink and she continued watching me drink it.

A man walked up with a gaggle of women, clearly giving them a tour of the market. “And here we have some original Latvian moonshine, made right here in Riga,” he told them. They glanced at the stall and then at me.

By now, the warmth was radiating from my mostly-empty stomach and I beamed back at them. I raised my glass as if in a toast and took another sip. My glass was still half full. “You can try it,” he told them. They looked at me and agreed as one that it was much too early for that.

Floating on a cloud of contentment, I didn’t take it personally. A few minutes later, I downed the rest of the brandy and placed the glass down a little bit too firmly. “Done,” I said, as if that wasn’t obvious.

The blonde woman laughed. “Well done,” she said. “Did you like?”

In retrospect, her expression had not so much been a dare but simple disbelief that I was going to drink the whole thing. She wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake.

“I liked it a lot,” I said, paying for a bottle to take away. “But now I need coffee.”

“Coffee.” She pointed at a little lunch place just fifteen paces away.

I thanked her and attempted to walk a straight line to the lunch counter manned by a middle-aged woman at peak efficiency. Four construction workers ordered an early lunch while I nursed my coffee: large plates of hearty food priced at four to five euros. The last of the workers added four shots of vodka to their bill. She took the next order while quickly pouring the vodka into familiar-looking large shot glasses. The next woman in line ordered food, watching as one of the men carried the vodkas over to their table. She pointed at the bottle, still on the counter, and asked for a glass for herself. I felt I had found my people. I got another coffee.

In a honey-moonshine haze of contentment, I did another round of the market pavilions. I realized that I desperately needed a creamy white ball of what was probably cheese. It might go nicely with the piles of glistening cherries, which were so cheap, that I quickly decided to get a large bag full. Red-green stalks of rhubarb were slightly too long for my small suitcase but the market vendor helpfully halved them with a single chop. Grey peas only came by the kilo but as a traditional Latvian dish, it seemed churlish not to buy some. To make the peas, I needed bacon and I quickly found a perfect slab of smoked belly covered in coarse-ground pepper. It was clearly perfect, if a bit large.

Olive salad was maybe not traditional Latvian but looked saltily delicious. A stall focused on Spanish specialities had haunches of leathery hams hanging along the side. I could own a leg of jamón iberico for just 70€. Why hadn’t I thought to bring paracords for my suitcase so I could lash on important items, like a quarter of salted pig? Could I take it on the bus, cradling it on my lap like my emotional support companion?

I became blearily aware that I still hadn’t eaten and it was just possible that my shopping faculties were not firing on all cylinders. I followed the scent of frying oil to a small place with a long line of people buying beljaš—dough filled with ground meat and onion, deep fried into miraculously tasty personal pies, savory doughnuts filled with grease and happiness.

I sat down at a plastic table with my beljaš and my cherries. As I ate, I pulled out my phone. A notification informed me that it was six minutes until my bus trip to Tallinn.

Six minutes?

I inhaled the pastry and dumped the loose cherries into my handbag. Running out of the market, dragging my suitcase behind me, I knew that it was probably hopeless. Still, I chased the train tracks to the bridge across the canal and flew into the bus station, graceful as a cannonball.

At one minute past, the platform came into view. The bus was still there. As I dashed up, gasping for air, the driver of the bus was arguing with a 20-something white guy sporting half-hearted dreadlocks who had a ticket for the next bus and didn’t see why he should pay extra to get on this one. The luggage compartment was still open. I shoved my bag into the compartment (with one last mournful thought of the leg of ham that I didn’t buy) before anyone could turn me away. The driver glanced at my documents while attempting to calm the young man who was now threatening to cancel his entire trip if he wasn’t let on the bus. It was unclear why he thought the driver would care.

I heard no more of the altercation. I didn’t pause for breath until I was safely sat down, shuffling shopping bags at my feet until there was room for all of us. The young man boarded the bus, his situation apparently resolved, and we pulled out of Riga Bus Station seven and a half minutes after the scheduled departure time.

It was a remarkably easy journey. I closed my eyes and snored quietly (I hope) for the entire journey to Tallinn.