It is not possible to wander around Helsinki without happening upon some memento of Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim. All over the open, airy capital of Finland are recurring images in bronze and stone, street signs, photographs, and etchings of his austere mustached face — lest any resident forget, or any traveler fail to inquire about, this quintessential European aristocrat who was, in the early part of this century, field marshal of Finland's armies, the country's regent, architect of its independence, and president of its first republic.

Through the heart of Helsinki runs a broad boulevard and tram route, and its name is Mannerheimintie. In front of the city's main post office, just off Mannerheimintie, is an equestrian statue of Mannerheim, several times larger than life-sized. On a bluff overlooking Helsinki's harbor, on an arc of a street called Kalliolinnantie, is the Mannerheim Museum, once its namesake's home, which draws visitors through the public life of this remarkable man who is without question Finland's national hero, the beloved "Marski."

Born in 1867, Mannerheim was of Finnish-Swedish-Dutch ancestry and grew up in Finland, then part of Russia. He was commissioned in the czarist cavalry after graduating from the elite Nikolai Cavalry Academy and served in the Russo-Japanese War. From 1906 to 1908, on an information-gathering assignment from the Russian General Staff, he journeyed on horseback eight thousand miles through the northwest frontier of Turkistan to China, all the way to Peking. This trek is preserved in a multitude of photographs, many of which are displayed in his house, along with rich carpets, silks, tapestries, porcelains, gold tiles from the mosque of Samarkand, and Tibetan Buddhas, truly an awesome display of the breadth of one man's desire to collect.

Mannerheim rose to become major general; then cavalry brigade commander; and, in World War I, lieutenant general and then corps commander. But after the outbreak of the Russian Revolution in 1917 he returned to Finland, there to be appointed commander-in-chief of the so-called White Army in his country's civil war, a struggle that led to Finland's independence from Russia. Mannerheim was the nation's regent in 1918-19, was made field marshal in 1933; and became supreme commander of its defense forces with the onset of World War II. At the age of seventy-two he commanded the Finnish forces that twice in 1939 repelled massive Russian attempts to invade Finland in what the Finns call the Winter War; and at seventy-five, in 1942 he was named marshal of Finland. From 1944 to 1946 he served as Finland's president. He died in 1951, by all accounts a stern, proper, unyielding man, a rider and a hunter, until the end.

On my most recent stay in Helsinki I went to his house-museum for the third time, to spend a couple of hours simply musing upon and marveling at his life; to admire his huge roll top desk and his library filled with books in Russian, German, French, Swedish, English, and of course Finnish, all languages he spoke fluently; to appreciate his aesthetic eye, which could evidently spot the artistry and integrity of a carved ivory miniature, a small gilded Buddha, a patch of woven carpet, or a desert tent. Mannerheim was nevertheless an ascetic man, it is said, a disciplinarian and a hero in every sense of that overused word. Visit him in Helsinki.

Perhaps eat with him as well. In his later years, Mannerheim would often dine at the restaurant Savoy, which opened on what happened to be his seventieth birthday, June 4, 1937, and has remained unchanged for more than a half century. This extraordinarily beautiful restaurant — with its hedged terrace jutting out over the trees lining Helsinki's Esplanade shopping street — was the creation of Alvar Aalto, surely one of Finland's, and Europe's most influential and honored architects and designers. The décor is of carved and rounded, stained and polished, birch; the seating padded with black leather. Ceilings and walls are of olive-wood-grained blocks. Aalto's free-form vases, know throughout the world, adorn the restaurant. The lighting fixtures, the serving stations, even the coat racks are Aalto's — the same as when the Savoy opened.

At the far end of the restaurant is a corner banquette, and on the two walls that meet there is an etching of Marshal Mannerheim, in full medal, and a small bronze plaque identifying the bench as his customary luncheon seat. To be sure, was my reply when I was asked if I would care to sit in the marshal's seat for lunch. And, I added, I would like as well to have the dishes that Mannerheim would have eaten then.

"Agreed," said Gero Hottinger, the Savoy's chef de cuisine. "Starting with a schnapps, the way Marski had it." He explained that the first time the field marshal came in, the story goes, he asked for a schnapps, "but he didn't like what was served. So several schnapps were tested and mixed, including one we now call Marskin ryyppy," or Marshal's schnapps, to create a taste he would like. Also, he preferred his schnapps very cold and insisted that the glasses be frozen. If not, he would send them back to the kitchen. And the glasses had to filled until the schnapps rose above the brims. He had a steady hand and wanted to test all other hands." Like many other things in Finland, this Marskin ryyppy is often called simply Marski.

I told chef Hottinger that I possessed a steady hand and also preferred my schnapps cold. A frozen glass arrived, with schnapps beading the brim. I brought it to my lips and drank, without spillage.

"Good," chef Hottinger smiled. "The marshal's memory approves."

Mannerheim was an unwavering creature of habit, the chef said, noting that the marshal's breakfast, first served to him by his mother, never changed during his lifetime. "Always he had two soft-boiled eggs in a glass, coffee with milk, and toasted homemade bread with marmalade. And his newspaper. For lunch it was vorschmack."

Vorschmack was either a Mannerheim creation "or it was brought from the Russian court — we are not sure," Hottinger said Lamb and beef are roasted with onions. When done the meats and onions are ground together with salted herring and anchovies. The mixture is heated with a bit of water and garlic until it boils. Then it is allowed to simmer for many hours. Gravy from the roast is added, along with black pepper, and the vorschmack is ready to be served. It comes in a mass, quite like a hash, with smetana (sour cream), the way Mannerheim enjoyed it, and with potatoes.

My vorschmack was brought as I sat in the marshal's seat. I tasted it and decided that Mannerheim had known his food as well as his battle tactics. The wonderful, pungent preparation, redolent of its ingredients, was a satisfying dish, but chef Hottinger insisted that Marski always ate it as a first course, and therefore I was obliged to have some of the other Mannerheim favorites. Following the vorschmack came a fillet of pike perch, grilled, brushed with butter, and served with grated horseradish — marvelous, direct food. As was a dessert of apple baked in a ramekin with vanilla sauce and a touch of Madeira. "We call it Marski's apple pie," said the chef.

I await with eagerness my next visit to Helsinki, so once again I may share a vorschmack with the marshal of all Finland.

Around our wooden benches were beds of chives and oregano, four kinds of mint and two of tarragon, thyme, lovage, lavender, dill, and the sorrel that in Finland is called "salt grass." On a grill nearby lay a fat wild salmon and a sea bream (fish the Finns call meri-lohi and lahna respectively), cooking gently. Salt had been rubbed into the fish three hours earlier, and the aromatic smoke enveloping them came from the alder wood chips burning beneath them and the cubes of sugar that had been dropped into the chips and filtered through the matted layers of chervil on which the fish rested. We were in the fragrant backyard of Kati Nappa, who is best described as Finland's Julia Child.

Each morning in Helsinki, Kati conducts a televised cookery program, "Katin Keitti," or "Kati's Kitchen," demonstrating on Good Morning Finland the many ways to prepare Finland's indigenous meats, the exquisite fish that swim in native lakes and rivers, and the fine vegetables and fruits of the country. My wife, Eileen Yin-Fei Lo, had earlier in the day been a guest on "Katin Keitti" and had steamed a Finnish salmon trout in the Chinese manner, with spring onions, ginger, shredded pork, and sesame oil, as Kati translated her English commentary into Finnish for the television audience. It was after this that she invited us for lunch at her home in Espoo.

Espoo is a rustic suburb of Helsinki, about ten miles west of the Finnish capital, and we had arrived to the aromas of Kati's herb gardens, of fish grilling — courtesy of Pertti, Kati's husband — and of morels and nettles steaming together on a stove. Pertti is a city planner who took an old rooming house, now their home, and personally finished its interior with varnished birch and pine slats; built a small sauna, the efficacy of which I can confirm, and added a glass-enclosed porch, where he placed Kati's homemade benches and her grandmother's rattan chair.

The house, the herbs, and the earthen terraces of the grounds are shaded by tall oaks, firs, and birches. It was in this mottled light that we sat and smelled and watched as Kati cut up tomatoes and cucumbers into a bowl, pulled sprigs of chervil and oregano from a garden bed and dropped them in, sprinkled with salt and pepper, added olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and mixed our salad. When Pertti pronounced the fish done, we went to the porch, where on the table Kati had already set steamed yellow potatoes dressed with feathery dill along with the morels and nettles tossed with butter and nutmeg. "We have so many nettles we have to eat them or we will be overrun," Kati said.

We lifted sections of the fish onto our plates. It was absolutely moist and magnificent, tasting of salt and smoke, and perfectly matched with the accompaniments. We drank icy bottles of Alsace wine with the meal. "Good?" asked Kati.

"Very," I replied. "Very, very."

"Thank Pertti."

"Thank you Pertti."

Then Kati brought out her kakku. A kakku is a popular cake. Kai's variation of it was basically a layer of baked meringue spread with créme fraîche, this in turn covered with a thick layer of cooked rhubarb, and finally topped by more meringue, dusted with crushed almonds. "I usually do it with berries, but I wanted to try the rhubarb, which I boiled with sugar. Do you like it?" Kati asked.

"I am smitten," I replied.

Coffee followed, then a drop of brandy, and we sat under the trees for a while, enjoying another afternoon in Finland.

Kynsilaukka is a most unusual restaurant in Helsinki. It would be, as a matter of fact, odd anywhere, for kynsilaukka is an old Finnish word for garlic, and that is what this small establishment is all about. Virtually every dish from its kitchen contains garlic in some form, and in varying amounts, a circumstance, that pleases greatly patrons such as myself. The menu is adorned with bits of romance and humor for those who require enticement. Thus such preparations as "heart sweet," "passion forever," "secret desire," "sonata for whitefish," and "flirting chicken" lure the reluctant.

Leif Lunderstrom, a fiercely dedicated gastronome introduced me one evening to Kynsilaukka, located on a side street called Fredrikinkatu, or Freda for short. He contended that the place is significant to Finland's culinary posture as saunalenkki — a pork sausage one eats while in the sauna or dressing room after grilling it in a foil bag on the sauna coals (a food to which Leif is addicted).

So off we went to Kynsilaukka. We sat down, and three crocks of condiments were set before us — puréed garlic, garlic-flavored mustard, and pickled garlic cloves — to enjoy with bread and a drink, concocted by the restaurant, of garlic-flavored schnapps, and cold beer. It was explained by the chef, Hannu Lautamßki, that, at Kynsilaukka, garlic finds its way into everything from fish soup to chicken with raspberry cream sauce (the "flirting chicken.") "You must taste my garlic jam," he said.

Later perhaps.

For our first courses we were served liemitietty, or "heart sweet" (a cream soup with garlic) and loistavat lätyt, or "fantastic small crêpes" (filled with a salad of diced mushrooms and with sour cream garlic sauce). All good. "How about some 'overwhelming passion'?" Leif asked.

I could use some of that, I agreed.

The ikuinen intohimo ("passion forever") was a gratin of beef and mushrooms with, of course, garlic, crushed. Would it, I asked, induce passion? It would not, but it tasted just fine. Next came salahalu, or "secret desire," slices from a loaf of salmon and pike perch with minced garlic. Why "secret desire?" chef Lautamäki was asked. "I am not responsible for the names, only the cooking," he said. Aha. Siikasonaatti, or "sonata for whitefish," a braised whitefish dotted with garlic slices, was next. "Enough?" Leif asked.

"I guess."

"Dessert?"

"Do they have garlic ice cream?" I asked.

No, the chef said, but his garlic jam was good on top of ice cream with cloudberries. He urged me to try it.

I did. It was good, and I wondered as I ate it how it might taste with scones.

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