"Ah, I've heard about you. You're that banker from Helsinki," said the man who sold us our lamb rump steaks at the farmer's market.
Mikke. The man's name is Mikke. He has been a bank manager in Helsinki, too, but now he lives down the road from us. Of course he lives down the road from us. Where else would he possibly live?
And I was introduced as the wife, the wife who doesn't speak very good Swedish but who can manage in Finnish.
Within seconds of asking about the cuts of lamb, a short man in a chef's cap appeared and stood just behind the Banker's right ear. This stranger began issuing instructions about how to cut and prepare the lamb. We had no idea who this hatted man was, so Mikke offered by way of introduction, with a shrug: "This is our local chef."
The local chef finished offering instructions and disappeared as quickly as he had materialized. No helloes or farewells. Just a few quick orders and he vanished. Apparently he didn't want us screwing up the lamb.
"Tack!" I called after him. (That's 'thanks' in Swedish).
At the same farmer's market, we bought a kilo of fresh tomatoes, some smoked shrimps, and a cold-smoked salmon. The fish monger is also our neighbor. Of course.
We made the lamb into souvlaki and served it to the very first guests we hosted at our new country home. I was too excited to take pictures, but those lamb skewers were delicious.
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