Feast: Sweden
I’m sitting on a sunny veranda drinking coffee. I look through the kitchen window and at the clock on the wall. It’s 4 p.m. Swedish time, which means I’ve officially been awake for more than 24 hours, traveling from North America’s west coast all the way to Sweden’s west coast. “Mer kaffe? More coffee?” asks my friend Fanny. “Ja, tack. Yes, please,” I answer, and with another drink we continue catching up on what’s happened to both of us since the last time I came to visit. I’m in a different time zone, and I’ve had to force my brain to switch over to my mother tongue of Swedish. With two cups of strong coffee in me, the only thing that might put my mind and body at ease is a walk. I’m staying with good friends on the west side of Gothenburg, only minutes from the granite-slab-covered coast. Fanny’s mom, Kerstin, suggests we take a walk down to the water and then pass by the fish stand at the local grocery store where we’re going to pick up dinner, “since we’re not going to go get any crayfish on our own right now.” That’s one thing to cross off my list.
Gothenburg, Sweden’s second largest city, lies at the mouth of the Göta Alv, which feeds into the Kattegatt, an arm of the North Sea. This has helped the city grow into a large port town. Beyond the economy, the waterfront areas fuel tourism, attracting visitors who come to explore Gothenburg’s famed archipelago.
The salty waters of the west coast mean that seafood can be found in great abundance all year round, and most of Gothenburg’s neighborhood grocery stores don’t even bother with a fish counter; fresh seafood shacks set up shop right outside the store and provide for the classic fish market experience, complete with a grubby fisherman wrapping up your purchase in white paper. Shrimp and crayfish are sold as-is; you’ll never find a shelled crustacean in one of these stalls, and shelling shrimp and crayfish is part of the Swedish dining process. Kerstin has already pre-ordered crayfish and crab, but she adds an additional few kilos of shrimp. The fisherman behind the counter dips his huge ladle into the overflowing pink box and quickly fills up a bag with the pink critters. “Vilken sås? Ni far en pa koppet. Which sauce would you like? You get one with your purchase.” We’ve bought enough seafood that we’re given a free container of sauce to accompany our meal, and although I know Kerstin wouldn’t dare serve a sauce she hasn’t made herself, she opts for the diablo sauce, a creamy red concoction. As soon as we get home, she opens her blue Vår Kokbok (the Swedish staple cookbook found in every home) and whips up her own Dijon-dill sauce. “Man kan into äta krabba utan det här! You can’t eat crab without this!”
Back at the house, I’m put in charge of the seafood, and from the blue-and-white-striped fish stand bags, I pour the shrimp and crayfish into separate bowls. Their pinkish, orangish color matches the terra-cotta ceramic perfectly. The shrimps’ eyes are like black beads, making the bowl of hard shells and delicate antennae look like little aliens. “Ser du fram emot att dra av huvudet? Are you excited to pull the heads off?” asks Kerstin. Shelling and eating shrimp and crayfish is an art, and skilled Swedes can do it in three quick, effortless steps. Pull the head off, peel off the core and, finally, pull the tail off. Here is where I pause, taking a second to suck the brains out of the decapitated head and relishing the familiar taste of the juicy, salty liquid that can make others squeamish.
I learned the art of shelling shrimp at an early age, taking trips to Sweden to visit my family since I was a small child. I stack my plate with a mound of shrimp and attack, my hands quickly sticky and in need of a napkin. Once the shrimp is all shelled, it’s time to make the räkmacka, or shrimp sandwich. Slather a piece of toasted bread with mayonnaise, add a layer of lettuce and top it off with as much shrimp as possible, and you have a Swedish favorite.
After diligently wiping his hands off, our host Filip raises his shot glass. “Skål!” Before taking a drink, we all engage in a round of “Helan Går,” a classic drinking song chanted before downing a shot of schnapps. In Sweden, celebratory meals are always consumed with a glass of Aquavit or similar distilled liquor, often with songs that get worse and worse the more shots are consumed. I put my shot glass down and return to the crayfish. “Välkommen tillbaka till västkusten. Welcome back to the west coast.”
The next day is Saturday, and I head for a morning jaunt at Feskekôrka, Gothenburg’s central fish market. Opened in 1874, the building is a large hall, smelling overwhelmingly of marine life. Traditionally reserved Swedes audibly call out their catch of the day and remind you why it should make its way onto your dinner plate. The rows and rows of fish offer a full selection of everything that lurks in Scandinavian waters. Havsaborre, aborre, makrill, piggvar, tunga. Sea bass, perch, mackerel, turbot, sole. They all stare at me, their beady eyes questioning whether I’m going to buy them or not.
We’re stocking up for a weekend out at Filip and Kerstin’s country home north of Gothenburg, just outside of the sleepy fishing village Ljungskile. Just as water is a central part of life in Gothenburg, so is getting out into the country. Summers are meant for spending time away from urban amenities like the Internet and trams and instead lying by the water and packing picnics to be consumed on afternoon hikes. That desire to be outside translates to all other seasons. Many families own vacation homes and cottages in the surrounding area, and time spent away from the city is considered holy. Kerstin and her siblings have inherited the family villa, a traditional Swedish farmhouse painted a sunny yellow with white trim. The villa sits atop a hill overlooking the bay dotted with sailboats and hand-built docks, a setting that is idyllic, to say the least. Upon arrival, we’re immediately welcomed by Kerstin’s sister-in-law and niece, who have just returned from a chanterelle hunting expedition. Dressed in old sweaters and jeans stuffed into mud-covered rain boots, they’re wearing the mushroom hunting uniform. “Kolla! Look!” both women say, stretching their hands forward, each with a basket overflowing with huge chanterelles.
Being late September, we’re in prime time for the “forest’s gold,” as chanterelles are commonly referred to. Follow a Swede on a blustery autumn weekend for a mushroom hike and you’ll soon learn that finding fungi is practically in his or her blood. The seasonal mushroom hunt has a two-part mission: Chanterelle dishes are a staple of autumn fare, but it’s also an excuse to spend the morning tromping around in the forest, listening to the simple sound of the wind blowing through the trees. With Sweden’s allemansrätt—literally meaning “all men’s right”—access to all natural areas, minus some reserves and protected areas, there is no such thing as trespassing, and people are free to pick wild berries and mushrooms wherever they find them. But a chanterelle hot spot is a treasured thing not to be shared, and when Kerstin asks where they found so many, the response is a casual “Du vet, vår hemliga ställe. You know, our usual secret spot.”
We cover the outdoor table with newspaper in order to get to the ever-important task of cleaning and slicing the mounds of golden chanterelles. A special brush with bristles on one side and a knife on the other is masterfully maneuvered to get all the forest dirt off and the mushrooms clean enough to cook with. As we clean the chanterelles, the musty smell of autumn fungi permeates the air, and the dirt soon goes from the chanterelles to lodged under my fingernails. The white kitchen bowl quickly fills with cleaned chanterelles; later, they will be fried in butter and served with fresh potatoes picked directly from the garden, accompanied by a main dish of fish purchased at this morning’s visit to the fish market. The meal will be local, but not because of an effort to reduce the intake of processed and mass-produced foods. Here in this idyllic vacation paradise, my friends are taking part in a more sustainable, localized gastronomy without even trying; buying fresh and local food as well as harvesting their own is done simply for the pleasure and traditional ease of doing so, for the feeling they get from having a connection with the natural world. That connection is something to toast to. Skål!
