A founder of the "Litviny" restaurant chain approached us with an idea to create a unique place that would concentrate all the main ideas and philosophy of authentic Belarusian cuisine. A place where the brand's DNA would be almost readable from the entrance, allowing a guest to make a leap in time and space, forgetting which century they are in.
We were enchanted by this idea and, of course, immediately began seeking inspiration in historical publications, travels across the country, and the landscapes of our native land.
The premises selected were unusual, with their own history and strong Constructivist roots—this was the very "Factory-Kitchen" designed by Gruber, an architectural monument from 1936. The wild mix of past and present became that very bridge-transition between eras destined to meet within a single space.
The culinary philosophy of "Litviny" is not merely a reflection of the past, but a new vision of old traditions. Recipes that have passed through time have been reborn in the present to maximally reveal and manifest the true flavor and new nuances of familiar ingredients. A kind of complex composition of simple, familiar notes. A sound that is native, yet innovative.
The interior had to carry and develop this idea further. We strove to find the imagery, sources, identity. What is native, understandable, dynamic, and resonant for us? How to find the form without losing its soul?
During another journey, we saw a herd of wild horses grazing freely. This image instantly captivated our souls. The horse. Throughout time, it has been everything: the support of the peasant and the pride of the nobleman, a powerful animal and a hunter's aid, a companion on the road and a symbol of a solitary path. It is our true connection to the land, to strength, to freedom.
We were helped to find the necessary lines by a wonderful artist from Grodno, Veranika Hanchar. With her deft touch, the central part of the concept was born—the main point and foundation—a 3-meter-high art object, around which we continued to develop our ideas further.
We received premises that already had finishes: tiles, plaster, and a separate kitchen area. Far from everything suited stylistically. However, the opening was planned for the shortest possible timeframe, which became a star-marked task. What we could—we demolished, some things we embellished, and then we added our own dominant, new element.
The central part of the floor was occupied by outdated octagonal tiles (octagons). We got rid of them. In their place, a jewel-like insert emerged: in the breccia technique, pieces of real stone were chaotically scattered across the floor and fixed with cement mortar. They are like hoofprints on the ground, or old cobblestones clattered upon by hooves and carts. This is not just a visual embodiment; together with the horses, it resonated: we hear the heavy, measured clatter of horseshoes on stone, striking the memory.
We took another powerful code—the swamp. More than 40 terms in our language—this is not just a vocabulary, it's a philosophy full of mysticism. We brought it into the restroom interior, not literally, but as a state: a mirror shrouded in fog, barely wiped by hand; calm, deep shades of green and gray; water-worn stones; a feeling of humid air and silence where thoughts are born, a place for personal reflection.
What other images are familiar to every Belarusian? Obviously—the fluffy clouds of storks' nests. The nest is not just an image of home; it is an image of lineage, continuity, the connection of generations woven year after year. They can be seen not only on a pole or a roof; it's a vivid and understandable symbol. We independently arranged the branches above the bar to preserve the natural chaos as much as possible.
The last, but no less important image—the log house, wood. It's like ancient canvases: with nicks, rough, covered in the gray patina of time, twisted by history. The wooden walls remember many generations and have much to tell.
An aged mirror placed between wooden beams shines like boundless blue lakes seen through an old fence.
We also incorporated traditional patterns, assembled from identical wooden modules.
This simplicity and brutalism unintentionally coincide with the delicate, handcrafted pattern of embroidered rushnyks, homespun runners and rugs, which grandmothers would lay on the floor, use as bedspreads, or hang on walls around icons, making a simple house cozy and unique. It is precisely this contrast that creates the distinctiveness: the harsh, masculine energy of wood, chains, and rusty metal meets the tender, feminine energy of handcrafted work.
And all this is bound, fused together, like a symbolic skeleton—brutal, solid metal that remembers the clang of a hammer and the heat of furnaces. It is the framework, it is the strength, it is the durability. It is what supports both the nest on the pole, and the log walls, and this entire complex structure of memory.
"Litviny" is not just a restaurant, but a slice of time translated into the language of modern design. Flavors, imagery, visual language—all of this resonates with our collective memory. And we immediately feel the power and strength of our kin.
