Outside, scores of vendors offer all manner of local, foraged berries: red and black currants, lingonberries, cranberries, blackberries, and sea buckthorn, tiny, yellow berries that are deliciously sour. A woman spreads a blanket with chanterelles she harvested from the woods on the city's outskirts. We enter the fish pavilion, where the riches of Latvia's lakes, rivers, and ocean waters flop in shallow tubs: herring, eels, lamprey, hake, pike, and carp, which my great-grandmother used for gefilte fish. We try smoked smelts that look as though they've been dipped in gold and that taste of salt and smoke. In the meat pavilion, there are rows of rosy pink pork loin, used to make schnitzel-like karbonāde; ham hocks that have been smoked over alder wood; and speķis, cured and smoked lard, that melts on our tongues. Best of all is the dairy pavilion, where we find a food that my father has missed for years—a sweet, baked cheese made from jaunpiens, the milk of a cow that has just given birth—as well as an amazing array of the fresh cheeses and milk drinks, both cultured and curdled, that are a staple of the Latvian table. In another part of the market, we encounter the country's famed breads: rudzu salāskā maize, a wheat-rye mix with a dark brown crust and a pale, caraway seed—speckled crumb, and the one I like best for its deep, fermented flavor, a moist and dense loaf called klona maize. As we shop and taste, I imagine my great-grandmother walking through this place, her heels clacking on the cement floor, appraising the foods she would buy and prepare for her family.