On gherkins

If there is one vegetable I associate with Latvia, it is the gherkin. This is the story of what gherkins truly are, why Latvians pickle anything that remains still long enough, a landfill that has become a greenhouse for cucumbers, and where you can savour the finest gherkins in Rīga for yourself.

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Transcript

On gherkins

What on earth is a gherkin?

I’m standing in Āgenskalns Market in Rīga, a beautiful red-brick structure with ornate black metalwork. The downstairs area is filled with food producers. Many specialise in vegetables. One green vegetable dominates. It is cylindrical, about twenty centimetres long, with pimples on its surface. Piles of them are waiting for customers to buy a bagful to take home and preserve by pickling. These small cucumbers are known as gurķi in Latvian, gherkins in Britain, and pickles in America and Canada. 

The market sellers also display rows of jars filled with already pickled cucumbers: tiny knobbly cubes, larger dill pickles, some tinged beetroot-red, others almost luminous green. The stallholder offers me a thick slice on a toothpick. I bite in – a loud crunch, and taste of garlic, dill, black pepper, maybe even a hint of horseradish.

In England, a gherkin is usually just an afterthought – something slightly sad floating inside a burger. I recall that a few years ago, McDonald’s even ran adverts mocking the gherkin, asking, “Gherkins in or out?” on the posters. In Latvia, however, the gherkin is a star. Somewhere along the way, the humble cucumber appears to have earned an upgrade – it becomes a gherkin, and in Latvia, that elevates it to a star of the plate, not just a garnish.

Join me as we discover what a gherkin truly is, why Latvians pickle almost anything that remains still long enough, a landfill that has become a greenhouse for cucumbers, and where you can savour the finest gherkins in Rīga yourself.

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How do Latvians pickle cucumbers?

Botanically, a cucumber is a fruit because it develops from the flower of the plant and contains seeds used for reproduction. In everyday cooking terms, it’s usually regarded as a vegetable, since it’s used in savoury dishes like salads and pickles rather than sweet ones. Many familiar “vegetables”, such as tomatoes, courgettes, aubergines, and pumpkins, are actually botanical fruits because they develop from the flower and contain seeds.

 A gherkin is a small cucumber, usually harvested young and preserved in brine or vinegar with spices. Look at a Latvian’s shopping list, and you’ll see lauku gurķi (country cucumbers) or mazsālīti gurķi (lightly salted cucumbers) – these are the crunchy, gherkin‑style stars that appear on the Maxima supermarket bestseller list. These gherkins are among the top five vegetables nationally, alongside potatoes, onions, carrots, and tomatoes.

If you follow a Latvian grandmother into her kitchen at the end of July, you quickly discover that pickling isn’t just a side hobby. It’s a seasonal tradition, and once it was a necessity. There are two main methods our grandmother might use for pickling. The first is salt fermentation. Small cucumbers are packed into jars with dill stalks, garlic, blackcurrant or cherry leaves, or horseradish, then covered with salted water. Left under weight, they ferment slightly, developing a sour tang rather than the sharp spike of vinegar. My wife’s favourite! The second method is to preserve small cucumbers for winter using vinegar. A brine is made with vinegar, sugar, salt, mustard or peppercorns, and a bay leaf. The cucumbers are placed in a large jar, and the whole mixture is pasteurised and stored in a cool place to enjoy during the cold winter months.

One Latvian food writer joked that Latvians “would pickle, marinate or otherwise preserve anything that grows (or breathes)” and that small, crunchy gherkins barely survive a day once the marinade cools.

So how did these tiny, crunchy time‑capsules of summer become such a fixture here in Latvia?

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A short history of gherkins in Latvia

It is claimed that pickled cucumbers were first developed for workers building the Great Wall of China in the 7th century BC, although archaeologists believe ancient Mesopotamians pickled food as far back as 2400 BC. Historians have documented awareness of the nutritional benefits of pickled food thousands of years ago, as well as their perceived beauty benefits — Queen Cleopatra of Egypt credited the pickled cucumbers in her diet with contributing to her health and legendary beauty. During World War II, the U.S. government recognised the importance of pickled cucumbers in soldiers' diets and allocated 40% of the nation's pickle production to the armed forces. 

In the Baltic climate, preserving vegetables was a survival strategy long before refrigerators: salting, fermenting, and pickling kept food safe through the long winters. Cucumbers became a natural choice for this, as they are easy to grow in short summers and respond well to salting and fermentation. The glass jar in the cellar isn’t just food; it’s a kind of security blanket for a country that knows winter all too well.

In historical Livonian cuisine, salted cucumbers in jars with dill, currant leaves, horseradish, and garlic were common. Somewhere between Livonian farms and the brick tenements of Rīga, cucumbers shifted from a simple field snack to a cultural icon. Modern trade figures show that fresh and chilled cucumbers and gherkins are recognised as significant agricultural products for Latvia, exported across Europe. A Latvian government food industry brochure cheerfully states that “the pickled gherkin is almost synonymous with Eastern Europe – and of course Latvia has its own, and will keep producing them for years to come”.

I did some research but couldn’t find any well‑documented classical Latvian folk tales that specifically hinge on gherkins. Exploring the extensive Latvian folklore collections, you encounter gods, wolves, witches, rye bread, beer… but rarely a hero whose fate depends on a jar of gherkins. Instead, the humble cucumber quietly features at every feast, every funeral table, every name‑day. It forms part of the everyday supporting cast.

It's hard to think of an occasion when a plate of sliced gherkins isn't part of the spread for guests, alongside other traditional Latvian staples like rye bread, cheese, pork, perhaps smoked fish, and a few salads that probably also include, you guessed it, gherkins!

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From rubbish heap to cucumber heaven

If I told you that some of Latvia’s most famous and delicious cucumbers grow on top of a rubbish dump, you’d probably think I’d been drinking homemade vodka. But just outside Rīga, at Getliņi, that’s exactly what’s happening.

Imagine the scene there. Outside, a massive hill of compacted rubbish and heavy machinery dominates. Inside is a series of enormous greenhouses with rows of glowing vines, artificial sun, and perfect tomatoes and cucumbers. Picture the smell: a faint landfill scent wafting in from outside, overpowered by the humid, green aroma of tomato leaves inside. You can always tell whether a tomato will be tasty by its smell - a strong scent indicates flavour, while no scent suggests a watery, tasteless tomato. Try sniffing when buying!

Getliņi EKO is the main landfill in the Rīga region and also home to large, modern greenhouses that grow tomatoes and cucumbers. They capture gas from decomposing waste to produce heat and electricity for the greenhouses. In 2017, Getliņi opened a third greenhouse dedicated entirely to cucumbers, using high‑tech systems and, notably, the first greenhouse in the world to rely solely on LED lighting for cultivation.

Tomatoes and cucumbers are cultivated at Getliņi even during the dark Baltic winter, just as we are experiencing now with temperatures dropping to minus 20 degrees Celsius. Latvian television has filmed winter visits to greenhouses and found tomatoes planted in August still producing until the following summer.

Getliņi’s tomatoes and cucumbers end up in the main supermarket chains in Rīga. They are easy to spot because they have a small “Getliņi” sticker on them. They are also slightly more expensive than mass-produced tomatoes from Spain and other countries, but the small price difference is worth it for the wonderful taste (as well as reduced environmental harm and support for local producers). Someone buying a jar of local gherkins or eating a fresh cucumber in January may be indirectly tasting produce grown using captured landfill gas.

For over ten years, Getliņi has believed that Latvians are true fans of tomatoes and cucumbers, and it even hosts chef demonstrations and operates a shop dedicated to selling these vegetables. The Getliņi Tomato and Cucumber Festival is an annual event in May where visitors can explore greenhouses, take a bus tour around the landfill, climb the waste hill, and, of course, sample tomato and cucumber dishes prepared by chefs. Renowned Latvian chefs such as Mārtiņš Sirmais have created dishes celebrating tomatoes and cucumbers for festival visitors, demonstrating how high‑end cuisine embraces these everyday vegetables.

My son visited Getliņi on a school trip to learn more about how the plant operates. He returned home with a goody bag containing cucumbers and tomatoes!

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Where to taste and buy gherkins in Rīga

So, thinking about delicious gherkins has whetted your appetite. You are in Rīga and fancy trying these local delicacies. Where to go? A short tour.

First, visit the Central Market (Centrāltirgus). It is situated near the old town of Rīga. Listen to my podcast episode ‘On food and drink’ to learn about its history. Walk through the old Zeppelin hangar pavilions, where you will see barrels and jars of gherkins and cucumbers. Find a stall selling mazsālīti gurķi – lightly salted cucumbers. Ask for a taste; they rarely refuse. And if you enjoy it, buy more!

Next hop on the bus to Āgenskalns Market. Just five minutes away. This is my favourite market, and it has a wonderful cafe-gallery upstairs with the best pizza in Latvia. Downstairs is the market. Āgenskalns is trendier and hipper than the more Russian Central Market, but it remains authentic. There are stalls with farm‑direct produce, jars of pickled cucumbers and mixed pickles, sourdough bread, and a tip if you like lamb - which can be hard to find in a country of pork eaters - the best lamb seller in Latvia has a stall there. There is something really pleasant about eating pizza and drinking craft beer while looking down on the market stalls below with their brightly coloured produce.

By now, you may want to sit down and eat a more substantial meal. Then try one of Rīga’s many cafés and bistros, and look for zemnieku brokastis (farmer’s breakfast) on the menu. It includes fried potatoes, bacon, chopped gherkins, cottage cheese, and tomatoes. Gherkins are elevated from a cellar jar to the brunch plate!

And finally, you might want to snack on gherkins in your accommodation. All the large supermarkets, such as Rimi and Maxima, sell jars of gherkins. In summer, they have big wooden barrels for you to fish out your salt-fermented gherkins. I am not allowed to buy gherkins for my wife in case I buy the wrong ones. Latvians can be very particular about gherkins, especially the difference between those pickled in vinegar or fermented in a salty brine.

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Why Latvians love gherkins

From landfill greenhouses to brunch plates, the cucumber – once pickled into a gherkin – is one of the quiet workhorses of the Latvian kitchen. In Britain, we debate whether a gherkin belongs in a burger. In Latvia, nobody argues whether a gherkin belongs on the table. It simply does.

The climate and long winters might be why people preserved summer by pickling produce. However, in an age when we can buy almost anything at any time of the year from supermarkets, transported from different parts of the world, it is the taste that keeps gherkins so popular in Latvia. That balance of salt, sourness with a hint of sweetness, and dill that cuts through dishes of rich pork and heavy potatoes.

Latvians can also be proud of the Getliņi landfill that heats greenhouses, festivals that celebrate tomatoes and cucumbers, and supermarket data quietly confirming that ‘country cucumbers’ are among Latvia’s favourite vegetables. My wife always keeps a jar of gherkins in the fridge. Every day, she adds a couple of these vegetables to her dinner plate. She rarely shares them!

Labu apetīti.

[Illustration of a gherkin by An Englishman in Latvia. Music by Anastasia Chubarova from Pixabay]