From Russia with Lunch (4 page)

On the way back to my hotel, I was passed by a group of shaky tourists on a Segway – a motorised walker gadget – excursion through the Old Town. Amid another cluster of holy houses, I came upon the shiny Lithuanian headquarters of global advertising agency McCann-Erickson, above whose lintel was the swishy slogan ‘the truth well told'. In the Old Town consumerism had long replaced communism, and the fire of acquisition was being stoked by foreigners who had perfected the art. Globalisation was coming but before it marched an army of British buck's nights with money to burn and the mantra that what happens in Vilnius stays in Vilnius.

2

A night on the Old Town

It's birthday time at the old folks' home and Hymie's friends pool their money to get him a hooker to celebrate turning eighty. She knocks on Grandpa's door. When he opens it, she says: ‘I'm here to give you super sex.'

He thinks for a minute then replies, ‘I'll have the soup.'

Mark, a 29-year-old marketing executive from Mackay, was betrayed by his vowels. Seated at a table beside me at breakfast, he and twelve mates had caught a £1 red-eye from London the night before in celebration of the fact that he would be getting married in a fortnight. Still dozy from lack of sleep, most sought lucidity via caffeine while Mark and I traded the curt nods Australians exchange abroad. He broke the ice over plates of stiff cold cuts and wan tomato that were presented to us simultaneously. One ‘struth' and a ‘fuck me' later, we were establishing Antipodean conversational links spanning the gamut from rugby league to rugby league.

Like many English-based grooms-to-be, Mark had chosen Vilnius for his stag do on account of the relative weakness of the lita against the pound (three to one), its proximity to London (under three hours by plane) and the fact that many local businesses catered to the whims of the drunk, the aroused and the far from home. As is the case in neighbouring Latvia and Czechoslovakia. Mark then took me – a stranger he had known for all of ten minutes – aback by asking if I'd like to come along that evening to join the party. ‘It would be nice to have another Aussie in amongst these Poms,' he said, rather more loudly than was necessary. Only to be drowned out by good-natured jeers from his lads and a host of hasty introductions.

I forgot their names immediately. They did likewise and we called each other ‘mate' from then on. Which was just as well as there was one condition associated with my chronicling the debauchery ahead: no one was to be identified. In exchange for experiencing a slice of Lithuania I doubt I would have chomped on solo, a solemn promise of anonymity had to be made. With not so much hairs of the dog but the whole pooch being lined up on the bar – it was 10am – I arranged to meet with Mark and the boys that evening, then set off to explore the city, glazed with stone-washed autumn sunlight.

Off the main drags, a different Vilnius emerged. A little shabbier but more lived-in, the apartment blocks were historicist-on-a-budget – still quaint en masse but with their dignified faces blighted by the digital acne of satellite dishes or aluminium downpipes which had not been painted to blend in to their façades. Two storeys high, most featured an arched driveway leading to a communal courtyard onto which several other buildings backed. Some were pin neat with benches and blooms, others mere rubbish-strewn car parks. Amid these were boxy three-storey apartment blocks which were triumphs of function over aesthetics. One of these dreary eyesores was nearing completion and the budget had clearly not been formulated with any degree of beautification in mind. The only colour on the site was in the rheumy eyes of construction workers who snuck shots from half-jacks of vodka secreted in their overalls.

At the other end of the spectrum stood homes that had long been given up on by all but mangy stray cats. All desiccated plaster and broken windows, they seemed to have been abandoned decades earlier and could have served as backdrops for any of
Saving Private Ryan's
later scenes. Several, it seemed, had simply faded into rubble, leaving an etched remembrance of former glory on their neighbours' walls.

Almost every city street, irrespective of its size or location, was dotted with ‘shops of amber'. Known as Baltic Gold, amber has long been a staple export of Lithuania, with Roman writers Pliny the Elder and Tacitus among the first to sing its burnished praises. Its scientific origins tell a tale of global warming – old school. Once upon the Eocene period between 40 and 55 million years ago, the trees of a certain part of Scandinavia were undergoing a profound change. They bled resin which filled external crevices and then went through a series of chemical changes – polymerisation, oxidisation, isometrisation (haven't the foggiest) and fermentation – to form what we know as amber. Flies, mosquitos, small lizards and the odd butterfly were attracted by the resin's sweet stickiness. From which they couldn't escape and in which they were eventually entombed. When another climactic shift saw these trees drowned in the Baltic Sea, the amber fragments were strewn along its southern coast and a jewellery industry was born.

The legend is far raunchier. One day at sea, Kastytis, a Baltic fisherman, encountered the underwater goddess Jurate and in so doing they became the first couple to meet online. Sidestepping the whole I can't breathe in your world and you can't breathe in mine issue, they fell deeply in love. Problem was, Jurate was meant to marry the god Patrimpas. Perkunas, the pagan equivalent of Zeus, was not impressed and threw down a bolt of lightning which not only took Jurate out – and I don't mean on a date – but shattered her palace at the bottom of the ocean. The fragments of which wash up on beaches as amber.

Apochrypha aside, demand eventually outstripped supply and amber is now harvested from the sea floor via dredging. Or made in the kitchen. Having been recorded in over 250 shades, such as iridescent violet and creamy opaque white, the most common colour is that which occupies the middle circle of traffic lights around the world. While genuine pieces are at least a million years old, counterfeits can be whipped up by simply crystallising brown sugar and water. The real deal smells like burning pine when rubbed against a rough surface. Many a tourist has been duped by old women sitting on buckets at market stalls while the poor staff at reputable stores have to smile politely as foreign visitors ask if they can have a quick lick of prospective purchases.

Intrigued by the amber offerings, but not quite enough to buy any, food became my next priority. I had a suspicion that some stomach lining might be prudent for the night ahead and found a restaurant specialising in Lithuanian cuisine. Beside the reception desk was a glass chicken coop from which an extravagantly plumed fowl supervised proceedings. A koi pond sprawled over most of the space – save for a bar – and a dozen or so tables were arranged around a balcony upstairs. The menu proved as peculiar as the décor. Judging by the leanness of the population – in Lithuania it's only the women who have boobs – I had expected a diet rich in simply prepared fish, lean meats and bucketloads of greenery.

As if any of that would keep you warm during a winter where the average temperature sits at – 5 degrees Celsius. This is a cuisine which had its roots in the sustenance of agrarian labourers who worked twelve-hour days in blasts of Arctic frigidity. Only two examples of which made it to my childhood table. The first was cold beetroot soup in whose foamy purple depths drifted an iceberg of sour cream – although served without what I would later discover were the traditional Lithuanian accompaniments of cold boiled eggs and hot boiled potatoes. The second were savoury pancakes filled with cream cheese and known as
blinis.

As a rule, Lithuanians are not great breakfasters. Even in upmarket hotels a platter of curd cheese, baby pink ham slices and cucumbers paler than a seasick goth are about the best you can hope for. Lunch and dinner are far more intriguing affairs. Appetisers are de rigueur with yellow split peas and pork crackling proving a winning combination. Meanwhile, the smoked sausage is the salty deliciousness of which cardiologists' holiday homes are made.

The management of the Cili Kaimas restaurant had unfortunately fallen victim to the global scourge of providing menus that attempt to go beyond the informative and into the entertaining. Theirs failed to deliver either. For example, there was a beef tongue dish called ‘better keep still than talk bunkhouse'. Tongue, geddit? Another was titled ‘digestive biscuit of daughter-in-law'. Your guess is as good as mine. Still one more was comprised of ‘beef slumgullion'. What a marvellous word and one which I prefer unsullied by definition. Please do not write in. Not quite tempted enough to order it, I instead went for
cepelinia,
Lithuania's national dish. These grated potato dumplings – nicknamed zeppelins for their shape – are stuffed with meat and served in a sauce of bacon and onions.

The locals are also practitioners of what swishy TV chefs call nose-to-tail eating. This is most apparent where pigs are concerned. Everything from trotters to ears are consumed with schnitzel-ish breaded cutlets being especially popular. I demurred in favour of banana pancakes, which are routinely slotted under the ‘mains' section of Lithuanian menus, while ice-cream and fruit comprise dessert territory. Bloated by zeppelins and caramelised batter, I meandered my way towards the hotel for an afternoon nap via Pylimo Street. Here, gazing out across a terraced park with the slyest of grins, is a bust of rock musician Frank Zappa. His presence is bereft of context – Zappa being no more Lithuanian than tequila. I can only surmise sculptor Konstantinas Bogdanas chose to lionise that ‘special' creative spirit who thought Moon Unit and Dweezil would be smashing names for children.

In the hotel lobby, I picked up a listings guide for Vilnius called
My City.
A vanity project nonpareil, the cover image featured a clearly braless editor in a fringed purple miniskirt who frolicked gaily in an urban fountain. Two hours of shallow sleep later, I stumbled into the lobby – a perpetual auditory shrine to KC and The Sunshine Bandera cheese – to meet Mark and his mates. Who had dressed him in a lime tutu and a t-shirt bearing two vertical arrows pointing in opposite directions. Above the one aligned north were the words ‘the man'. The southern indicator was emblazoned with the legend ‘The Legend'.

Stepping out into the crisp night with an H&M troupe of London white collars, we immediately set ourselves on an unintentional collision course with arguably the most violent members of Lithuanian society. Striding towards us three wide, four deep, with hair-trigger sneers and shaved scalps were a group of skinheads. Despite the coolness of the evening, they adhered to a uniform of combat boots, cargo pants and death metal t-shirts the sleeves of which seemed to anchor tangled vines of Cyrillic body ink. In recent years, several migrants or students of Arabic or African appearance had fallen fatal victim to these no-necked thugs and we coalesced into an unspoken agreement of non-provocation by pressing our backs into the wall to let them pass. Suffice to say, our shoes became extremely interesting.

Our first stop for the evening was, oddly enough, an Irish-ish pub. For reasons I am yet to comprehend, alcohol consumption is a benchmark of national pride for certain nations. Lithuania is one of them and brings some impressive credentials to the bar. In terms of beer – 82 litres per person per year – each of the five major cities has its own behemoth brewery. Kaunas boasts two, with smaller towns such as Birzai and Utenos determined to compete in the league. Lighter, brighter and sweeter than the frosties from home, the stuff is tankard-drainingly good but has an alcohol content which hovers between 6.5 and 8 per cent. In the words of the brilliantly irreverent
In Your Pocket
travel guide, ‘It packs a punch. It seduces you like Lolita in a summer dress and then takes you down like a body slam from Jabba the Hut. It can even lead gentlemen to go to bed with the one and wake up with the other.' Half a litre comes as cheap as $2.50 and I had three. Which is significant as my choice of tipple at home usually favours pink drinks served in sugar-rimmed martini glasses.

Mark then took it upon himself to call the shots. Each of us was summarily presented with a foot-long paddle in which sat three thumb-sized glasses filled with bravado, foolhardiness and regret. The first libation was absinthe and, truth be told, I'm no stranger to the green fairy. Although she does have a habit of making promises she doesn't keep. Next up was a slug of mead. Deliciously sweet and, at 50 per cent proof, it combined with the first booze injection to put me in my happy place.

You know you're playing with fire when the bar staff urge caution but Mark had done his research and insisted on the trio being finished off with Zalgiris. Google the term and you'll discover that it contains a rather delicious mix of herbs and berries, plus clocks in at a staggering – in so many ways – 75 per cent pure alcohol. This wasn't so much a shot but the hooch equivalent of simultaneously being dumped by a wave and a girlfriend. My throat burned like paper cuts, the hairs on the inside of my nose felt singed and upon standing, it seemed I had been fitted with a pair of wobbly shoes.

Drunk on bonhomie and the rest, we rolled into a strip club whose bouncers looked as if they could have broken me with their eyelashes. Momentarily forgetting the language barriers that prevent humour being used as an icebreaker, I told the doorman I believed he could bench-press Poland. He clenched his jaw and replied: ‘Eighty.' The fee was in litas, a currency which the Lithuanian government has applied to switch to euros but was knocked back as they missed an inflation target by 0.1 per cent.

Making our way through a natty cocktail bar decked out with several full-sized snooker tables, we were quickly ushered into the subterranean club proper. Around the size of a generously proportioned family room, it was rimmed by the type of leather lounges that go on sale at long weekends. The centre of the space was dominated by a platform raised no higher than 30 centimetres into which three stainless-steel poles were affixed. Red lasers threw amoeba shapes onto the black ceiling while a mirror ball and disco lights flickered in a primary kaleidoscope. A drumbeat and bass that rattled the fillings in my teeth kicked in and from behind a velvet curtain emerged the evening's first artiste.

Before we go on, I'd like to say that strip clubs are not really my thing. That's not a judgment of the patrons or the staff. They just don't float my erotic boat and several factors underpin this. The first is previous experience. By which I mean my own buck's night, which devolved into me sitting on a chair – fully clothed, I might add – in the middle of a Kings Cross ‘gentlemen's club' while an extensively tattooed young lady circled me menacingly. At least I think it was menacingly as the first thing she did, after being helped on stage by security personnel straight off
Australia's Most Wanted,
was remove my glasses. An act which rendered the rest of her performance an inky blur. The only time I really knew what was going on was when she squirted half a tube of Vaseline Intensive Care down the inside of my jeans then squelched around on my lap for several less than comfortable minutes.