From Cesis to Riga: A Culinary Journey Through Latvia's Best Kept Secrets

Our culinary adventure began in Cesis, a picturesque medieval town that served as our gateway to understanding Latvia's historical food traditions. The 13th-century castle ruins provided more than just a stunning backdrop—they offered context for the region's culinary evolution through centuries of changing rule.

Our first evening meal at Jāņoga near the castle grounds introduced us to what would become a recurring theme: Latvia's reverence for rye bread. This isn't your typical supermarket loaf. Dark, dense, and slightly sweet, traditional Latvian rupjmaize is practically sacred. Our server explained that historically, when a piece fell to the floor, Latvians would kiss it as an apology. The bread arrived alongside caraway butter and smoked sprats—tiny Baltic fish that pack an umami punch that's distinctive to the region.

The following morning, we visited Cesis Market, where locals have traded goods since medieval times. Here, amber jars of forest honey lined wooden stalls next to wild mushrooms collected just hours earlier. An elderly woman selling fermented vegetables explained in halting English that during Soviet occupation, preservation techniques weren't just tradition—they were survival. These stories of resilience through food deeply resonated with me, reminding me of similar narratives I've encountered in my work as a public defender.

For those seeking to understand Latvian cuisine beyond restaurants, I highly recommend booking the forest foraging tour with local guide Māris. His knowledge of edible plants, mushrooms, and berries transformed how we understood the connection between Latvia's abundant forests and its cuisine. By midday, our baskets overflowed with chanterelles and wild strawberries that would later become part of our dinner.

If there's one culinary technique that defines Latvian food culture, it's fermentation. Born from necessity in a climate with harsh winters, these preservation methods have evolved into distinctive flavors that tell the story of Latvia's resourcefulness.

In a small farmhouse outside Cesis, we participated in a workshop led by Zane, a third-generation fermenter whose family maintained these traditions even when Soviet collectivization threatened local food practices. Under her guidance, we prepared sauerkraut with caraway seeds, pickled garlic scapes, and kvass—a lightly fermented beverage made from rye bread that's simultaneously tangy, sweet, and slightly effervescent.

"During Soviet times, these techniques weren't just about taste—they were about survival through winter," Zane explained while demonstrating how to properly pack cabbage into traditional ceramic crocks. "Now we understand they're also incredibly healthy."

What struck me most was how these ancient preservation techniques align perfectly with modern interest in gut health and probiotic foods. Latvia has been practicing what Western food trends now celebrate for centuries.

The workshop culminated in a tasting that featured fermented foods alongside smoked meats and cheeses from neighboring farms. The standout was sklandrausis—a traditional Latvian dessert consisting of a rye flour crust with potato and carrot filling that exemplifies how Latvians transformed humble ingredients into something special.

For travelers wanting to bring these techniques home, I recommend picking up a fermentation crock. I purchased mine after returning home and have been experimenting with Latvian-inspired ferments ever since—a delicious way to extend the travel experience and share it with my children.

Transitioning from rural Cesis to Latvia's capital brought us to one of Europe's most impressive food destinations: Riga Central Market. Housed in repurposed German Zeppelin hangars from World War I, this UNESCO World Heritage site isn't just a market—it's a living museum of Baltic food culture.

Spanning five massive pavilions and numerous outdoor areas, the market's scale is initially overwhelming. Each hangar specializes in different products: meat, fish, dairy, vegetables, and a fifth for miscellaneous goods. We arrived early, equipped with my crossbody travel bag (perfect for keeping valuables secure while leaving hands free for sampling) and an appetite for discovery.

The fish pavilion provided my first lesson in Baltic seafood diversity. Beyond the expected smoked fish were specialties I'd never encountered: lamprey in aspic, fish soup prepared in massive cauldrons, and roe spreads in every imaginable color. An elderly vendor noticed my curiosity and offered samples, explaining in broken English how each preparation method dated back generations.

In the dairy section, we discovered Latvia's answer to cheese: ķimeņu siers (caraway cheese) and biezpiens (farmer's cheese) that bears little resemblance to Western varieties. The former—a semi-hard cheese infused with caraway seeds—became our daily breakfast staple, paired with local honey and dark bread.

What impressed me most was the market's dual nature: it functions both as a tourist attraction and an authentic shopping destination for locals. Unlike markets that have surrendered to tourism, Riga's Central Market maintains its practical role in residents' daily lives. Watching a grandmother haggle over the price of seasonal berries while teaching her grandchild about quality selection offered a glimpse into how food knowledge transfers between generations here.

For the full experience, I recommend visiting the small restaurants within the market that prepare dishes using ingredients from neighboring stalls. At Siļķītes un Dillītes ("Herring and Dill"), we enjoyed open-faced sandwiches topped with local specialties while observing the market's rhythmic bustle—a perfect intersection of culinary tourism and authentic local life.

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of Latvia's culinary identity is its profound connection to the forest. With over 50% of the country covered in woodland, Latvians maintain a relationship with wild foods that most Western cultures have lost. This forest-to-table tradition is experiencing a renaissance in Latvia's contemporary dining scene.

At Valtera Restorāns in Riga, chef Valters Zirdziņš creates menus that read like a forager's diary. Our seven-course tasting experience featured pine needle oil drizzled over local trout, spruce tip vinegar accenting foraged greens, and birch sap granita that captured the essence of Latvian spring. What could have been gimmicky instead felt deeply authentic—a modern expression of Latvia's woodland heritage.

"We don't call this 'New Nordic' or try to copy trends," Valters explained when I asked about his philosophy. "This is simply how Latvians have always eaten—connected to the seasons and the forest. We're just presenting these traditions with contemporary techniques."

The next day, we participated in a guided foraging excursion in Gauja National Park, just outside Riga. Our guide, a botanist by training, showed us how to identify edible plants that appear in local cuisine: wood sorrel with its bright acidity, wild garlic carpeting the forest floor, and young fir tips that taste simultaneously of citrus and pine.

What made this experience particularly meaningful was understanding how these foraging traditions survived Soviet occupation when many cultural practices were suppressed. Our guide explained that the forest provided both physical and cultural nourishment during difficult times—a place where Latvian identity could be preserved through food traditions.

For travelers wanting to experience this aspect of Latvian cuisine, I recommend the field guide which, though focused on North American species, has many overlapping plants with Latvia and helps train your eye to spot edible opportunities. Just remember that foraging should always be done with knowledgeable guides in Latvia, as permits may be required in certain areas.

No culinary exploration of Latvia would be complete without confronting Rīgas Melnais Balzams (Riga Black Balsam)—a herbal liqueur that has both delighted and intimidated visitors since 1752. With its intimidating 45% alcohol content and distinctive black color, this bitter concoction contains 24 ingredients including valerian, wormwood, and ginger.

At Black Magic Bar in Riga's Old Town, we participated in a tasting session that revealed the balsam's versatility. While traditionally taken as a medicinal shot (Latvians claim it cures everything from colds to broken hearts), contemporary bartenders use it in creative cocktails that balance its intense bitterness with honey, berries, or cream.

The history of Black Balsam intertwines with Latvia's own complex narrative. When Catherine the Great fell ill during a visit to Riga, the story goes that Black Balsam cured her—cementing its reputation. During Soviet occupation, the recipe was carefully guarded as one of Latvia's cultural treasures. Today, it serves as both national symbol and acquired taste for visitors.

"The first taste is always a shock," our bartender laughed as she watched my expression after the initial sip. "The second is curiosity. By the third, you're beginning to understand Latvia."

She was right. By our final evening in Riga, I found myself appreciating the complex herbal notes that initially seemed overwhelming. The balsam had become a metaphor for Latvia itself—initially unfamiliar but rewarding deeper exploration.

For those wanting to bring this experience home, I recommend picking up a cocktail mixing kit to recreate some of the innovative Black Balsam cocktails we enjoyed. My personal favorite was the Black Balsam mixed with hot blackcurrant juice—perfect for chilly evenings back home in Philadelphia when I want to revisit my Latvian memories.