AND WHAT SHALL WE EAT?

Eons ago as a child I had watched bemusedly as my father unwrapped some small leafy parcels. He assured us that we were in for a delicious treat. The tiny rather misshapen squares with wrinkled, burnt and slightly blackened surface didn't look appealing at all. Each packet contained a piece of fish. My father then squeezed a drop or two of lemon juice and popped one into his mouth making a smacking noise. It was sometime quite before with a bit trepidation I tore a tiny morsel and put it into my mouth. It triggered off a lifetime addiction. The packets had come from Karbi Anglong in Assam where it was quite a common way of cooking fish in the villages. The process was simple - clean and cut into pieces the fresh catch of the day, season with salt and wrap each piece in a banana leaf square and  put them all in a previously dug pit where some wood were burnt after removing the embers, cover the parcels, ply the embers on top, cover with the dugout earth. After an hour or so, take them out. Simple but sublime.  

Eons later and thousands of kilometres away in the sunny island of Bornhom, Denmark, the moment came gushing back before the platter of smoked fish at the Sveneke Rogeri. The age old culinary art of smoking fish is said to have been introduced to the island by Scottish sailors centuries ago and the smokehouses basically function from April/May to October. The Sveneke Rogeri with its black and white facade including the five chimneys lay next to the blazing blue Baltic sea with both indoor and outdoor sittings. It was being managed efficiently by two young women - one married and one with a partner, I didn't probe, they told us - with much bantering and laughter. The place they said was famous for its smoked herring  and there was even a big poster showing the best way of having it and so herring it was. I however have a thing going for salmon. The herring had been smoked for five hours and the salmon for a whole nine! It was a meal that reconfirmed that it's not the frills and fancies that one adds to ingredients but respecting its intrinsic essence and letting its natural taste come out that makes a great dish.  It was the  wholesome goodness of the sea products and the subtle aroma of the wood chips used to smoke them. In some seasons life can often be a sea song.

The next day and it was a smokehouse again, this time the Nordbornholm Rogeri, a more spacious one right next to the sea again with both indoor and outdoor seating. The buffet it was this time and with gluttony holding sway it was bingeing to the extreme. To the saying that goes don't judge a book by its cover, I would like to add don't let out exasperated sighs and sardonically raise eyebrows when someone sits before a plate that maybe visually putting off. It was a feast all right with everything from crabs to prawns to lobsters to salmon and more salmon dishes of every kind. He, of course, balanced out my lack of grace, relishing one dish before going on to the other. 

 

Good food is the family obsession, complete with bucket lists. Period. If it was to be Copenhagen, it had to be Noma. But alas, Noma said no-go despite the attempt to get reservations a couple of months in advance.  If Noma said no-no then what about Kadeau.  Well they didn't laugh at us is all I can say. Maybe there would be a cancellation, maybe some table wouldn't turn up. Ah, if cravings were horses...the first evening itself we decided to take a try. The giant wooden gate did open when we rang the tiny discreet bell but sigh. Must have been the crestfallen faces, they directed us to Barr on the waterfront that specialised in Northern Europe dishes. Sometimes prayers are answered and we  managed to cajole a table. Rustic elegant predominantly wooden look,  a bar that seemed to go on and on, a dining section overlooking the waterfront and every table and bar stool packed to the gills.  One large group, two or three tables put together provided much amusement. The party seemed to be either colleagues or work partners or whatever and as the evening inched, killer stilettos were kicked aside, sophisticated hair-dos came apart or went askew, formal ties were discarded while the clinking of glasses and the decibel level rocketed. The cheerful staff were quite chatty and helpful with guiding us. It was a spread of grilled mackerel, pork schnitzel served with anchovies and caper sauce, asparagus and grated horseradish with a dash of whipped cream and a giant hassselback with with golden burnt butter sauce. Among the desserts which included gooseberry mousse and goat cheese with apricots, came two small earthenware  bowls which sans the pistachio slivers and saffron strands could have been our own phirni!That, I was informed, was an old North European dish.

It is no secret that markets and I have a lifelong affair going on and wherever we go, a market visit is a must. And when it is a super market then all the more exciting. The huge Torvehallerne supermarket in Copenhagen with more than 60 stalls selling everything from meat, fish, cheese, tea, coffee, cakes, pastries and what-have-you also has quite a number of eateries both inside the cavernous hall and outside. We had been told that the Mexican restaurant Hija de Sanchez was quite good. The beef and red bean taco looked good but apparently the seasoning was virtually non existent. And for the husband to say that was quite something. Or maybe it was the Indian palate and conditioning. The blandness was more than compensated by the juiciest roast pork sandwich from another eatery. As for the virulent pink rose drink I am still trying to figure out its antecedents, its ingredients and hell, even its taste.

The Meatpacking District, said to be one of the trendiest nightspots as well as a day time pull with its restaurants, cafes and art galleries was on our itinerary but unfortunately our timing was wrong to eat anything there. The buzz seemed infectious and the crowd seemed to be loving it all. I came away quite tickled by the names of some of the eating joints: Bicycles&Butchers (couldn't work out the connection except for the upper case B), WarPigs (grunt), Fleisch (really?), NOHO ( is then Ha allowed?) and Gorilla!  

Nyhavn, the 17th century waterfront is a true tourist magnet. it meets every taste. The quay, the colourful row of old wooden houses, the long cobbled stretch, eateries of every shape, size and taste, good food, good bars, good music, in brief a vibrant ambiance. In fact, almost everyday somehow or the other whatever the time and even briefly, we would find ourselves there. Happy places tend to be like that I suppose.

There is another predictable family factor when it comes to food choice during holidays. Like clockwork regularity murmurings start about Indian or Asian food. That's how I ended up eating dal-roti and a minuscule portion of pickle, something that was the first time ever and a very depressing one. It was a small joint in an upmarket area but the menu seemed to be obsessed with lamb, lamb and more lamb. I think one or two chicken dishes managed to squeeze in but that was that. We do a mean dal if you can wait for sometime, the proprietor said. We could, we said and we did. A little potato or some greens I almost begged. Sorry, he said. The dal was mean that is all I will say. A few days later when the predictable predictability reared up again, I hastily looked around. The name Green Mango sounded deliciously inviting and when the cuisine is Thai nothing more needs to be said.

France might be more than 15,000 km from Denmark but the Fish Market restaurant, inspired by a French fishing bistro magically transport a bit of France to Copenhagen. Inside the bistro it is a lively atmosphere with full occupancy and it undoubtedly offers the best of sea food. Its the grand platter for us and the items are what is desired of a chilled platter - crabs, oysters, langoustine. prawns and even tiny shells served with sour cream mayonnaise, cucumber salad, lemon, vinaigrette accompanied by a bread basket and the ubiquitous Danish rye bread. While we were at it, why not a plate of steamed mussels and it was. The meal was a celebration of the best of sea food and for me truly a payback for good karma of smiling through a dal-roti meal!

 

A restaurant at the hotel we were staying in Bergen (Norway) had an interesting board that said:

It isn't. Just that sometimes one is accused of being a food fraud by the family, of being questioned that how is it okay to eat sea food and pork dish of any kind but quibble over meat and chicken based dishes and of being told to play it fair. Fair? How could that be when it came to reindeer and deer burger that seemed to be more than plentiful in Bergen. Hello! remember Rudolph the red nosed reindeer? And Bambi? Fine, I accept that it is hypocrisy but often that's the way the wind blows.

The fjords it was with a delightful train ride to Myrdal and on to Flam. The journey and the description defying endowment of nature's best to Norway made us decide to indulge with a lovely luxurious meal. The view outside the restaurant was picture perfect, the menu had a wondrous mix of fish and fowl and everything tempting. Just when one was feeling blessed, in trooped a big party of highly vocal tourists from a giant Asian country with their branded clothes, footwear, bags, glares et all and proceeded to take over the place just like bulls in a China shop.  Often the wind blows that way too. Sigh!

Ulriken is the highest mountain in Bergen. The cable car takes ten minutes to the top. We took in the stunning panoramic views of the fjords, seas, mountains and of Bergen, we checked out the Sherpa Steps and then, I spied salmon sandwich! 

Another family holiday symptom that is fated to crop up after a couple of days of not having Indian fare runs along familiar patterns. It could be something along the lines of isn't this chilly weather perfect for hot alu parantha, achar and dahi?  Or too much of eating, it would be good to have plain dal-chawal. And ad nauseam. We had seen a few in and around Bergen - why do so many Indian restaurants have a 'taj' in their names - and the one that seemed right came with an unusual moniker, Arti Indisk.  Offensive as it may sound, one had discreetly peeked in through the windows and quickly checked out the place - tables not crowded together, white linen, right lighting and so on. We walked in to hear a soft melodious Hindi number. The decor was Indian but not in your face find. Arti Indisk turned out to be an interesting place with an interesting history. Hari Singh Negi, the proprietor was away supervising the last minute details of a second Indian restaurant that he was opening in the city, but his wife joined us at the table for sometime. Negi, she said, was a chef at five star hotels like Asoka in Delhi. He then moved to Bangkok and Oman before joining an Indian hotel in Bergen as a chef.  It was a hardworking immigrant success story. When he had shifted to Bergen, his wife and four children had finally shifted base from India. Their two daughters were successful professionals in Oslo but one of them was convinced to move back home and join the family business. Their older daughter-in-law is from India and yes, like all Indian mothers she was worried that the other three were not married!  The meal was wholesome, homely and tasty, no overload of oil and spices. Just what an Indian mother would cook!