So it's not all a practical joke - Smaka på Stockholm

Me, the HP, was never one to soak codfish in lye. A confession: I have not always been the refined and urbane fellow who now types away, reporting on experiences in the world's boggy culinary trenches. My home, my roots, my kin are of that swatch of Celtic immigrants who, generations ago, peopled the Appalachian Mts, cutting out a new style of American music along with homesteads, while eating every single thing that might even be possibly edible because they were dangerously poor. I have long maintained that what a people eat when they must is one thing, but once it is no longer necessary it's not sinful to forgo the squeal. Swedish cuisine has always struck me as a whole lotta squeal in white sauce. (Hence the stately little stemmed triangles forever filled with chilled, oh so chilled, aquavit, that "water of life," that masker of flavors and dissipater of smells.) But how wrong I've been. Eight years and the travel has been about family and fest, feats of strength and lots of aquavit never the food - but then MA took us to the "Smaka på Stockholm" (Taste of Stockholm) festival on Sweden's National Day this summer and the both of us took a dopp i grytan; if only, MA was to point out, they could have removed the drunk Finns from the stew.




Since its inception in the early 90s, the visitor count of this event equals that of half the country's population; millions of glasses of beer and wine have been served, and hundreds of variations on traditional and nouveau Swedish dishes enjoyed, served up by its finest krögare. Admission is free, but you must accept a small Swedish flag from a man who appears the very and frightening archetype of a bouncer at Club Nordic.


After much indecision and at least as much queueing, we finally had our first taste of Stockholm - the beer was tasty, the bratwurst surprising with its toothsome snap and delicious texture and the accompanying potatissalad bracing in its vinegar bite, the moules were frankly better than what we had in the south of France and the (very importantly) local strawberries a delightful ending:

Our mid-day repast was accompanied by the musical stylings of rock and roll legend Little Gerard - the man responsible for seducing four generations of Swedish women with his hip-gyrating rhythms. No panties flung towards the stage this afternoon, as everyone seemed more occupied with the good eats to be had, and - rightly - weighted by the looming decision regarding the awarding of the Golden Korv.

Each year, a panel of esteemed judges luncheon over dishes offered by the top chefs in the land; their refined palates considering a no less regal decision than what is to be the national dish for the year. This annum victory came from the larder of the dark horse contestant, Mathias Dahlgren, whose sumptuous coarse salmon tartar with apples and horseradish put the precious sausage securely in his oven mitts.



With the dinner meats awarded, the day's festivities began to wind to a close, and the wages of beer drinking in the bright sun of an unexpectedly warm Stockholm summer day began to take its toll, and so we made our way to a Nybroviken dock. As the ferries floated by, ice cream cooled our heads and left at least one of us restive time to once again contemplate that delicious and exciting foods come most often from simple, strong ingredients, prepared cleanly and with surety. With that, and while still frightened by lutfisk, we bid you smaklig måltid.

-hp&ma

Graham Greene's Antibes and a Brit's Frites

Overcast and rainy for much of the five days we spent traveling Provence, our journey was circumscribed often to various restraurants and cafes which settled perfectly well with me. Beginning with Antibes I admit that even capped by clouds, I was struck by the rocky beauty of the coastline and the small natural bay that has made it a thriving sailing and trading spot since well before Romans declared the Mediterranean "Mare Nostrum".

The city, despite its location, has long also been pugnaciously more independent and resistant to commodification than much of the other surrounding areas - so much so that the town was a favorite of Graham Greene who made just that point after moving to the city in 1966 to be near the woman he loved. Though they lunched together everyday at Chez Felix, neither left their marriage partners. The streets are perfectly picturesque and just as you would expect but, while theactual facades of the city have resisted change, the place is obviously accustomed to an annual besiegement of travelers, be they English or German, and consequently it has become an awkward spot of high night-life, and the cusine has taken a predictable tourist downturn. Most notably, a first meal of long-anticipated moules frites; while the moules, briny in a lovely cream sauce were delightful, the frites were tepid steak-cut "chips" in the British style - perfectly fine for and with any malt vinegared fried fish but not the delicate and crispy wonders that the properly done frite should be - an experience that makes all crave the wonders of properly done carbohydrates. We happened across an English language new/used book store run by a perfectly cantankerous English retiree who spoke fine French but refused to, and - we discovered after having it out that Mary Ann is Swedish - more than passable Norwegian. I looked but found only a tattered copy of Greene's "Our Man in Havana" and so passed over a half-baked plan to pass part of an afternoon reading him in the shadow of his building. Just as well; there was driving to do and gustatory ventures awaiting elsewhere.

-hp&ma

Parameters and Outlines

Perhaps there is reason to begin with beginnings. This "blog" started on a whim as we enjoyed a third glass of wine and a second plate of small tastings - not tapas in the usual sense mind you - at a rough communal table in a new and obscenely polished wine bar in our greater NYC neighborhood. Initially we, the Hungry Professor and Mary Ann, thought that we would plop down in myriad venues and wend our way through their gustatory and libationary offerings and do what we do always - swallow languorously and offer judgment quickly. No doubt, that is something we will continue to do as new restaurants appear and new opportunities make themselves known; however, just that seemed small, a bit too slight a venture. Truth be told - whether together or on our own adventures - we are more roundly epicurean than that. Rather than simply criticing an individual meal (so much more humanly elegant than airily guaging only a wine alone you foppish aesthetes) this bit of electronic parchment will be about our broader sensualist experiences. So join us as we take off, and as always, each adventure begins with the first drink.

-hp&ma

les fruits de mer de la Provence

The gustatory adventures of the Hungry Professor and Mary Ann begin with a stop in Antibes. Perhaps we will have notes on it later. Check back soon