Month: February 2023

It’s a Latvian thing.

It’s apparently a French thing, too. Peter Mayle wrote in his bestselling book, A Year in Provence, that he and his wife closed the deal for the house they were purchasing over a five-hour lunch. It was probably such a short lunch because it was a business lunch. No doubt it’s an Italian thing, too.. Possibly this sort of lunch happens in all of Europe and maybe even South America.

One of my dear friends, a half-Latvian professor of music, is spending part of his sabbatical in Latvia studying the music of an ancient regional culture. This isn’t his first trip to Latvia so he has had the opportunity to make friends. He has also discovered the joys of the seven-hour lunch.

When I was in Latvia during the Soviet years of glasnost (openness) I also experienced the seven-hour lunch. Or, it might have been ten hours. I lost track. Hours at the table were nothing new to me. That’s how it was when my parents’ generation threw parties but then it was mostly in the evening. Mostly. Mostly. Often, when the fun times were too good to end a few friends were invited to return the next morning, or afternoon, (depending on how long the previous night’s party lasted) to help finish off the leftovers. The main dish then was meat-filled pancakes called kommorgenwieder derived from the German phrase komm morgen wieder, come again tomorrow.

For me there was no returning the in the morning. I was going home the next day.

A vivid memory from my childhood was a celebration at our Latvian next door neighbor’s house. The wife had been a signer with Latvia’s National Opera. She led the guests in a lusty song. It’s sad that there was no such singing at this party. Either my relatives had forgotten the words to our ancient folksongs or the prevailing atmosphere dampened their enthusiasm for singing. On a previous visit to Gaida’s home, I sang a couple of folk songs to her little boys. Songs I had known since I was a little girl. Songs they should have known, but didn’t.

How did that long, leisurely lunch get started? My cousin, my father’s niece, Gaida (guy-dah) who at the time had an apartment in Rīga invited me and the Rīga rellies, including the ones on my mother’s side of the family to lunch at one in the afternoon. We talked, ate, and drank. Repeat. Repeat. Even though it was a time of privation more food and drink kept appearing on the table.

At four, I was supposed to meet my mother’s younger brother and his son. They were driving in from her hometown Limbaži, which is about 54 miles (87 km) from the capital. We were to meet at the park across the street from my hotel. That was no reason to break up the party. My cousin, Guntis (soft U, uh), my father’s nephew went to pick them up and brought them over. They’d already me the Rīga crew when they all gathered at my hotel on the night I arrived.

What do you talk about at a seven-hour lunch? We talked about family, of course. The ones in Latvia, the ones in America, even the ones in Australia. But even though my mother had a large family, her grandfather was married three times, anecdotes about the family wouldn’t have taken up so many hours. One of my mother’s cousins, a professor at the University of Latvia gave a welcoming table speech to me. I don’t remember what he said, but I get misty just thinking about it. Latvians tend to give long speeches. Over the years I’ve been bored by too many of them. Pavils’ speech wasn’t very long but from the heart. I surprised myself by asking Guntis to give a speech from my father’s side of the family. I don’t remember what he said, either. Same reaction on my part.

Other than the abundance of food, I don’t remember what we ate. What sticks in my mind is a liqueur that tasted like minty mouthwash. It showed up when the other booze started running low. I confess, I never in my life drank as much nor stay as sober as I did while in Latvia. Adrenaline must counteract the effects of alcohol. Even though I felt comfortable and at home in Latvia, like the rest of us in that tour group from the West, I was constantly aware of the possibility of being followed by a KGB agent. Less for myself that my relatives.

The night of that long lunch was the only time I was drunk. It must have been the minty mouthwash liqueur. Guntis drove me, my uncle, and my cousin back to my hotel where they’d left their car. I remember bawling on my uncle’s shoulder, knowing I would never experience anything like that in my life again.

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