A Yulinka Cooks Travelogue. St. Petersburg: The Good, the Bad... Part 3 of 6

[This week I'm blogging my July 2008 trip to Estonia and Russia. Previous entries begin here.]

My parents are debating whether Russia has changed since the fall of communism. Their consensus is this: Superficially, the country has changed. You can buy everything that’s available in the West. People are driving cars and traveling. Nearly everyone has a cell phone. What hasn’t changed? The Soviet mindset, the bureaucracy, the stone-faced apathy and rudeness of the clerks and cashiers.

When we arrive, our host, an old friend of my mom’s, says we may need to “register” our visa. What this means, we later find out, is that if you come to Russia on a homestay visa (issued to you personally by a Russian citizen)*, you need to check in and get special paperwork from the city where you’re staying. Fail to do this and you face heavy fines and other unspecified misfortunes.

So on a Monday morning, we head to a nearly police station to register. We’re told you can register here only on Wednesdays, 1:30-2:30 p.m., but other stations might be open. We traipse around two more police precincts before we’re directed to the city’s visa registration office.

Naturally, there’s a line. Registration is held from noon to 1 p.m. only, we’re told. People have been waiting since 5 a.m. Put your name on a list, someone adds, but you probably won’t get in. We sign a piece of scrap paper and wait. Someone else advises us to register at the post office. It's faster, they say.

Okay. Anyone know where the nearest post office is?

No one does. We go outside and ask strangers for directions. People shrug. The hell with it; we head back and wait some more.

Did you fill out the paperwork? we're asked as it gets closer to noon.

There’s paperwork?

Everyone laughs. If you don’t have the paperwork, you’ll be waiting here all week!

We race to fill out paperwork. We need multiple photocopies of our passports and visas. There’s no copy machine in the office. We go in search of one at a travel agency across the street.

Can we use your copier? We ask the young staffers.

They give us a deer-in-the-headlights look that's a customer service trademark here, but nod.

We make copies and run back to the registration office.

It turns out we need yet more copies of something or other. I keep our place in line; my parents race to the travel agency. It’s now closed for lunch, but they sneak into a nearby office complex and sweet talk the security guard into letting them use a copy machine.

It’s almost 1 p.m. now. Surprisingly, the line moves fast. At 12:55 p.m., we get called in. But it’s not us they need, it’s my mom’s friend, who invited us. She goes in; paperwork is issued; she’s out in two minutes. We get a little paper document that says we can stay in St. Petersburg. Lose it, and there will be hell to pay. (After we leave the country, our host must come back here and complete more paperwork testifying that we’re gone.)

We fly out of the registration office into the afternoon sunlight. We’re elated, we feel free. This is what it was like in the Soviet times, says my dad. You would bang your head against the wall trying to get something done. But when finally got it, you felt so happy! It’s different in the U.S. Everything’s easy!

*(I understand that if you travel to Russia with a tour group, or stay in a hotel instead of a private home, the travel agency or hotel staff can take care of the registration. Don't quote me on this, though; ask your travel agent.)

We spend the next several days seeing the city, which is beautiful and majestic and sometimes reminds me of Paris, but with grander architecture and a sadder history.

We take a few day trips, too...

Pushkin/Tsarskoe Selo (Czar's village). Pushkin, the famous 19th century Russian poet, went to school in these parts. This was also a summer residence of the Russian czars: Pushkin

Peterhof (palace, fountains and gardens)

Pavlovsk (park in the country; former summer home of the Russian imperial family)
Next: Down memory lane in St. Petersburg

St. Petersburg, First Impressions

[This week I'm blogging my July 2008 trip to Estonia and Russia. Go here for part 1 and here for part 2.]

St. Petersburg. We have a history with this city, my parents and I. My father was born and grew up here. My mom came here in her early 20s, hungry for big city life and culture. I was born in St. Petersburg and spent part of my childhood in this city, although the regal, famous St. Petersburg of books and postcards is a distant memory. This rankles my mom. “Don’t you remember this?” she asks me every time we stroll past a museum or a monument. “We took you here all the time.”

I don't remember riverboat tours down the Neva river or Spas na Krovi (Church of our Savior on Spilled Blood).
I don’t remember Nevsky Prospect, the famous boulevard where people go to see and be seen. I don’t remember Letny Sad (summer garden), a lovely refuge from the noise and dust of the city. I don’t remember the Bronze Horseman, the famous monument to Peter the Great. I don’t remember white nights. We catch the tail end of this phenomenon when the sun never really sets. The sky is indeed white long past midnight, turning milky gray from 3 a.m. all through the early morning. These photos were taken at 11:30 p.m. A few childhood memories do stand out. The Kazan Cathedral, for example, where, in 1987 or ’88, a Japanese tourist took a Polaroid photo of me. I was disappointed that I didn’t get to keep it. I remember the Hermitage. When I was 6 or 7, my parents took me here to see the Knight Hall, an exhibit of mediaeval armor, always popular with kids. I remember the Rostal Columns along the Neva river. Before we left for the U.S. in 1991, my mom took me here for a goodbye tour of the city. She wanted me to see the famous landmarks so that I wouldn’t forget. Who knew, then, if we would ever come back again?
This is the sentimental, beautiful, wistful part of the trip, the part that makes we wonder what life would be like if we had never left. Of course, I know very well that life would be harder and poorer had we stayed. Tomorrow, the vagaries.

Tomorrow: St. Petersburg, the good, the bad...

A Yulinka Cooks travelogue: From Estonia to Russia. Part 2 of 6.

[This week I'm blogging my July 2008 trip to Estonia and Russia. The first entry, on Estonia, is here.]

The iron curtain has fallen, but it doesn’t really feel like it when you’re traveling to Russia. It takes months to get a visa, and don’t expect anyone from Russia’s American embassies to help you.

But let’s say you finally get your visa. Now you have to cross the border into Russia. If you’re coming by overnight train, from, say, Estonia, this is how it happens. You board the train and hand your passport over to the conductor. Sometime during the night, you will be awakened twice. (Actually, it’s better if you don’t sleep. You should be on guard.)

The first time, Estonian border guards will check your passport and visa. That's the easy part. The second time, your documents will be examined by the Russian border control. You will asked, no, ordered, to stay in your compartment. Your bags will be searched. If you’ve already had the misfortune to deal with Russian authorities, you will be tense. You will be anxious. You will know that they can tell you, in a bland, stone-faced way, that your visa doesn’t conform to some obscure, absurd and incomprehensible regulation, and that you cannot enter Russia.

You half-expect this to happen, while paperwork is filled out --there’s a little piece of paper that you cannot ever lose or God knows what misfortunes will befall you--and passports are stamped and returned.

Finally, the guards nod and move on to interrogate passengers in the neighboring compartment--Italians who speak little English and less Russian. The conductor studies their passports and reads their names aloud in a sing-songy way. You feel bad for them, but it’s not your concern. You, you are now free to enter Russia. Dobro pozhalovat'!*

*Welcome.

Next: St. Petersburg, grand and beautiful.

A Yulinka Cooks travelogue: When in Tallinn. Part 1 of 6.

Last summer I went to Estonia and Russia. It was somewhat of an epic trip, a blast to the past, if you will. You see, my parents and I immigrated to the U.S. from Russia in the early 1990s. For years, we had talked about taking a big family trip to Russia. My dad and I, after all, had never been back after the move (my mom goes back on her own every four or five years).

So after much planning, we traveled to Tallinn, Estonia, St. Petersburg and Moscow last July. Yes, July of 2008. When I got back, I got swept up in work, school, etc., and didn't write much about the trip besides this quick summary and some travel-inspired reflections on identity. Almost a year later, I'm finally getting around to blogging the trip here.

Here's what's coming: photos of the glorious St. Petersburg, a comically harrowing account of how we almost got arrested in Moscow, notes on Russian fast food and more. I will be posting updates all week.

Let's start with Estonia. Why Estonia? I had wanted to visit one of the former Soviet Baltic countries; my parents had been to Tallinn for their honeymoon and were curious to see it again.
We spend two-and-a-half days in Tallinn, which, in hindsight, is too much. Tallinn's famous, mediaeval old city is charming and tiny. In the morning on our first day, we get lost strolling the labyrinthine streets; by that afternoon, we can traverse the old town in about 15 minutes.

The guidebooks say Tallinn is a well-preserved mediaeval city, but it reminds me of an outdoor mall. Stylish teenagers stroll around in groups; tourists drink beer in outdoor cafes; girls in faux-mediaeval costumes sell sugared almonds. The shops sell expensive knick-knacks, but I see more browsing than buying. What’s outside the old city? I guess it’s the real Tallinn where people live and work. We walk around the old town's perimeter, then take a bus ride to Kadriorg park and palace, about 20 minutes away. The park paths lead to a small beach on the Baltic sea. It’s a chilly and overcast day, but dozens of wedding parties are posing for photos.

We stop for coffee and good, cheap pastries at a bakery on the outskirts of the old city. Closer to the center, everything is expensive. What’s worth a splurge? Kuldse Notsu Kords, an Estonian restaurant that serves soups like svekolnik and entrees like this stunningly delicious potato-wild mushroom-and-cheese casserole.

Everywhere we go, I hear Russian. The guidebooks advise travelers to speak any language other than Russian in Estonia. This Baltic country was occupied by the Soviet Union for years; Estonians resent Russians, the books say. The books also tell me that 25% of Estonia’s residents are ethnic Russians. I see them everywhere—they live and vacation here, they work in shops and restaurants. When I speak English to the shop clerks, they don't understand. I switch to Russian and get what I need.

Has Tallinn changed a lot since the Soviet times? I ask my parents.

Sort of, they say. The luxury shops weren’t here before, of course. But Estonia has always been one of the least “Soviet” USSR satellites. In the 1970s, says my dad, when he went to Tallinn for the first time, he ordered coffee. It was served in a dainty cup with a little pitcher of cream on the side. This still amazes him. Had you ordered coffee in Russia at that time, you’d get a chipped glass of murky liquid!

Somewhere I read that Estonia is the most successful of the former Soviet republics. Everything here is Western: service comes with a smile, the clerks are friendly, money is easily exchanged. If this doesn’t strike you as important, keep reading about my experience with customer service in Russia.Sometimes remnants of the Soviet era seep out. A drunk Russian at the airport loudly complains about a lost suitcase. A shop clerk in the old city chases after two kid shoplifters, yelling, in Russian, “I’ll kill you, fuckers.” We get unceremoniously kicked out from the city's train station as we wait for the overnight train that will take us to Russia.

Someone barks: It’s 9 p.m., the station’s closed, go wait outside. People get up and drag their suitcases. The sun is setting and it’s getting colder. In eight hours, we’ll be in St. Petersburg.

Next: Crossing the border into Russia, an adventure.

Rhubarb Cake

The only desserts I like to bake are simple fruit cakes. They’re easy, low-maintenance and fairly light. Why bake huge cakes or batches of cookies for a household of two? My go-to recipes are this apple charlotte (can be made with a variety of fruit), this curd-cheese cake with apples, and, now, this rhubarb cake. The recipe, from the Estonian food blog Nami Nami, caught my eye because it calls for kefir or buttermilk. I love using cultured dairy in baking—it makes cakes more tender and balances excess sweetness.

Here’s my tweaked recipe. The rhubarb is from Witte's Vegetable Farm in Cedarburg, Wis. (at $1.50 per pound, it’s a very good deal).

Ingredients:

2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
Pinch of salt
1.5 tsp. baking power
100 grams butter, melted and cooled
2 eggs, beaten
200 ml milk, yogurt, kefir or buttermilk (I used 50/50 milk and sour cream)
1 lb. rhubarb, finely diced

Preheat the oven to 370. Mix the dry ingredients (flour through baking powder) in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, add the milk ingredients to the butter; mix. Add the eggs and stir well.

Combine the dry and wet ingredients; mix. Fold in the rhubarb. Grease a 10-inch pie pan. Pour the batter into the pan; sprinkle with demerara sugar. Bake 50-55 minutes, until the top of the cake is golden-brown and a toothpick or knife inserted into the middle comes out clean.

If you like, sprinkle with powered sugar before serving.

A Trip to Grassway Farm (New Holstein, Wis.)

One sunny summer day, you should go on a road trip to New Holstein, Wis. Your destination is Grassway Organic Farm; your hosts, Kay and Wayne Craig. They tend the farm and run the Grassway Organics store. Oh, they also give tours to city kids with cameras. Your tour starts with "awws." Who can resist these calves? Don't get too close, though, or they'll spook.

Watch for cats roaming the property. We spotted this bundle of cuteness under a bush near the owners' house.
Follow your hosts through the fields to check out the cows. (Hint: wear comfy shoes that you don't mind getting dirty.)

A few cows come up to us and lick our fingers. We melt. Why, hello, gorgeous.

This is where the cows are milked, twice daily, at 6:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m.

If you're more into chickens, there's 300 of them, more or less, plus a couple of roosters--all free-ranging. Yes, Grassway Farm does sell eggs.

We also saw goslings and chicks.

The tour ends at the farm's Grassway Organics store, which sells fresh eggs, frozen beef, chicken and turkey, cheese, yogurt, some fruits and vegetables, spices and grains. By this time, Kay and Wayne are like old friends. Load up the car and tell 'em you'll be back.

Grassway Organics Farm Store and Farm, N600 Plymouth Trail

New Holstein, WI 53061

(920) 894-4201

More on Grassway Farm: My friend Anna blogged about this trip here.

Moroccan Carrot Salad

There was a time when I liked complicated cooking. The early days of this blog featured a lot of intricate stuffed vegetables, multi-step baking recipes and so on. I guess I’ve had it with endless peeling, chopping and sautéing, because these days I’d rather have carrot sticks or grilled vegetables rather than a carrot salad or stuffed zucchini. Despite my new minimalism, I do have a soft spot for a few favorite multi-step recipes, including this Moroccan carrot salad. Here’s my take on this dish, with a few updates based on a similar recipe from Sendik's markets’ surprisingly good food magazine.

First, make the dressing. Heat a small skillet, and sprinkle in ¼ tsp. each of the following spices: cinnamon, ginger, allspice, black pepper, red pepper flakes, turmeric and ground cardamom. Heat the spices for 30 seconds, then place in a small bowl and combine with 2 tbs. olive oil, 2 tbs. fresh lemon juice, 1 tsp. sugar and a healthy dash of salt.

Peel 1 pound of carrots; slice into ¼-inch thick rounds. Place the carrots in a saucepan, cover with water and add 2 grated or pressed garlic cloves. Bring to a boil and cook over low heat about 5 minutes, just until the carrots are crisp-tender. Be careful not to overcook.

Drain the carrots and place in a bowl. Toss with the dressing right away. Very finely chop a wedge of red onion (about ½ cup) and a small handful of fresh parsley; add to the carrots. Add ¼ cup halved and pitted Kalamata olives; mix. Let stand at room temperature for a few hours, or refrigerate overnight and bring to room temperature before serving. Add more lemon juice, salt and sugar to taste.

Farmer's Cheese Cake with Apples

I did some tweaking in my old and all-time popular post: how to make your own farmer's cheese (also known as curd cheese and, in Russian, tvorog). Check it out and give cheesemaking a shot. What can you do with a few cups of farmer’s cheese? Make cheesecake. Cakes and pastries with farmer’s cheese are very popular in Russia and Eastern Europe.

One of my favorite dessert recipes comes from the excellent Estonian food blog Nami Nami. It’s for an airy curd-cheesecake with grated apples. I’ve made it once before, for Thanksgiving. Here's a slightly revised version:

Preheat the oven to 370. Grease a 9-inch pie pan.

Finely chop 1/4 cup each of apricots and dried plums (don’t call them prunes). Place in a small bowl, along with 1/4 cup raisins, and cover with boiling hot water. Put aside.

Combine 60 grams flour, ½ tsp. baking power, 50 grams sugar and ¾ tsp. cinnamon in a bowl. Peel, core and finely chop two large apples, preferably a tart variety like Granny Smith. Separate two eggs, and beat the egg whites until they form soft peaks.

In another bowl, mix 250 grams farmer’s cheese, 100 grams sour cream or Greek yogurt and ½ tsp. vanilla extract. Fold in the dry ingredients. Add the apples and the egg yolks; drain the dried fruit and add to the mixture; then add the egg whites. Mix well.

Pour the batter into the pie pan; bake 45-55 minutes, or until the top of the cake is firm and golden-brown. Let cool before eating, but serve warm, if possible. Goes great with strawberry jam.

Weekend Notes

A family joke goes that my favorite food is shrimp dipped in chocolate. Not quite, but I do like both, separately.

*Turns out Fabian Seafood sells shrimp out of a truck on Milwaukee's Green Bay Avenue (Glendale) at the Mobile Gas Station. I've heard of this company selling never-frozen shrimp (so they claim) at local gas stations, but I had always assumed this was a Milwaukee urban legend. Guess not. Check their Web site to get on a mailing list.

*Chocolate with pop rocks is my favorite junk food of the moment. At first bite this stuff tastes like a Crunch bar, and then pop rocks start going off in your mouth. Weird and addictive. I haven't seen this chocolate in Milwaukee, but I did find Kras, a Serbian brand of pop-rock chocolate, at the City Fresh Market in Chicago.

Product Review: Rye Bread

Bad news first: It’s hard to find good Russian rye bread in Milwaukee. I’m talking real rye: dense, dark and faintly sour. Workaday rye that you can pair with a bowl of borsch for a complete meal. Sturdy rye for smearing with butter and layering with fatty sausage, like Russians do. Ignore cottony, faintly-brown rye that’s sold at supermarkets. Turn your nose at foo-foo versions made with cheese and nuts and whatnot.

Now, here’s the good news: Monastyrsky (monastery) rye is pretty close to the real deal. It’s trucked in from Chicago and sold at Spartak* in Whitefish Bay. It’s thick, heavy and hole-y. No, it’s not perfect. It’s almost five bucks per loaf. Sometime it's sold out. Other days it’s a bit stale. But when it’s good, it’s very good. Call Spartak to check when they’re getting a shipment.

Here’s how you eat Russian rye: Slice it thick, spread with butter and sprinkle with a bit of grainy salt. I like to dip it in sour cream. Goes great with borsch and schi.

*5587 N. Diversey Blvd., Whitefish Bay, Wis., (414) 332-3347.

Boozy Beet Salad

Some food bloggers never cook the same thing twice. I’m the opposite. My cooking repertoire includes a few dozen dishes that I make over and over. One of them is this creamy beet salad. I do tweak my recipes like crazy, but I’ve never messed with beet salad until today.

The Russian cookbook Please to the Table has an intriguing recipe for beets mixed with walnuts and cognac-soaked prunes. I’ve been eyeing this recipe for a while because it gives humble Russian beet salad a pre-Revolutionary, French-tinged air. Actually, the final result isn’t so different from my usual version, but the boozy prunes and walnuts do give the salad a crunchy punch.

Here’s what you do: Wash a couple of beets, cover with cold water in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Turn the heat down and simmer until the beets are easily pierced with a knife, 50-60 minutes. In the meantime, hard boil two eggs and prepare the prunes.

In a small saucepan, heat up ¼ cup cognac (um, Jack Daniel's is all I had on hand) until it boils, remove from heat and soak a handful of prunes in the warm alcohol for 30 minutes. Then finely chop the prunes (reserve the alcohol), mix them with a minced garlic clove and ½ cup of finely chopped walnuts.

Let the beets and eggs cool to room temperature; peel them; then grate over a large salad bowl. Add the prunes, nuts and garlic to the bowl. Peel and finely chop a cucumber, a handful of fresh dill and a small wedge of red onion; add to the salad. (I’m often tempted to add a little feta cheese to this salad, although it's not at all Russian.)

For the dressing, combine a few tablespoons each of sour cream and mayo; 2-3 tbs. of the reserved cognac; a tablespoon of sunflower oil; a good splash of vinegar; ½ tsp. sugar; and a dash each of salt and black ground pepper. Feel free to tweak the dressing ingredients to taste. Dress the salad and mix well. Let stand 15 minutes before serving.