Helsinki was once reliably blanketed in snow by the beginning of December, a phenomenon that did nothing to stop its residents in their tracks. On my first visit in 2012, I prompted a kindly chuckle when I said that in the UK, we close the schools for snow-days now. In the Finnish capital, only if it fell below -15°C in the winters did the junior schools take special measures, and then only to keep the little ones indoors.
This December, there was merely rain and a stiff Arctic breeze, and the little ones were crowding in their high-vis smock-tops in the grand salons of the Ateneum, looking with quizzical wonder on the society portraits of the 18th century. Hundreds of miles of border with a drone-happy Russia has done nothing to bamboozle the locals, who sat robed in fur in the wood chalets of the Christmas market on Senate Square, in the shadow of the gleaming-cream Lutheran cathedral, imperturbably sipping glögi. I won't touch mulled wine to save my soul, not even this fragrant local version, booming with cinnamon, cloves and vitamin C from the juice of multitudinous berries. Finland runs on berries.
I'd found a toastie concession for lunch on the hoof and, after establishing that neither of us spoke Suomi, got chatting to the guy. He was from County Meath, eight years resident, loving every minute. He clapped two thick slices of brown bread around a melange of shredded reindeer, provolone, cranberry and pickled cucumber, and let it simmer on the griddle. I shoe-horned myself in among the glögi drinkers and wolfed it. It was a better bet than sitting in the window at Bastard Burgers (I kid you not).
At my last visit ten years ago, I ate at Passio (Kalevankatu 13), where an enterprising multi-course menu surprise is the order of the evening. This time, I lit out for Nolla (Fredrikinkatu 22), in the Punavuori quarter of the city centre, a tile-floored bistro with rustic bentwood furniture and happy staff, for a four-course set menu drawn from the short carte. The name means 'zero', indicating that nothing is wasted. It's a principle amply demonstrated in tonight's main course of kuhaa (pike-perch or zander), which appears as a chargrilled fillet in smoked butter, along with a cooked terrine of the typically discarded bits, some of which were also chopped and served cold on a crispbread, alongside roasted sunchokes. On a separate plate, the tail end has its own little ruffle of flesh, the fin rewards intrepid excavation with the fork, and the cheek has a spoonful of blackcurrant purée for relish. It's the most kuhaa I've ever eaten in one go.
Prior to that, cured sikkaa (the all-purpose Finnish whitefish) was dressed in black walnut ponzu, pickled green tomatoes and ginger, with a small dish of flat pasta interleaved with preserved strawberry in creamed ricotta intervening before the pike-perch. Pudding was two chunks of a sensational stout ale cake coated in a ganache of Copenhagen beer malt, topped with parsnip ice-cream and dressed at the table in black garlic caramel.
Helsinki is a harbour city, its Old Market Hall a handsome 19th-century redbrick shed on the waterfront, into which three rows of food stalls and little eateries are crammed. There are patissiers, soup-stands, ices and sorbets in Christmas colours, a Vietnamese diner, tiny jars of Lapland preserves (I picked up a pot of amber-coloured cloudberry, while the going was good) and, where the tourists crowd most thickly, caviar vendors tempt even empty pockets with complimentary tasting clumps on little wooden forks. A flaky plum tart and a viciously bitter espresso fortified me against the strengthening afternoon drizzle.
Ravintola Nokka (Kanavaranta 7 F) is berthed in a restaurant strip fashioned from wharfside warehouses, with a prospect of moonlight glinting off the water. High on the wall inside, a Turneresque oil painting of a sea-squall sets the tone, as does the kitchen brigade silently toiling behind plate glass. Ari Ruoho and Terhi Vitikka use wild ingredients from Finnish forests and waters, with a little Norwegian king crab for good measure, in a style of highly burnished eco-cuisine that strikes resonant notes. Cold-smoked rainbow trout with kohlrabi, fermented apple, crisped skin and dill oil kicked off another four-courser, followed by a 'risotto' of emmer wheat grains with wild mushrooms and goat cheese, a dish bursting at the seams with coddling winter umami.
At main, a fricassée of full-flavoured tender reindeer partnered with its braised shank is served with folds, chunks and purée of celeriac on crimson cranberry sauce. Neutralise the palate again with a little lingonberry sorbet, before cloudberry-glazed white chocolate mousse and sea buckthorn makes for an inimitably Finnish finish. There is a monster wine list, with French classics uncoiling through their vintages, and a full page (no less!) of German regional wines. The sommelier dobbed me a cheeky taster of a 1982 botrytised Coteaux du Layon at dessert stage.
On the last night, I went to The Room by Kozeen Shiwan (Pohjoisesplanadi 17). At least, I did eventually, but only after Google Maps had delivered me to another kitchen counter restaurant, Shii (Fabianinkatu 17) doing a sushi-led omakase menu with sake pairings. I was two sips into a glass of blanc de blancs before a rising sense of existential unease prompted me to ask where I was, only a heartbeat less silly than asking door-staff whether they know who you are.
Redirected, I hurtled off into the drizzle, and had just crossed the central Esplanadi when my phone went. 'Where are you?' I was just trying to pronounce the name of the side-street when Chef Kozeen, for it was he, leaned invitingly out from a corner door and beckoned in the lummox shouting into his phone. Kozeen is of Iraqi Kurdish heritage, a compact but massively ebullient supernova, bleach-blond, fingernails painted black, mouth full of gold teeth, a mischievous golden grin, and a gift for talking a blue streak.
The counter encloses not a kitchen but a small stage, where the announcements are made by Kozeen and his sommelier, the lighting at crepuscular levels, the décor nothing but a minimal twig or two. Eight courses are served that form a conceptual interpretation of his family's fugitive escape from ethnic persecution in Suleymaniyah to his boyhood in Lahti in the Finnish Lakeland. A single olive is textured with caramelised onion mayo, stuck with a violet at each end, and explodes with a startling crunch in the mouth. Cubes of whitefish lurk under sour snow. Chickpeas are subjected to an aromatic whirl of lemon thyme, Douglas fir, wild garlic and edible flowers.
The floral note is also key, in the shape of perfumed rose-petals, to a main dish of gorgeous quail with barbecued rice and juniper. But the real main dish is a gold-glazed steamed king potato, the whole clutch served from a gilded nest of Kozeen's own design, the sauce a marbled garlic mayonnaise and turmeric oil. As we eat, a shower of fine gold glitter fills the air. If these are indeed the last days of humankind, we're going out in style. At the end, there is a back-to-the-roots solitary squishy date, textured with salt caramel and chocolate, encasing a roast almond. You'd want to find a box of them under the Christmas tree.
Kozeen is very much a pop-up chef, having popped up in Copenhagen, Hong Kong and St Petersburg before this. The Helsinki residency will end on 20 December, and he wouldn't, dammit, tell me where he will be surfacing next, but somewhere. Remember the name. When he calls to you from a corner door in Europe, book the flights.
