Establishing the Value of a Russian Smile

It took me a few weeks longer to dare to shop at the inside market at Keskturg. I suspect that at first, I didn’t even realise that the building at the heart of the central market had another three markets inside of it. The glass-covered goods on refrigerated shelves on the ground floor make it obvious where one stall ends and the other begins but somehow, the vast array of unfamiliar cheeses and sausages seems even more overwhelming than the piled-up wooden tables outside. And although I can scarcely believe it, the people behind the counters look even less friendly.

I dare myself to buy something, anything. I walk up to the counter nearest the exit so that I can make a run for it if someone is rude to me. The woman serving looks a little bit like my grandmother. Maybe she is kind. I stare at the plastic tubs full of unidentifiable dairy products.

Eventually, I point at the big tub closest to me, some sort of curds swimming in liquid. The woman who looks like my grandmother glances at me but does not smile, speaking to someone else before turning back to me to take my order. She asks me a question in Russian and then in Estonian. I smile relentlessly back at her.

She sighs and collects a number of plastic containers of different sizes, lining them up on the counter and looking at me expectantly: how much of the unknown curds am I wanting to buy? I don’t want to look cheap, so I point at the second smallest container. She fills it with curds, leaving the liquid behind. I pay and scurry the hell out of there like a dog with its tail between its legs. I did it. I bought something.

That something turns out to be the most excellent cottage cheese that I have ever eaten. I can’t wait to get more.

Although the woman who looks like my grandmother is clearly a Russian speaker, she also speaks Estonian, or at least, she speaks more Estonian than I do, which I am aware is not saying much. I’ve taken to saying hello to everyone in Estonian, Tere!, a single word that immediately informs those around me that I do not speak Russian and that my accent in Estonian is so bad, I probably don’t speak that either. To my surprise, the woman nods at me when I tell her hello in Estonian and says hello back. This is more communication than I am used to and I take it as a mark of approval.

I become a bit braver about making unnecessary conversation. I say palun, please, while pointing at the cottage cheese that I’m buying every week. The cottage cheese that I like is the only one labeled as 5% fat, so I learn to say viis prozent while I point at the kodujuust. On a more practical level, I learn how to say pool, half, so that I stop having to buy every fruit and vegetable by the kilo.

This does not go as well as I expected. Ordering üks pool kilo does not get me one half kilo, as I expect, but a kilo and a half. She does not raise an eyebrow at my excessive cottage cheese consumption but I also do not make that mistake again. Pool kilo, half a kilo, works quite a bit better.

And finally, I manage to put all those key phrases together into a whole sentence. “Pool kilo kodujuust viis prozent, palun!” Half a kilo of 5% cottage cheese, please.

“Sure,” she says in Estonian. “This one?” And she points to the one I want.

“Yes,” I say instinctively, in English, because I’m stupid. She looks up, startled, only just realising that it is me. And then she actually smiles. “That was super!”

My next trip to the market, I start to point at the tub of cottage cheese, she knows what I want anyway, but the woman who looks like my grandmother shakes her head, no, and waits for me to say my phrase. Her personality is a bit like my grandmother’s, as well. I politely ask for half a kilo of cottage cheese which she sells me with something akin to a friendly manner and I’m on my way. Success!

The problem is that I am no longer allowed to point at the 250g plastic container that I used to get. Even acknowledging that this cottage cheese, made by milk master Otto, is the best cottage cheese I have ever eaten, a half of a kilo of cottage cheese every week is a lot.

Now, every time I go into the market, the woman who looks like my grandmother but is possibly a much better saleswoman smiles at me and waves me over. And every time, I feel obligated to buy more cottage cheese.

In pure desperation, I try to cut down my order. “Pool-pool kilo?”

I know it can’t be right–I’m asking for half a half kilo–but surely she’ll understand.

She does. “Kakssadaviiskümmendgrammi,” she says. I’ve been working on my numbers and I’m pretty sure I spotted the numbers two and five somewhere in that mess. It’s almost certainly 250 grams. I smile and nod, yes, that’s what I want.

She shakes her head, no. “Kakssadaviiskümmendgrammi.” The look on her face is clear: say it.

“Kaks…” I say and then trail off. Her face does not soften.

Now that I think about it, she’s not a thing like my grandmother. My grandmother would never, ever let me starve.

I hear impatient tutting behind me. Half a dozen people are lined up, waiting to buy their cottage cheese and sour cream.

She does not relent. “Kakssada viiskümmend grammi.” I try to repeat after her: kaks…kakssada viis…viiskümmend grammi. After three attempts, I finally manage the whole mouthful.

My reward is a pot of cottage cheese, half the size of my usual order, and a rare Russian smile.