On the evening of June 23rd, a distinct odor permeates the Lithuanian countryside; it is not woodsmoke from the bonfires, though that is a contributing factor. Fish, including bream, perch, and occasionally a stray salmon if the river has been abundant, are cured slowly over alder coals in improvised smokers that appear to have not changed much since the Teutonic Knights were grumbling about pagan rites in 1372. The earliest known reference to what Lithuanians now refer to as Joninės, or occasionally Rasos, is that complaint, which was documented by a chronicler by the name of Hermann von Wartberge. It’s the kind of detail that gives a centuries-old celebration a strangely intimate feel, as if it’s still up for debate.
Joninės falls on the summer solstice, which is the shortest night of the year. Although it is officially St. John’s Eve, it is wrapped in just enough Christian veneer to have survived the various regimes that attempted to eradicate it. However, the majority of it is still pagan underneath that façade. For good fortune, people jump bonfires. To predict who will marry whom, flower crowns are woven and floated downriver. There is a midnight quest for a legendary fern flower that, depending on who you ask, either reveals your fate or just provides a reason for couples to stroll through the woods together. The contradiction doesn’t seem to bother anyone too much.
The food, particularly the fish that is smoked over an open flame and served on long communal tables with dark rye bread and cepelinai dumplings, is less well-known, at least outside of Lithuania. It’s not a side dish. The smoking process can begin hours before the bonfires are lit at a proper riverside Jonin’s gathering, and the fish turns into something of a centerpiece that is passed around picnic-style while someone’s grandmother demands that everyone try the herring.
It’s difficult to ignore the fact that American food media frequently focuses on this particular detail when it eventually comes to light. Over the past year or so, a steady stream of travel writers and chefs have begun posting about smoked fish curing over riverbank coals as if they had discovered a secret. Initially drawn by Vilnius’s reputation as one of Europe’s greenest capitals, then by something more specific. They had, in a way. Lithuania doesn’t put much effort into marketing this.
Jonin’s influencer campaign and glossy fish-festival branding are absent. Through word-of-mouth and a few viral videos of fishermen named Julius or Česiukas hauling perch out of the Neris while someone’s aunt fans the smoker nearby, the discovery appears to be occurring almost by accident.
A wider appetite is also at work. Samanė, a midsummer ritual centered around foraged herbs, riverbank smokehouses, and homemade moonshine, satisfies every requirement on the list of “authentic” food experiences that Americans have been pursuing for the past few years without the help of tourism boards. Vilnius’s growing flight connections, which now reach over sixty destinations, indicate that the infrastructure is quietly catching up to investors in Baltic tourism’s belief that this kind of low-key authenticity is the next thing travelers want.
It remains to be seen if this becomes a true American travel trend or merely another transient food-media moment. Since before anyone was counting, Lithuania has been doing this, essentially unchanged. In Verkiai Regional Park and along the Curonian Lagoon, bonfires are still lit. The fish is still smoked over the same type of wood in the same method. It’s easy to understand why people continue to think about the tradition once they finally notice the scent emanating from those riverbank coals, even though there is a sense that it doesn’t really need American attention to survive—it’s survived worse.
