When I was working in the Southeast, I developed a good working relationship with an eccentric photographer in our paper. During our visit to a small municipality called Luumäki, we started discussing a small tavern in a small village called Jurvala close to the centre.
Back in 2011 the place was an absolute blast from the past with its pricing: a wiener schnizel at eight euros. And it was a blast from the past as a place, too. It was one of the old fashioned petrol station bars, where the smell of grease from the cooking would be stuck on you hours after you left the space.
We went as far as to actually agree on a day off to drive to this village dozens of kilometres away just to have our schnitzels. That was the thing. We ate, we enjoyed, we stank of grease. And we had a good time.
In 2016 somebody set fire on the tavern, which pretty much burned down. As I was driving through, I had to go see, what was left.
Well, nothing. The tavern stood right in the gravel pit on the opposite side of the road. I later learned that the building was an old bank. That was a sad ending to it.