Never Dare A Russian Butcher

[I wrote this in April 2019 as a part of my series about the Tallinn markets. Content warning: unabashedly about meat]

Kesklinn, the central market of Tallinn, is known as a difficult place. It's out of the way of tourists and, quite frankly, has very little to offer them. The ramshackle stalls and corrugated tin rooves offering only scant protection fro the rain appear more dystopian than "authentic". 

And yet, since I arrived in Tallinn, I kept returning, trying to make sense of the ethos and the culture. Slowly I got to know different vendors and who would bump the price up and who would correct me if I paid too much and ensure that I got the right change. I had learned that in Keskturg, also referred to as "The Russian Market," it was bad news if a vendor smiled at my arrival; it generally meant that they thought I was stupid and would pay over the odds, which was worth smiling for. The practical vendors, the ones with the best goods who would tell me if I was attempting to pay too much and always ensured that I got the right change, they didn't smile. They were there to sell things and I was there to buy things and that was fine: there was no need for pleasantries or empty conversation.

Having grown up in California, where entire days are filled with intentionally empty conversation spiked with pleasantries, this took some getting used to. Over time I came to accept it and soon to appreciate it. We don't have to smile and talk about the weather, just sell me my damn vegetables. 

Of course, not having a language in common helped.

The first time I bought beef from Sergei, he was leaned back against the wall, looking at his phone. He glanced up as I approached but didn't bother with additional acknowledgement. I pointed and attempted my Estonian at him and he sort of rolled his eyes and gave me what I wanted. His beef was consistently excellent and I continued to buy from him, popping in once or twice a month. 

Obviously, back then I didn't know his name. It was three months before he let on that he spoke English.

Russian butchery techniques are not the same as American or English and although his willingness to speak English helped me ask about cuts for braising vs frying, it didn't really tell me what the cuts were. I regularly posted photographs to Reddit subgroups on butchery and meat to ask for advice as to what I had bought and what I should do with it. Sometimes Sergei tried to steer me to a different piece than the one I'd chosen. Usually, I'd stick to my guns, thinking he was just trying to sell me something more expensive (he had a tendency to ask me if I wanted filet steak). In every instance where I was able to explain the difference between the two cuts, Reddit told me that I should have taken his advice.

The day I saw beef rib roast in his display, I didn't need to ask what it was. We were having guests for dinner so I asked him for a big piece, about three kilos. The number was chosen at random because I really had no idea how much the bone would weigh. He picked up a single large piece and weighed it and said, "Is four kilos OK?"

It was a joke. Normally he'd ask if it was OK if he went a few hundred grams over or under. The rib was over 2 pounds over what I'd asked for; a 33% increase on my request. But I'd never seen him crack a joke before, not even anything close, and so rather than rolling my eyes or god forbid smiling, I just nodded and said, "Yes, that's OK."

"It is?" That was my first clue that he wasn't serious. But it was too late by now so I got out my wallet and asked him how much.

That was the first time I saw him smile. 

As he was wrapping it up, he said, "So, what, is it your birthday?"

Had I really just driven a market seller to chit chat? I recovered quickly and grinned in response. "Hell no," I said. "If it was my birthday, I would have bought eight kilos!"

It became our running joke. 

"When's your birthday? You still want that roast? Eight kilos, right?" 

"Sure do. Just wait until March."

Then March came and he stopped joking. I honestly believe that he was worried that I would take him seriously or think he expected me to buy so much beef. Who in their right mind would buy so much beef?

But I'd been thinking about it since then and I loved the idea of buying such a monster. Then two couples we are friends with both arranged to visit the same week. It was late for my birthday but when would I get the chance again? I decided to make the biggest roast in the world.

I got a post-it note and drew my little apartment oven on it along with the inner dimensions and a date. The next day I handed it to him. He looked confused for a moment and then light dawned. "Are you serious?"

"I don't need eight kilos." I figured I might be able to fit a five-pound roast but I didn't like to be too specific. "The biggest roast that will fit into my oven. It's for a party, for my birthday."

"How about tongue?" He pointed at a large spotted black and white cow's tongue. "You could do two, roasted. It's much cheaper."

"Don't you dare make me eat cow's tongue."

He looked concerned. "I could do two smaller roasts."

"No. I want one big one." I pointed at the post-it note. "But it has to fit into my oven."

He looked at the dimensions and took a deep breath. "Are you sure?" 

I didn't know how to tell him that I knew it was going to be expensive without sounding like I didn't care about price. "It's my birthday," I finally said, simply.

"OK." And that's when he told me his name, along with his phone number. "Come at closing time on Tuesday. But if you change your mind, call me."

"I won't change my mind." I took the number anyway. "But if anything at all goes wrong, I'll call you."

I was oddly nervous the day I went to pick up the roast. What if he'd given me tongues after all, or something else that I didn't want. What if it was too unwieldy for me to carry home? 

The market was almost empty, the last vendors were packing up to leave. I made my way down to the butchery section to see him standing there, looking at his phone. His display was empty except for one lonely piece of beef. In the large display case it looked tiny but then I realised I could count seven rib bones; it wasn't small.

He pointed, a trace of a proud smile on his face. My post-it note was next to it. "I measured, it will definitely fit." 

"It's beautiful."

He wrapped it up to hand to me and I cradled it like a baby. I didn't know what five or six kilos should weigh but I knew it weighed a lot more than my new-born child had, and I was pretty sure that was four kilos.

I had brought 150 euros with me, although I didn't expect it to be more than a hundred. But we'd never agreed on a specific cut or a rate and I didn't want to embarrass myself if it ended up being more.

"Seventy euros," he said. 

"Right." I couldn't math that quickly and I didn't know the weight, so I wasn't sure if that was a price worth thanking him for or just accepting as fair. 

"When will you serve it?"

"Tomorrow," I said. "For the party."

"When's your actual birthday? Tomorrow? Today?"

"It was day seven, it's passed."

He looked disappointed. I thought maybe he was going to wish me a happy birthday, which would be most astounding in itself, and I was disappointed that I'd messed that up.

We said our goodbyes and I took the roast home. I put it into the oven. It fit, of course it did, but using all of the horizontal space. I tried to weigh it but my kitchen scale just errored out. I took it to my bathroom scale where I discovered that I was holding onto seven kilos worth of prime beef.

Seven kilos. Ten euros a kilo. The cheapest rib I'd seen was twelve euros a kilo and it usually sells for at least eighteen. In the high-end shops I've seen the same cut at thirty-five euros, masquerading as T-bone. 

There was no way his price made sense. And then I remembered his disappointment at the end. It was a birthday present. And now I was kicking myself that I hadn't thanked him properly. 

I made a mental note to go back and buy everything from him for the next month or two, whether I needed it or not.  There must be some way to say thank you but I had no idea what it might be.

Meanwhile, I had to work out what I was going to do with all this meat. Because what I hadn't admitted to the butcher was that my dinner party? Was actually just six people. There was no way we were going to eat all this.

[Epilogue: We ate less than half. The remains made for four further meals: Pho Bo (Vietnamese beef noodle soup), roast beef sandwiches, beef barbacoa tacos, Rendang Daging (Indonesian beef curry). The process and recipes will be posted later this month as a part of the Foodie tier.]

As I made all the meals, it preyed on me that I hadn't properly said thank you at such a good deal. I didn't believe he'd take money. I didn't want to sound like I expected such treatment in the future. But there must be something I could do.

In the end, I went back with the only thank-you present I could think of in keeping with the Russian market. 

I walked up to the counter and without a word, handed him a bottle of champagne wrapped up in an old shopping bag.

His brow furrowed. "What is this?"

"It's a present," I said. 

He gave me a frankly suspicious look. 

"Because you didn't come to my party," I said, as if that had been option. 

He took the bag and surely felt the bottle. But he didn't say anything, just shrugged and set it behind the counter. "I see," he said. "So, did you want to buy any meat, or what?"