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