S5, E8: Is This Europe’s Best-Kept Culinary Secret?

In the eighth episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season five, Dinogo executive editor Billie Cohen visits Estonia to discover the country’s delightful “open café days” and embarks on a road trip through the south to savor the local cuisine.

Transcript

I find myself on a vast green lawn in southern Estonia, outside a quaint house with a small pond, as someone serves me a plate of food. I’m not at home, and I don’t know these folks, but I’m enjoying their hospitality, sharing laughs about how similar New Yorkers and Estonians can be, and hearing tales of how their grandmother rose at 4 a.m. to bake the cake I'm currently devouring. Just an hour ago, I was in onion fields with a man named Paulo, and prior to that, I was grilling tiny lobsters in a garden with a guy named Tauno. Before that, I sat under a shady tree at a farmhouse with a university professor named Sirli, marveling at a parfait she had crafted in the colors of the Estonian flag: blue, black, and white.

I’m exploring these hidden gems in Estonia that most tourists miss, not because of any journalist privileges, but due to Estonia's unique tradition: nearly every weekend in the summer, neighbors across various towns host “home cafeteria days” or “buffet days.” They transform their private homes and gardens into informal eateries, whipping up whatever they desire—be it meat and vegetable dishes, fish soups, onion-stuffed breads, or an array of pastries—and serve it to anyone who stops by for a modest fee. Some events are meticulously organized with websites and brochures, while others are simply announced on Facebook with handwritten signs along the roadside. Regardless, the experience is unforgettable. And it’s not just because of grandma’s early morning red-currant cake.

I stumbled upon these open café days entirely by chance. During a guided press trip in Estonia, I visited various places, including Tartu, one of Europe’s Capitals of Culture for 2024. It was just me, another journalist, and our guide Hanno. On our last night—just before I was set to fly back to New York—we were relaxing in a bar discussing our weekend plans when Hanno casually mentioned, “I’m actually going to continue touring around the country. I’ll be attending a couple of open café events.”

Curious, I asked, “What’s that?” envisioning gatherings in bland cafeteria settings. But Hanno explained that these are a cherished summer tradition in Estonia where locals invite guests into their homes to cook for them—essentially, you can wander from house to house tasting their food! I thought, “That sounds incredible! I need to experience that instead of whatever I had planned in New York.” So, I changed my flight and persuaded Hanno to let me join him. These are the kinds of adventures every traveler dreams of.

Most tourists tend to stay in Estonia’s capital, Tallinn, which is a popular port for Baltic cruises and boasts a beautiful medieval town center recognized by UNESCO. Everywhere you walk, you can smell the delightful aroma of spiced cardamom almonds. It’s a charming place, but just a small piece of a larger country; you can reach most other areas of Estonia within two to three hours of driving. Attending an open café day would definitely lead me off the typical tourist path, and at the end of that journey, there would be a bounty of delicious food awaiting me.

The next day, as we got into Hanno’s car, the weather was perfect. The road out of Tartu narrowed to a single lane in each direction, flanked by lush grass and dense trees. The sky was a vibrant blue. Road-tripping in Estonia is a breeze, with a well-connected network of highways and smooth roads, people driving on the right side, widespread internet access (Estonia was a pioneer in this area), and most locals speaking English. A few days earlier, I had left Tallinn and ventured west to Soomaa National Park, where I enjoyed bog hiking in one of Europe’s largest peat bog systems. Now, as I traveled south, the landscape outside the car windows was a lush green, dotted with lakes, forests, and gentle hills.

Hanno shared that the first open café day began in 2007 on the island of Hiiumaa. Today, there are nearly 100 such events every summer throughout the country. The one we’re heading to is along the Onion Route, named for its sandy soil, ideal for growing onions. This route stretches roughly 100 miles, weaving through villages along Lake Peipus, a vast body of water that forms the eastern border of Estonia (formerly a Soviet republic) with Russia.

The first home we arrive at resembles a trendy spot from upstate New York: a spacious grassy yard surrounded by beautifully restored farm structures. One of these is a long stone barn with wide-open arched wooden doors; a counter sits in front, and I can see people busy cooking inside. Another person is grilling something delicious on the lawn. I order a refreshing rhubarb lemonade and the kefir pudding parfait styled in the colors of the Estonian flag—blue, black, and white—before finding a bench under a tree to enjoy some people-watching. Other guests sit at tables and chairs made from tree stumps, relishing freshly cooked food and sipping wine. A woman with blond hair in a floral dress, white sneakers, and a brown apron is bustling around—this is Sirli, and it’s her home.

Today, the barn has transformed into an open kitchen managed by her two best friends, her son, her sister, and her mother. At the counter, I scan the menu of snacks, most named with Sirli's playful humor: “mosquito bites,” referring to small portions of smoked meats, and “mosquito poison,” a local mint liqueur. She even offers a dish called “eat your fingers,” which are crispy fish sticks in beer batter. Sirli explains that the name of the town, Sääsekõrva, translates to “mosquito ears,” laughing, “Do mosquitoes even have ears?” She’s fully embraced the pun. To our right, I notice a vibrant round garden with a wooden sign among the herbs and flowers: it says “you can have a look around,” complete with a smiley face.

All the food she serves comes from local farmers and fishermen. She says, “The ingredients are sourced from suppliers I know personally, and I’m aware of where they come from. I even know what the pigs are fed.” As more visitors fill the lawn, I can see how much effort lies ahead for Sirli. I ask her why she does this, and she replies, “The people inside are my family and closest friends. That’s the essence of it; we’re doing it together.”

This moment makes me pause. While these open café days are ostensibly for visitors and tourists—that’s what I initially thought—even though most guests are Estonians (and a few hosts mention that I’m the farthest traveler for their food). At Sirli’s, however, it’s truly about her community. Getting a glimpse into this is something special. Rare. And I find myself genuinely touched to be a part of it.

The day unfolds with visits to a backyard barbecue featuring a teepee-shaped bonfire, a dock where we watch people float across the river on a hand-cranked ferry to sample homemade mustard, and a compound reminiscent of summer camp where I meet painters and taste cakes made by kids. We also explore a collection of craft stands and beehives on a grassy plot, where some guys are roasting a whole pig on a spit, and I purchase a wooden spoon crafted by a woman named Crystal.

I engage with everyone I meet—it's simply my nature, whether I'm on assignment or not. I ask them about their dishes, the recipes behind them, and how their weekend is shaping up. Almost everyone is friendly and open, and when I mention how welcoming this experience feels for me as an outsider, they all joke that this camaraderie is unusual. My guide, Hanno, captures it well, saying, “We’re not typically like this. If you smile at an Estonian on the street, they’ll wonder what’s going on. But here, it’s different.” In a way, it reminds me of New Yorkers—we may not be all smiles when passing each other on the street, but give us a drink and a delicious meal, and we’ll become your best friends.

A bit later, as we’re driving, Hanno veers off the main road and starts to navigate through tall grass, or so it seems, until I notice he’s following two tire tracks. Eventually, we arrive at an open space in front of a couple of houses, two of which are equipped with solar panels. Dozens of people are seated on tree stumps and picnic tables, children are running about, and a man with a white beard, gray ponytail, and white knitted cap is tending to a circular, two-tiered grill that resembles a flying saucer. I watch in fascination as he tosses piles of raw onions around the edge and carefully monitors a batch of small lobsters until they turn a vibrant red—then we strike up a conversation.

He informs me that this location serves as a community center, hosting cooking masterclasses. Every few minutes, a woman named Triinu approaches with large wooden bowls filled with broth, into which Tauno places one of the bright red lobsters. I look around to see that almost everyone in the garden is enjoying this soup. Some are pairing it with a locally made alcohol crafted from cloudberries, raspberries, and honey, served in tiny test tubes from a tent. Full bottles are available for sale, and even now, I regret not purchasing one.

Now’s a good time to mention that I didn’t actually try the lobster soup. I’ve been a vegetarian for most of my life and have a list of food allergies. So when I returned from this trip and excitedly recounted my experiences, my friends joked, “You don’t eat anything—why were you on a food trail?” But that’s not what it was about for me—and I believe that’s part of the charm of this tradition. Plus, there was more than enough cake to go around. Dessert is my favorite course.

I stroll around the grounds and food displays with Triinu, who is the organizer of the entire Onion Route day. She explains, “We do this to come together and create together.” She elaborates that the purpose is to highlight local producers and ingredients while supporting the community. Triinu takes great pride in the food’s quality; in fact, she shares that everyone sources their ingredients locally, and participants must submit a menu for approval in advance.

Nowhere is the emphasis on local sourcing more evident than in the village of Kolkja, situated along the shores of Lake Peipus. Here, we’ve arrived at the heart of the Onion Route, where the houses burst with color. Many are painted vibrant shades of purple, and every few hundred feet, I spot an elderly woman seated at a rickety table, selling strings of onions. On the main street, a vivid magenta shack has its barn doors wide open, showcasing an impressive display of onions: bunches hang artfully, and the doors are adorned with an old abacus, flowerpot dolls, and garlic paintings. An award for the most visually striking shop hangs prominently. The elderly woman who runs this place steps aside as I take pictures, clearly preferring not to be photographed. She’s the first person I’ve encountered here who seems uninterested in conversation, and like many older residents, she only speaks Russian.

Just a few doors down, I meet Paulo, a robust 65-year-old with a full head of white hair, a bushy mustache, and a thin, proud smile—eager to share stories about his home. He and his wife have a shed brimming with fresh onion rolls, contributing to the delightful aroma filling the block. Paulo is outgoing and invites me to see their onion fields, which I readily accept. He leads me across the street and through a maze of fences to a field where long mounds of dark brown soil struggle against an overgrowth of wild grass. Paulo shares that during Soviet times, this area thrived on onion exports, with government trucks coming to collect them, making the residents prosperous. Now, grocery chains source their onions elsewhere, resulting in diminished farming and income. While the town is usually quiet, today it buzzes with festival visitors. Paulo, however, doesn’t mind; he prefers his routine of fishing at 5 a.m. tomorrow. Given his sociability, I find that hard to believe.

A few streets away, I stumble upon a contemporary art and photography gallery housed in a former medical facility. Established nearly a decade ago by three local women, the gallery showcases the contrast between the fading culture of the older generation and the vibrant creativity of the younger artists.

Our final destination is a place the hosts call Neighbors Café. Here, generations of families and friends come together at tents in a communal yard between their cottages. The menu offers a delightful range, from trendy crêpes to classic bread pudding and fish soup.

I spend time with Carina and her mother, Haide, as they prepare pancakes and crêpes (it was Carina’s grandmother who baked the 4 a.m. red-currant cake). I meet several of Carina’s friends, who work in various fields unrelated to food or restaurants. “It’s fun,” Carina says of open café day. “You create great food, then enjoy good food, and the neighbors get to savor it too.”

At this point, I’m completely full from cakes, parfaits, herbed potatoes, and veggies, and I can’t agree more. But the best part is the conversations. Carina and I chat about our travels and a sci-fi event her partner organized. I remark on how wonderful it’s been to connect with people today. She nods in agreement, suggesting that these gatherings allow you to skip the small talk and instead share what truly matters: your food and your home.

The homes and their surroundings are simply stunning. Driving through southern Estonia is a real pleasure. At one of the homes, I meet Martin, a thirty-something Estonian who is exploring the route with friends. He mentions, “Tourists should come because the homes and local flavors reveal the real Estonia.”

From a visitor's perspective, I can’t argue with him: I ventured to places I’d never have seen on a typical tourist route. I savored homemade dishes and unique recipes that wouldn’t have crossed my path otherwise, and I connected with locals in a way that felt authentic. That’s the ultimate travel experience. At open café days, hosts invite visitors not just into their homes, but into their lives, sharing their community spirit rather than marketing to tourists. Thanks to a serendipitous chat with my guide and the kindness of strangers, I became part of something special. I’m truly grateful to everyone who welcomed and fed me. Changing my flights was absolutely worth it, even with my food restrictions.

And anyone can join in the fun! So, just a quick reminder: The 2024 Onion Route buffet day is set for September 7. Don’t forget to try the currant cake!

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You've been listening to Travel Tales, brought to you by Dinogo Media. This podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music created and produced by Strike Audio.

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