There is an iconic place in Riga that encapsulates the diverse souls of Latvia and its last hundred years of history. It is the clock tower of the Laima chocolate shop, guardian of the city, meeting point of the first romantic dates, witness to all the daily happenings, happy or not.
It is an icy January morning, I have just set out, covering my head with an eco-fur coat, lining my legs and arms with three layers to try to resist the arctic current. The sun is shining, the thermometer reads -25° perceived. I have rented a flat near Riga station, not far from the large covered market and the Soviet television tower, the tallest building in the former Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic. I would like to reach the Laima factory on foot, braving the cold, at a brisk pace, in order to visit its museum, retracing the historical stages of the Latvian people through a haute chocolaterie route.
I already do this in part, crossing the district of the charming Latvian Jugendstil (fin de siecle artistic current) on the way, passing by the Corner House, former KGB headquarters, the terror building. I can barely take pictures. In five minutes at the most, my fingers uncovered by my gloves are in danger of freezing, “then how long will it take me to warm them up”? I wonder.
This part of the city is magnificent, I would like to stop and contemplate it on more than a few streets, but my body temperature is likely to drop quickly. Latvians walk briskly, their faces low, they interact very little, perhaps that is why it is difficult to have a word with them. In some IG accounts, Latvians justify their restraint precisely by the climate factor, they even say they can recognise tourists by the amount of layers in their clothing and the speed of their stride. Before arriving at the chocolate shop, in the hipster Miera Iela, I stop exhausted at the Rocket Bean Roastery, to warm up with a very long, steaming black coffee plus cinnamon roll. Will that be enough?
The welcome at the Laima location is delightful, and before I start I am offered some chocolates and a small glass of melted chocolate. Slurp! How did this oasis of happiness on the outskirts of Riga start, grow and survive to become a national story?
It all began in 1870, when entrepreneur Theodore Riegert founded the first chocolate factory in Riga. At the time, when Latvia was part of the Russian Empire, Riegert was one of those Baltics of Teutonic descent who had always occupied prestigious positions within the aristocracy and the imperial and military establishment. It was no coincidence that German remained the official language of the region until 1890. Riergert was Baltic-German just like the architect Mikhail Ėjzenštejn, father of the famous Soviet film director Sergej, a pivotal figure of the aforementioned Jugendstil, interpreter of the artistic-cultural ferment of the Latvian bell’epoque.
Riga was the empire’s third largest city in terms of industrial activity after Moscow and St. Petersburg, a port city, cosmopolitan, and once a member of the Hanseatic League, it provided the right multicultural environment and the commercial and international vocation to allow Riegert’s entrepreneurial idea to flourish. Then World War I broke out, which despite the interlude of German occupation following the surrender of Brest-Litovsk, finally led Latvia to independence. In 1921, six entrepreneurs founded the Makedonija chocolate factory in Riga. Five of them belonged to the 11% population of the Jewish religion that had come here mainly since the liberal interregnum of Tsar Alexander II (1855-1881), the sixth businessman was a Teutonic Baltic. They later renamed the company with a more evocative name that could interpret the fervent Latvian identity spirit born from the ashes of war, Laima, the Baltic goddess of fortune and fertility. The chocolate wrappers depicted scenes of bucolic life and cult subjects of ‘pagan’ and folkloric reminiscence.
After the looting during the war, Latvia’s industrial and manufacturing machine almost had to start from scratch. Laima quickly became one of the country’s leading enterprises, employing around 500 workers and entering foreign markets: Great Britain, South Africa, Holland, Morocco, France, Sweden, the United States. The oldest product in the Laima collection was launched at this time, Prozit, a series of chocolates filled with a variety of liqueurs (balsam in Latvian) that had traditionally been a local delicacy since the time of Catherine II the Great. In the magnificent 1930s, Laima’s graphic design interpreted the spirit of the times, creating advertising posters that sponsored the brand along with the most popular holiday destinations, first and foremost Jurmala.
With the advent of Nazism, trade began to be compromised, again. The port of Hamburg ceased to be the company’s main export hub, consumption declined, the Great Depression affected the country’s business, whose currency system, moreover, did not free itself from the gold standard until 1936, making Latvian export products too expensive. The population of the Jewish religion was again in danger in Latvia, after the 19th century pogroms, the escape during the First World War, now Nazism. It was at this time that the Fromchenko brothers, Latvian Jews, emigrated to Israel and founded the Elite Palestine Chocolate & Sweets Manufacturing Co. in 1933, the company that would become today’s retail giant Strauss Group, but that is another story.
In 1934, after the democratic blunder, Karlis Ulmanis dissolved the Latvian parliament, the Saeima, and established a dictatorship. The step from here to the nationalisation of the indebted Laima and Riegert chocolate factories was short. At this stage the two competing companies were merged, and a new historical moment began for both Latvia and the fantastic chocolate business, now state-owned, magnified by the slogan ‘Latvia to Latvians’. It was at this time that the Riegert clock took its current and notorious name of the Laima clock, yes, the chocolate tower that has played a particularly identifying role in the country’s historical memory ever since. In addition, the Serenade chocolate, one of today’s best sellers, is the iconic product invented accidentally during these years: legend has it that a Laima worker devised this new recipe as a pledge of his love, offering a box of chocolates to his beloved at the same time as he proposed marriage. A great marketing operation, the recipe remained a secret for many years.
However, Ulmanis’s honeymoon was short-lived, in 1939 Molotov and Ribbentrop decided that Latvia should re-enter the Soviet sphere of influence, which happened from the Red Army’s occupation in August 1940. The transition from Latvian-state to Soviet enterprise was timely. However, Laima did convert itself with great resilience into one of the excellences of Soviet confectionery, turning the Latvian symbols showed on packaging into Soviet symbols. Real socialism also impacted the chocolate designers, depicting working women and men, tovarishchy, the hammer and sickle, the red star. They reconverted production by interpreting new recipes. Laima’s Zephyr, taking an old recipe in vogue in the Russian Empire, became one of the sins of gluttony in the entire Soviet Union. In fact, zephyr is a more gelatinous version of meringue, composed of fruit puree, egg whites and pectin, covered or not with a layer of chocolate. Its name is inspired by the Greek wind god of the same name, due to its impalpable consistency. In my opinion, we are not talking about culinary gourmandise, but it seems that the product is still widely purchased in post-Soviet countries, by the nostalgic or not, despite the competition that has erupted with globalisation.
From 1991 onwards, Latvia became independent again, as did Laima, before being acquired by the current Norwegian fund. In 2004, the Baltic countries entered the European Single Market, today exporting to around 20 countries and producing up to 250 different references. The last room of the museum speaks of sustainability in the world of cocoa, in the spirit of the times, again.
The exceptional adaptability demonstrated by this brand, which has survived the countless economic and geopolitical shocks at the turn of the last two centuries, reinventing itself, interpreting the symbols and evolutions of the country, can only be metaphorically associated with the history of the Latvian people. Laima has branded Riga’s history, making it known as ‘the city of sweets’, infusing a delicious chocolate aroma into its industrial area, reassuring its population through that cute clock in the city centre, reminding Latvians of their national dignity.
Then I will try to reach a Lido before closing time, one of those Soviet-style self-services where I can stuff myself with sweet and savoury bliny, stuffed cabbage rolls, hot soups, various stews, grečka. I don’t even wonder what I’m ingesting anymore, I just know that I can’t get warm. But at least I have plundered the Laima’s retail shop, and I will have stocked up on chocolates for the whole trip. After all, the chocolate tower has taught these people that you can resist anything, frost, war, change. Well, I think she, tonight, will be waiting for me.
Your chocolate lover, C.
