Before getting into window-shopping mode, though, I needed to brush up on Finnish architecture and design. Zipping up my coat, I headed toward the so-called Design District from historic Senate Square. My first stop was the Museum of Finnish Architecture, where a third-floor exhibition chronicles the evolution of the country’s building styles from 1900 to 1970, paying particular attention to the sleek modernism of Eliel Saarinen and Alvar Aalto, who are revered like national heroes in Finland. From there, I made my way next door to the Design Museum via a recently installed wooden pavilion of crisscrossing beams, crafted by Aalto University students as a showcase of sustainable architecture; it also functions as a café and events space. And in the museum itself I spent a happy hour admiring a broad cross-section of Finnish industrial design, from Elsa Arokallio chairs and cubical teapots by Rolf Sinnemark to a 1960 moped by Richard Lindh and the original phone designed by Panu Johansson for Nokia.
Concentrated in the central neighborhoods of Kaartinkaupunki, Ullanlinna, and Punavuori, the Design District encircles Diana Park, where dozens of shops and studios stand alongside trendy cafés, art dealers, goldsmiths, and jewelers. Uudenmaankatu (katu means “street”) alone contains more than 20 creative businesses in a stretch of just three blocks; among them is the flagship store of local fashion brand Ivana Helsinki, stocked with boldly printed tunics and dresses. A few blocks away at the Artek furniture showroom, I stopped to admire the sleek, curving lines of an Alvar Aatlo–designed Paimio armchair—a 1930s Finnish classic that never went out of production—and lingered in front of a shelf of gorgeous glassware by Aino Aatlo, the great architect’s wife. One set of wine goblets was particularly mesmerizing: a single air bubble hung suspended inside each of their stems.
As the setting sun illuminated the twin spires of St. John’s Church, I turned on to Kor-keavuorenkatu and proceeded to search for number 27, the address of Juuri. The restaurant is known for its sapas, seasonal tapas-like dishes such as smoked reindeer tongue and sausages with vodka-spiked mustard that tap the bounty of Finland’s forests and seas. Juuri—the name means “root”—also serves some intriguing cocktails, including an aperitif made of buckthorn liqueur muddled with apple juice, vanilla vodka, and a cranberry garnish. It was delicious.
What impressed me most, however, was dessert: a slice of carrot cake. Decorated with a twist of white frosting, the moist rectangle was plated atop a bed of candied carrots in a tangy orange reduction alongside a perfectly round scoop of vanilla ice cream, from which a single leaf of red lettuce protruded. Part dessert, part salad, it looked entirely appetizing, strange though it was to behold. Here was a chef with a strong sense of design.
Leaning in to the table to take my first bite, I remembered something else Visuri had said, a remark about Finns’ self-assuredness and national character.
“We’re a little bit crazy,” she told me. “When we have an idea, we just do it.”
