From Russia with Lunch (14 page)

With its mossy corries, ‘Sunrise' spring that apparently promotes better vision among those who splash their faces with its water (still myopic, I'm afraid) and grassy expanses, I could have pottered about the place for more than the three hours I did. I left ruing my late start and the impending darkness then made my way back to Kaunas. The journey was one of niggling beratement. Being of the disposition where I cannot simply be charmed but have to subject the feeling to the rigours of dissection at best and cynicism at worst, I couldn't shake the idea that I'd perhaps been sold a version of history too fragrant to be authentic. From the mulch of bitter winters, marauding armies each pushing their own brand of ideologically sanctioned violence, still-births and the capriciousness of agriculture, grew this sweetly scented rendition of yesteryear.

In an ember-on-life-support twilight, I wandered through the cobbled streets of the Old Town. It was my last night in this ‘most Lithuanian' of cities and knowing that my grandfather Moses had travelled through the place on his way to South Africa, I indulged in a game of historical hypothetical by picturing him on the very avenues I was ambling along. For me, Kaunas was a fetchingly modest city, blessed with a sense of its past but not willing to forgo it for its future. Unless there's a basketball game on, it's a quiet place. Even on weekends. To be sure, there are bars and clubs aplenty, but they – like the locals – aren't as obsessed with being seen as those in Vilnius. All of which gives the place a rather subdued air. To Moses, however, fresh from his comparatively minute home town of Birzai in the country's north, Kaunas must have seemed a bustling, bewildering cocktail of two parts daunting to one part exciting, all washed down with a chaser of the unknown that awaited. Speaking as a traveller who cracks the shits if I have to fly on a plane that still has communal movie screens, his bravery is unfathomable.

The architecture in the Old Town has changed little since he was here and many of the buildings feature basements that are leased by restaurants. Which in turn had been rented out by the wedding parties into whose photo albums I had wandered earlier in the day. Travelling alone gives licence to one's voyeurism. And through windows at knee-height, burnished candlelight and a solo clarinet playing ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me' flittered. On my haunches, I invaded an unguarded privacy, indulging in the mundane details of these strangers' lives as they intersected with the extraordinary nature of the event they had gathered for. A father blustery with pride and whisky danced with his newlywed daughter. He exhibited the plodding choreography of a man who had waited years for this moment but given little thought to what would be required of him when it eventually arrived. Cheek by jowl were the restaurant's staff, for whom this pastiche was just another day at the office. To pass the time, they swapped in-jokes with their eyes. They'd seen too many first dances, heard too many speeches and interrupted too many bridesmaids putting the best man to the test in the toilets.

By turns indifferent, touching and downbeat, this succession of basement windows brought with them their own melodrama. The parents of one bride held hands beneath the table and exchanged ‘well at least he makes her happy' glances. A woman in the grips of both a fascination with cerise and the onset of menopause stared gimlet-eyed at her vodka-soaked husband and his jigging cronies, perhaps evaluating the path her own marriage had taken. Every character was worthy of a backstory. As I conjured one about a bridesmaid who had fulfilled the supporting role on so many occasions that she thought she'd been typecast by men as not quite a leading lady, a stumble of groomsmen bounded up the stairs and onto the street. At which point I pretended to be tying my shoelaces. By the window. Whose light was necessary to complete the operation. Neither the interrogation nor the aggression I had feared were forthcoming. What did materialise was a bottle of vodka and a shot glass. I was not allowed to leave until I had toasted the happy couple's health.

Buoyed by their largesse, I decided to seek out more convivial company and what better place than Bumerangas, Kaunas' only Australian-themed bar? Surely, here I would run into a cane toad, a sandgroper or at the very least someone I could describe as bonza. Located down an alley so narrow a dog would have had to wag its tail vertically, I eventually found the place. Inside, a half-arsed attempt had been made at thematic decoration. Which is a fairly Australian way of approaching such tasks. There were Fosters posters, day-glo yellow ‘beware of the crocodiles' signs, fluffy koalas and caricature drawings of bush characters penetrating sheep. Whenever a foreigner decides to dust off this stereotype, I amuse myself by playing along with a story about how lanolin was inadvertently discovered, but the prospective audience in Bumerangas didn't seem up for a laugh.

A surly barmaid with such bad regrowth it looked like she was sporting a mohican grunted in my direction. At the same time, a couple of barflies whose skin had turned the grey of old men's undies briefly turned towards me to assess whether I would pose any hindrance to their cirrhosis program. In the corner slouched a group of scowling men in purposefully mottled leather jackets and dark jeans. You know a bar is quiet when you can actually hear mugs being placed onto coasters.

At one point, the door opened to reveal a trio of per-oxided girlfriends in sequin-encrusted denim who sniled (a sneer crossed with a smile) at their equally frost-tipped beaux then proceeded to drain milkshakes in between puffs of their menthol cigarettes. Things livened up however when, apropos squat, one of the bovver boys pulled a chrome revolver from his jacket, cocked the hammer, took aim at the door and squeezed the trigger. I couldn't tell whether the firearm was real or not, but the metallic click it emitted after the trigger was pulled didn't sound like any toy I'd ever heard. Murky suspicions that I had somehow been interrupting a private party were thus confirmed and I took my leave to the peals of raucous laughter in the rapidly receding distance. That was the only instance in which I felt intimidated or unwelcome in Kaunas, a city so wholesome you feel that just being in it negates the need for bran.

Deferring to my philosophy of never eating in venues whose title features a foodstuff and a first name – Joe's Pizza, Kebab Pete's – I sought refuge in a bustling restaurant specialising in traditional Lithuanian fare. What I thought was a charmingly dated throwback was in fact a chain of three eateries known as Berneliu Uzegia. Which I believe is Lithuanian for ‘to gouge through the wallet'. Generically rustic – read wooden interiors and various copper implements hanging from the ceiling – it had been recommended by the local tourist information office. According to its brochure, the chain ‘cherishes Lithuanian traditions and does it in a very professional way – not only of dishes, interior, waiter's [apparently there's just the one] clothes but also various events are genuinely Lithuanian'. I doubt I could have done as well writing in Lithuanian, but this blurb was followed by the rather forceful: ‘You will have delicious and filling dishes. You will participate in tasting Lithuanian. We will prepare fun cultural program.'

Apparently the ‘fun cultural program' involved being treated with utter ambivalence. After seating myself at a vacant table, I smiled my best ‘could I order when you have a moment?' smile at the passing staff, who did just that. Passed. Some arm action was clearly called for. When, however, I caught the eye of the barman with a wave, he merely returned the gesture as his offsider collapsed into fits of giggles. At least there was a vestige of acknowledgment, which is more than could be said for the harried waitresses. All of whom had perfected that visage of indifference I hadn't seen since I asked Julia Greenwood to dance at a party in 1984 only to be told, ‘No thanks, I'm dancing already,' as she scanned the room for boys with triceps and a driver's licence.

The waitresses had been decked out in traditional rural clothing and, unlike the ‘can't wait to get back into my Levis' expression of barely concealed resentment on display at themed restaurants in other countries, these women seemed wholly resigned to their sartorial fate. Evolving in the early nineteenth century, these ensembles are imbued with a rustic femininity as well as a diverse regional variety. In the Aukstaitija province, where Kaunas lies, they've been working a lighter palette for decades, with white being the dominant shade. Featuring scoop necks and bouffant sleeves that are gathered then flare into filigreed lace just above the elbow, these smocks serve as a backdrop to colours which are not so much a riot as a fully fledged civil uprising. Lavishly embroidered waistcoats in dainty burgundy checks are popped over the top then teamed with fulsome skirts in a Madras-esque blend of green, yellow and fire-engine red. Still more horizontal bands of garnet run along the bottom of these garments and the whole shebang is set off by sashes that seem to be the result of shrinking a Persian hall runner in the tumble-dryer.

With the kitchen's galley doors functioning as the entrance to a catwalk, a succession of waitresses emerged in outfits representing most of Lithuania's more notable historic fashion hotspots. There were the saturated Suvalkijans whose aprons were stitched still-life masterpieces of clover, lilies and suns. Next on the runway where the Samogitians, who tested the boundaries of clashing with a fervour that made Vivienne Westwood look like Country Road. Horizontal striations were piled on verticals resulting in aprons that taunted your perception of depth. Especially when set against the favoured choice of another striped skirt carefully selected to have not a single complementary hue. It was then the house of Klaipeda's turn to shine and in this region, a dark palette – navy, purple and the old black – had been the staple of Baltic sophistication. Again, apron motifs ran north to south with a patterned band at the hem. The skirts against which they sat echoed these strokes and provided a fetching counterpoint to sashes whose daedal patterns were as complex as they were condensed.

The men had far fewer accoutrement options. White or checked pants for summer, grey for winter. Drawstring mandatory. Up top it was a choice of long-sleeved linen shirts with grandpa collars or long-sleeved linen shirts with grandpa collars. According to one photograph at the restaurant, however, there also seemed to be a penchant for patent-leather knee-high boots as worn by the swishy chorus boys in amateur musical productions of
The Sound of Music.

Glancing at the menu, the time-space continuum folded in on itself and I found myself in the kitchen of my childhood face to face with a nemesis. Beef tongue. For reasons I am yet to fully comprehend, this dish was a favourite component of cold cut platters. After stripping off the skin, this muscle was then boiled until it became a glutinous remembrance of tenderness, at which point it was sliced into rounds. An uncooked beef tongue is an experience I wouldn't wish on an
Australian Idol
judge. This is because it looks precisely like what it is: a baby pink expanse of flesh that runs to a foot long and bears pockmarks that would make John Laws' complexion resemble Scarlett Johansson's. Yet there it remained, a Sunday afternoon staple along with the pickled herring, chopped liver and borscht which bridged continents and generations. In fact, aside from the general preface to our lives being set in Lithuania, our only specific connection to our heritage came in the form of food. Here, however, the tongue was served hot after being marinated in milk. Perhaps not. Ditto the local take on haggis, which included a pig's bladder stuffed with minced meat.

Because of an undoubtedly privileged upbringing in which meat was steak and chops were tops, the more budget-friendly animal bits rarely made it to our table. Tongue excepted as it was apparently a treat. I, therefore, came to share a philosophy once espoused by the comedian Bill Cosby, who declared: ‘I won't eat any part of an animal where their food isn't finished and I won't eat any part of an animal where their food is finished.'

Scanning the menu for a more conservative option, I noticed the restaurant had filled rapidly due to a passing storm. Since I was seated alone at a table for four, I asked a middle-aged couple and their truculent teenage son if they would like to share. After all, I could have done with the company and they would no longer have had to stand around waiting. They responded with the horrified shock usually reserved for statements like, ‘I saw a video of your mom on the internet.' Fortunately, the perpetual Lionel Richie and Phil Collins soundtrack drowned out the subsequent awkwardness. God help the Lithuanian dining public when restaurateurs discover Nora bloody Jones. I settled on the vodka-marinated pork neck which arrived aflame a few minutes later. Accompanied by what was an apparently traditional salad featuring preservative-coated rings of canned pineapple squatting over a melange of green sliminess which seemed to have been the by-product of a bulimic hippo.

Filled with heartburn and regret at having been suckered by a ‘if they don't know what good Lithuanian food is, they won't be able to tell ours is crap' tourist trap, I made my way back to the hotel determined to try my luck en route with the quintessential experience of modern Lithuania: the mall. Many travel writers eschew these retail cavalcades. They write them off as generic, hermetically sealed blights bereft of local character. Certainly, they have a point in that wandering through the 4.5-hectare Akropolis centre in Kaunas, I could have been in Toronto or Taipei. Still, to dismiss such a location altogether is to miss an opportunity to see what is grabbing this nation of second-generation free-market shoppers by the wallet.

In the middle of the glass and concrete altar to consumerism stands a three-storey replica of a traditional Lithuanian farmhouse. Complete with a pitched red tile roof, walls the colour of churned butter and white wooden window frames. Inside is a coffee shop. On the second floor, however, is a popular fine dining establishment – naturally decorated in a style I like to call twee-folk. Here you can gaze beyond the rustic prints on the walls and out into budget chain stores like Imitz and Prozad, where Chloé via China knockoffs vie for the attention of impossibly thin young women in Rock & Republic denim who nonchalantly rifle through the racks while chatting on their mobile phones.