In Desperate Need of Onions

Online ordering is a lot easier, it has to be said.

Today at the Central Market, the cottage cheese lady almost smiled to see me. She’s been friendly as I’ve learned more Estonian words to place my order. But then I pointed at some tubs with Estonian labels and asked if they were “smetana”, which I knew was Russian for sour cream. The Estonian word seemed not to be as specific and included things like “vanilla flavored,” which is not something I thought it was reasonable to do to sour cream.

[Note: This is a follow on from Establishing the Value of a Russian Smile, documenting my initial interactions at Tallinn’s Central Market]

The woman shrugged at me, possibly because I said it wrong or possibly just not expecting me to suddenly burst out with Russian. The market vendors do not have much patience for questions; special orders are right out of the question. I stuck to my 250 grams of cottage cheese and moved on, wondering if I could at least manage a bag of onions somewhere. The woman at the table right outside had overcharged me twice so I needed to find someone else.

There was another area in the market, a set of corrugated tin stalls at the back of the market. Prices, where I could see them, seemed to be slightly cheaper. But these stalls were frightening because I had to actually walk inside and commit myself to interacting, just to find out what they had for sale. I had noticed one stall with five-kilo bags of onions piled up in front but did that mean we sell onions here, come and select a few! Or did it mean you can buy this bag, good luck getting it home! I had no idea.

I hate not knowing the rules.

It was threatening to snow. I needed to make a decision. “I’ll just go to the supermarket” seemed like a cop-out.

I only needed onions. I knew that it was possible to buy onions. I knew how to say onion in Estonian (sibul). How hard could it be? I saw a woman walk out of a stall with a bag of three potatoes in her hand. At least it seemed like I wouldn’t have to buy five kilos worth. I walked inside.

Open crates of vegetables were piled up on either side of me: potatoes, cabbages and yes, onions. There were also plastic tubs of honey and a big vat of bright green cucumbers floating in salty water. A wrinkled man with close-cropped white hair stood in front of an old fashioned cash register and looked at me wearily. He said something as a greeting and I apologised in response. I picked up three onions and handed them to him. He weighed them and looked at me expectantly. I paused, looking at the salted cucumbers. They looked very good but I couldn’t very well fish them out with my fingers. I was going to have to speak.

“Neli tükk gurk, palun.” Four pieces of cucumber. Close enough.

He did a double-take to hear me speak Estonian and counted them out carefully, starting in Estonian and then with a sly look at me, switching to English. “Üks. Kaks. Three. Four.” I beamed at him and he smiled back.

He put the cucumbers on the scale and then punched in numbers on his calculator and held it up to me to show €1.86. The onions should be less than a Euro, so I handed him three euros, hoping that that would be enough, especially hoping that he wasn’t going to tell me he wanted some extravagant price.

He shook his head no.

I took a deep breath.

He put a euro on the counter. Then he held up the two-euro coin for me to see. He put it into his register and picked up a few copper coins and put them next to the one euro coin.

It seemed that it was €1.86 for the cucumbers and the onions both. It was a good price but even more important, he stopped me when I was clearly happy to overpay. Unlike the woman with the horseradish, who I still glared at every time I walked past her stall, he did not think that I should have to pay more than the locals just because I was stupid.

I said “Aitäh” in Estonian (Thank you) and he said “You’re welcome,” in English and then as I picked up my change, he went through a list. “Hello. Goodbye. Thank you. You’re welcome. Please.”

He reminded me of my German great grandfather, who had learned a few useful words and phrases in English during World War I, which he would recite to me proudly. It was much the same, except that my great-grandfather’s list included “Where are the girls?”

I smiled at the market man and said, “Perfect!” Sadly, this was not a word he knew. I stuck to words that he’d already used: “Thank you! Goodbye!”

“Goodbye,” he said proudly.

As I stepped out, I looked at the hut, just another tin hut in a row of tin huts. I hoped that I might find the right one again. I felt like maybe I had made a friend.