The Year of Living Danishly

by Helen Russell

  ‘The right-wing Dansk Folkeparti would only eat in the canteen if it was serving Danish food that day,’ she says. ‘If we had a tandoori on the menu or something international, there’d be a no-show at lunchtime from the whole Folkeparti. Each political party also had weekly meetings where they’d have supper sent up to them and the Dansk Folkeparti ordered the same thing every week.’

  ‘Let me guess – a classic pork-and-potato combo?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she says, ‘Danish meatballs with potato salad. Every week. At least they walked the talk, I suppose.’

  I’m interested to hear that even the Danish parliament all sit down and eat together wherever possible. There isn’t the same culture of grabbing food on the go and eating lunch at your desk or dinner in front of the TV as there is in other places.

  ‘We have a real tradition of eating together,’ Trine tells me. Danes also tend to eat at home most evenings and weekends, apparently – which could explain why the restaurant offerings outside of Copenhagen aren’t exactly inspiring. ‘Most Danes only dine out for a birthday or a special occasion as it’s expensive to eat out,’ says Trine. This is because everyone gets paid a living wage, including the pot washer, and as with Noma, every eatery charges a 25 per cent tax on top of the bill for food and labour. But most Danes don’t feel deprived by dining out infrequently. ‘We enjoy eating in,’ says Trine, ‘it’s cosy at home and we like to cook for each other.’

  I wonder whether this too contributes to Danish happiness and find a study in the American Journal of Clinical Nutrition confirming that home-cooked meals actually make people feel better than indulgent meals eaten at a restaurant. No wonder the Danes are content.

  ‘Having family meals together is a very important part of life in Denmark,’ says Trine, something she puts down to the days when most people made a living from farming. ‘You’d be working hard all day and so mealtimes were the only breaks you had. They became a strong tradition. Because we haven’t had many foreigners and we’re still quite a homogenous society, these traditions have stuck.’

  The welfare state is another reason Danes still have an evening meal together as a family, says Trine. ‘We don’t work as long hours as you do in the UK or the US and it’s considered important to get home to your family. It’s totally acceptable for a high-flying lawyer, male or female, to say to colleagues at 5pm: “I need to leave this meeting to go and pick my kids up and make them dinner.” It’s part of our culture.’

  She thinks that the price of Danish real estate has also played a part in keeping the sit-down dinner intact in Denmark. ‘Post-Second World War, housing became more affordable, so most Danes could have a separate room to eat in. In other countries, many young people can only afford one room or a tiny apartment where there’s no dining room and nowhere to sit all together. Then, of course, you have to go out for dinner.’

  I tell her about my experiences of dinners in Danish homes to date – notably that they seem to involve three courses, napkin origami, and last until midnight. ‘And that’s on a school night!’

  Trine laughs and admits that there is a certain pride associated with inviting someone into your home to share food in Denmark. ‘Danes love to spend a whole day planning a meal, cooking and entertaining, then once all the hard work is done we like to sit and talk for hours. We don’t quite have the thing you have in the UK of knowing when it’s time to call it a night.’

  I confide in her that our last midweek dinner guests arrived at 6pm and didn’t leave until 1am. ‘It was exhausting!’

  ‘I know. But hospitality is very important in Denmark, we take pride in it and we enjoy it,’ says Trine.

  Does it make her a happy Dane? I ask.

  ‘I’d say I’m an eight out of ten. We’re one of the best countries in the world for the welfare state, safety, benefits and free education,’ she says, before adding: ‘But people still like to moan. I’m like: “Why? You have everything!”’

  This is an interesting observation. I wonder whether people can ever be truly happy or whether there’s something in human nature, or at least the drizzly-skied Northern hemisphere, that means we rather enjoy a bit of a moan now and then. I had assumed that this was a British thing, having a grumble about the weather, and litter, and the youth of today. But perhaps it’s more of a universal truth – something that brings us together, something we can bond over, reassuring each other that life’s not so perfect this end either.

  Maybe complaining is an extension of Jante’s Law, I think, having a mini-Eureka moment. If there’s nothing to whine about, you’re essentially showing off. And no one likes a show-off. At least, not in Denmark.

  Back in Jutland, on a comedown from my cultural and culinary adventure, I retreat to the sanctuary of the local bakery to console myself with the one Danish delicacy they still get right around Sticksville: pastries. Months in and I’m still fascinated by the names of the traditional wienerbrød. As well as the ‘kanelsnegle’ or cinnamon snail, there’s the ‘spandauer’, known as ‘baker’s bad eye’ after the yellow cream in the middle that makes it look like an infected iris (delicious…) and the ‘frøsnapper’ or ‘frog snapper’, a sort of poppy seed pastry twist (no one has any idea who came up with the name).

  In one of my favourite assignments ever, I’m asked to look into the Danish pastry scene by a UK newspaper and so pin down Anders Grabow of Denmark’s Bakery & Pastry Masters Association to find out whether melt-in-the-mouth wienerbrød might hold the key to eternal happiness (I hope so…) and why the Danes are so famed for their pastries.

  ‘Because,’ he tells me, without hesitation, ‘they are awesome! When you eat as much Danish pastry abroad as I do, you know why we are famed for it. It is really ingrained [no pun intended, I presume…] in the Danish tradition and something that every bakery has made each and every day for hundreds of years.’ He tells me that you have to train for three years and seven months to be a baker in Denmark. ‘We take pride in the skill and craftsmanship and we make the best pastries in the world. It’s called a “Danish” for Christ’s sake! No one makes them like we do.’

  I tell him he’s very much preaching to the converted on this one. So is baking big in popular culture here too? I ask, thinking of Lego Man’s morgenmad-making colleagues.

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Anders. ‘There are lots of pastry bloggers, posting and sharing recipes, and there’s been a big rise in the amateur baking scene with TV shows like Den Store Bagedyst [‘The Great Bake Off’], Mette Blomsterberg’s The Sweet Life and Kagekampen [‘Cake Battle’ – this sounds like my kind of battle].’

  ‘But can the average Dane whip up a pastry, just like that?’

  Anders thinks about this. ‘I’d say everyone knows how to make a few Danish staples,’ he says. ‘And because it’s Denmark, men bake too. Every Danish man will have a basic cake in his repertoire.’

  This is music to my ears. I can’t wait to tell Lego Man that I expect nothing less than the perfect kanelstang (a delicious cinnamon and marzipan plait that I’ve recently discovered) from him by this time next month. I thank Anders for his time, but there’s one more thing I need to know before I let him go.

  ‘And, er, in your experience,’ I start, feeling myself redden, ‘how many pastries does the average Dane eat?’

  Confession time: I’ve been chowing down on at least one a day since I moved here nine months ago, with only a small hiatus during a particularly bad bout of morning sickness. Before you judge me, go to a Danish bakery and try them out. All of them. It may take a while. Nine months in fact. During which time, I have been powerless in their custardy-andcinnamony caress.

  ‘I mean, for instance,’ I go on, ‘if I’d been eating one a day…’ I try to sound as casual as possible, ‘…would this be considered normal?’

  His instant, unguarded response tells me everything I need to know: ‘A pastry every day? Wow!’ Then, realising he’s supposed to be promoting the consumption of Danish baked goods, he back-pedals slightly: ‘But
then, what is a typical Dane? I’d say the typical Dane does not eat one pastry a day – though I obviously wish they would!’ he jokes. ‘Most Danes have them as a weekend thing. You sit down with a huge breakfast of soft-boiled eggs, fresh bread and some pastries as a treat.’

  Oh.

  ‘Mind you, it is also custom to have pastries on Fridays in the office.’

  ‘Yes?’ I seize on this.

  ‘Then I guess there are construction workers who eat one every day…’ I contemplate a career change. ‘And then there are the health nuts who wouldn’t dream of eating pastry.’ I decide I’m not so keen on this lot. ‘But on average, a Dane eats a pastry once or twice a week.’

  ‘So unequivocally not,’ I want to clarify for the sake of my arteries, ‘every day?’ I’m still hoping he’ll contradict me.

  ‘No, not really,’ he says. ‘Because of our health.’

  ‘Yes. Quite.’

  Having said goodbye to Anders, I stare longingly at a display of assorted snegles, begin to salivate slightly, then leave with a loaf of rye bread instead, feeling worthy.

  I get home to an empty house. Lego Man’s car is in the drive but there’s no sign of him or the overexcited mutt who normally likes to whip my legs with his tail while circling me for several minutes by way of a ‘welcome home’ greeting.

  Savouring half an hour of peace, I settle down to type up my notes and contemplate doing something creative with rye bread for supper. To my surprise, I find that my laptop has already been powered up. On rousing the screen from its slumber, I see a slew of pages on foraging, including ‘A Guide to the Wild’, ‘What’s in Season: September’ and the Nordic Food Lab’s ‘Guidelines to Sustainable Foraging’.

  Oh God…

  I thought Lego Man had perked up when I told him about Ben and the Nordic Food Lab’s boy scout-esque wilderness adventures. I might have guessed that he’d try to recreate the drama of eating ants/crickets/god-knows-what-else back on home turf.

  Worrying about what on earth’s in store for dinner tonight, I keep an eye out of the window in the hope that he and his faithful dog will return home soon, preferably unscathed. Another hour later, two figures appear on the horizon. One: tall, broad, wearing wellies and ruddy-cheeked from his endeavours. The other: small, yappy, woolly tail wagging. As they approach the house, Lego Man lifts a black plastic bag, the kind we normally use for picking up dog poo. He holds it aloft above his head like a trophy. The other hand, complete with dog lead, follows it up in slow motion. I can almost hear the Bill Conti Rocky soundtrack playing as he executes a double air punch, triumphant. I’m as pleased that the dog’s bowels are working properly as the next pet owner, but really?

  Lego Man has a wide grin on his face and passes by the wheelie bin before coming into the house with his bounty.

  ‘You’re not bringing poo into our kitchen are you?’ I ask, horrified, eyeing the bag. ‘I think even the Nordic Food Lab draw the line at that…’ I start but he opens the plastic sack and shows me what’s inside. ‘Clams?’ I ask, nose wrinkling slightly at the strong odour of sea that’s just swept into our house.

  ‘Yes! I found a mussel bank! On the beach.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was low tide and I saw this island a little out to sea. It looked like a load of pebbles but the dog went for it, so I followed him.’

  ‘Right…’

  ‘Only it wasn’t pebbles – it was mussels!’

  ‘Wow. And so you just,’ I’m not sure of the right term here, ‘…picked them?’

  ‘Yes! I wasn’t sure if you needed a license or something—’

  ‘—Well, this is Denmark—’

  ‘—Exactly, but there was no one around so I filled my pockets.’

  I look down and notice for the first time the bulging sides of Lego Man’s trousers, complete with wet patches threatening to meet in the middle of his groin.

  ‘But then I thought, “poo bags!”’ he goes on, ‘so I filled this, too.’ He jangles the bag to illustrate. ‘I reckon I’ve got enough for dinner here.’

  This all sounds lovely but I’m slightly concerned that he might end up with food poisoning. I delicately opt out of a foraged supper on account of our unborn child and the loaf of worthy rye bread I’ve got to work through as Lego Man sets about scrubbing and de-bearding several dozen barnacled black shells.

  ‘Are you sure they’re safe to eat?’

  “Yeah, as long as they’re tightly closed and then open when you cook them, apparently, they’re usually fine.’

  ‘“Usually”?’

  Lego Man nods as he scrubs: ‘I Googled it. There’s a very small chance of diarrhoea, vomiting, paralysis or death—’

  ‘Oh good.’

  ‘—but that’s only in extreme cases of neurotoxicological poisoning.’

  ‘Great…’

  Lego Man once dated a doctor and I sometimes suspect that his gung-ho attitude to illness is down to a secret belief that he’s actually done the seven years of medical training himself.

  ‘Anyway,’ he nods at the mussels as he scrubs at them with the kitchen brush despite my pleas, ‘you’d pay a lot of money for these in a shop.’

  Half an hour later and we’re sitting down together to eat. Me: an open sandwich of cheese and tomato on black rye bread. Hunter-gatherer: a steaming bowl of mussels cooked in what I have to admit is a delicious-smelling white wine and shallot sauce of his own creation and garnished with home-grown parsley. Ben, Bo and Trine would be proud.

  ‘So, what’s the verdict?’ I enquire, as Lego Man slips in a shell-full of his first foraged seafood.

  He pauses, closing his eyes rather dramatically and savouring the moment, before answering: ‘Perfect!’

  ‘Good.’ I smile at the strangeness of it all: we’d never have imagined ourselves going so native in Scandi-land this time six months ago, let alone this time last year in London. ‘Happy?’ I ask. Lego Man eyes me suspiciously.

  ‘Are you asking me because you really care or are you just using me as research material?’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘OK then. Well,’ he looks around, at his design-festooned home, his sea view, his faithful, if scruffy, dog, and his bowl of home-foraged food, ‘I’d say I’m a nine out of ten.’ He reaches a white wine, shallot and mussel-smeared hand across the table and rests it on mine and we both feel a little warm and fuzzy inside.

  * * *

  Things I’ve learned this month:

  Copenhageners get all the best food in Denmark

  Ditto cultural offerings

  …and lighting shops

  I am living in a culinary black hole, apart from the foraged seafood and pastries (which I shall henceforth only be sampling twice weekly. Sad face.)

  It’s A Good Thing that food goes off so quickly here, as this means it’s fresh

  Living Danishly is making Lego Man happy

  …and maybe, just maybe, I’m coming around to the place, too

  10. October

  In Sickness & in Health

  After Lego Man’s foray into foraging and having learned that the traditional, seasonal Nordic diet is one of the healthiest in the world, we’re feeling pretty good about living Danishly as we plough towards winter. In fact, with morning sickness in retreat and a newfound energy, I’m feeling remarkably well in general. Although I’m not pounding the treadmill in a gym as I used to, I’m getting more fresh air and exercise than ever before – walking the dog or embarking on non-Lycra-necessitating bike outings. And because we’re dining at home most nights (due to dire restaurant offerings in our part of Jutland – thanks for the reminder, Trine), we’re eating more healthily too.

  But then Lego Man has to go away for work, and I’m left behind with just the dog and deadlines for company. I’ve been advised not to travel until after my due date now, which means I won’t see family or old friends for a long time, unless they come to me. I’ll miss my cousin’s wedding and several big birthdays. It also means that the deci
sion about where to have the baby has been taken out of our hands. We’re staying until the end of January, when we’ll have to decide how we feel about a second year of living Danishly. I’ve got a few months of ‘research’ left to go, and luckily, with a fortnight of maternity-related medical appointments ahead of me, I’m about to become a lot better acquainted with Denmark’s healthcare system. It all starts with a visit to meet my midwife in The Big Town.

  ‘Your lady cave looks very fine,’ a large woman with flaxen hair scraped back into a ponytail tells me. She has big, fleshy hands that look as though they could deliver twelve sets of twins an hour if necessary.

  ‘My “lady cave”?’ I think back to GCSE biology but am pretty sure I’ve never heard this phrase before. She gives my abdomen a prod by way of explanation. ‘Ah, my “womb”?’

  ‘Sure…’ she frowns as she carries on scanning. I’m lying on a wooden table with cool jelly smeared across my middle as the baby is checked for abnormalities. Between my still-limited Danish vocabulary (despite months of lessons) and the midwife’s amusing memory lapses when it comes to English gynaecological terms, we’re muddling through.

  ‘And here is the, how do you say, “mother’s cake”? Big thing. Feeds the foetus.’

  ‘“Placenta”?’

  She nods: ‘That. It is looking quite great.’

  Having never given much thought to what my internal organs look like, I’m relieved to hear that they’re satisfactory, though I’m slightly alarmed that innards are now subjected to the same visual appraisals as the rest of the female form (What if I have fat kidneys? Or a wrinkly brain? Oh, wait…). I make a mental note to go home and Google what a ‘normal’ womb and placenta look like as the midwife sets down her tools and addresses me face on: ‘Now, what about sex?’ I wasn’t expecting this.

  ‘What about sex? Shouldn’t we be having it? Should we be having more of it?’