The Little Cafe in Copenhagen

by Julie Caplin

  It took me less than five minutes to navigate the cobbled streets to find Varme and five seconds to fall head over heels in love with it. Cute, quaint, there was also something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, which made it so appealing. It certainly wasn’t fancy, not like the hotel. The name was written in copper metal letters about twenty centimetres high in a sensible reassuring courier font, Varme, like flames licking the bordering grey painted wood. Which made sense as the translation of Varme in English was warmth. The floor to ceiling windows painted in the same grey trim were sandwiched between huge thick sandy colour stone walls, more like the walls of a fortress. A tiny flight of steps led down into the café to glazed doors and when I pushed them open I was immediately assaulted by the smell of cinnamon and coffee and almost wilted with pleasure on the spot. One cup of rather dire coffee on the plane did not cut it as far as my body was concerned.

  A small, slight woman with a perky blonde ponytail was clearing tables with quick neat economy. Dressed in black jeans and a black jumper, she looked up and said, ‘God morgen,’ with an easy smile, giving the table a last wipe and turning to face me.

  ‘Hello, I’m looking for Eva Wilder.’ My sensible ballet pumps squeaked slightly on the herringbone pattern arrangement of the tiles on the floor as I took a step towards her, trying not to look around the room in wonderment. There was so much to see, drawing your eye here, there and everywhere. Long and narrow, either end of the room had white walls painted with flowers, blurry, watercolour style that looked contemporary and smart rather than twee and cottagey.

  ‘And then you’ve found her.’ Her eyes sparkled with genuine delight. ‘You must be Kate. Lars has told me all about you.’ She threw down her cloth and came over putting both hands on my arms and studying me with smiley assessment which slightly unnerved me as if somehow, I’d unknowingly graduated to long lost member of the family. ‘How lovely to meet you. I just know we’re going to get along. Welcome to Varme.’ Without pausing to draw breath she pulled me over to a chalky white painted table and pushed me into a seat.

  ‘Let’s have a coffee and you can tell me all about yourself.’

  ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ I said with prim English politeness, hoping she’d forget about the latter.

  ‘And weinerbrod?’

  I was about to decline but my stomach let a howl of resistance, so audible Eva didn’t wait for an answer. I knew from some pre-trip research that bizarrely what the rest of the world called Danish pastries were, in fact, called Viennese bread in Denmark. Go figure.

  ‘Yes please, I’ve only had one coffee today and that was on the plane.’ I pulled a face, to illustrate its woeful quality.

  ‘Then, we must fix that.’ Like her son, she had a slight American intonation to her accent. Unlike his bright blue eyes, hers were a merry brown that danced in a small petite face like a mischievous sprite. It was difficult to imagine that she was mother to the strapping Lars, he must be nearly twice her height and she certainly didn’t look old enough.

  I sat down and took advantage of her busy industry to take a good look around. There was a central counter in the middle of the long back wall, with rows and rows of copper coloured coffee canisters on the back wall along with grey painted racks of plates, cups and mugs. From here I could pick out the famous Royal Copenhagen Blue floral pattern on the white china. On the front of the counter were glass domes, under which a wonderful selection of cakes, pastries and desserts sheltered. In between them were glass cabinets filled with colourful open sandwiches which looked too well-decorated and ornate to eat.

  Behind was a serving hatch through which you could see a small, very compact kitchen, which was clearly where the delicious smells were coming from.

  ‘Columbian coffee today, I think,’ she said giving me another one of her appraising looks.

  I nodded. ‘Sounds lovely.’ Something about her impish smile made me add, ‘Although to be honest, I worked as a barista when I was a student and I’m not sure I’d know Columbian coffee if it bit me.’

  ‘A useful talent. If you can make coffee you’ll never be out of a job. I’ll have to set you to work if we get busy.’ Despite her wink, I was pretty sure she meant it.

  ‘Do you run this by yourself?’

  ‘Most of the time although I have some part time help from friends and students.’

  ‘It’s a lovely place.’

  On the walls around the café, pale mint green glass shelves housed little vignettes, perfectly formed displays. Five delicate wine goblets made from deep purple glass. Seven silver eggs in different sizes. A single antique cup and saucer with a whole shelf to itself. The eclectic mix worked well and fascinated me. I’d never seen anything quite like it but it didn’t feel designery or that someone was trying too hard.

  ‘I love the glasses,’ I said pointing to them. ‘You have some beautiful things.’

  ‘It’s the Danish way. It’s been psychologically proven that looking at something beautiful makes people happier. That’s why as a nation we are so keen on our design. I picked the glasses up in a flea market years ago, but I’ve got so many now and I couldn’t bear to part with them. They look rather nice there, don’t they?’

  Which matched my impression that each item had been put out simply because they were liked.

  ‘Gosh your English is amazing.’

  She laughed. ‘I lived in London for many years. Here.’ She came to the table and unloaded a tray passing a tall china cup and saucer my way with a little jug of milk. ‘Nice and strong. And spandauer.’

  Spandauer turned out to be a square pastry with turned up corners and a jammy red middle, the glistening buttery edges as delicious as they looked when I took the first crumbly mouthful and the strawberry jam bursting with sweetness.

  ‘Mmm,’ I groaned unable to help myself. ‘That is delicious. Everything’s been a bit of a rush this morning.’

  ‘Well now you can relax.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ I gave my watch a quick check. ‘I need to be back at the hotel to round everyone up in half an hour.’

  ‘Plenty of time.’

  ‘Don’t forget I’m the one working. The others are the guests. I’m on duty.’

  ‘Does that worry you?’ she asked rather too astutely to my mind.

  I nodded.

  ‘Here put my number into your phone. You can always call me if you need anything, but I know you will be fine. And while you’re here, you’re not on duty. My son wanted you to experience the real Denmark, to relax and enjoy our Danish hospitality. For you and your journalists to see for yourselves why we keep being voted the happiest country in the world. I need to finish a few things but we can chat.’

  She wandered over to check on the only other customers in the café, a middle-aged couple in one corner and a teenage boy plugged into his iPhone at the bar by the window.

  I sipped at my coffee as she delivered pewter mini buckets of flowers to each table along with handwritten menus displayed in little A5 photo frames.

  ‘Those are cute,’ I touched the delicate glass photo frame on my table.

  ‘Flea markets again in England. People there throw so many things away.’ She held out another pretty etched silver photo frame. ‘In Denmark, we don’t buy as many things but we keep them for a very long time. And we like to buy very good design and high quality.’ She pointed upwards.

  ‘Lights are a big thing in Denmark.’ Above us were three large waterfalls of glass but around the edges of the room were lamps of varying height. ‘You will find that a student might buy a very expensive Paul Henningsen lamp for thousands of Kroner because it is important to have nice things in our homes but not lots of nice things.’

  The couple beckoned her over, asking to pay their bill and I took advantage of Eva’s absence to pull out my phone to check my emails which were still flooding in as usual. Despite being out of the office for a full week, there was no chance of putting an out of office message on my email. I was still expected to
be on call for my other clients and any press enquiries as usual. So much for relaxing.

  I answered a few before Eva came back. ‘Tell me a little about yourself.’

  My mind went blank. What did you tell a complete stranger? I had no idea where to start.

  ‘Well, I live in London. I work for a PR agency and Lars has asked us to help launch his department store.’ I ground to a halt and shrugged as she waited expectantly, gentle eyes watching me.

  ‘Not married. No children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A boyfriend, perhaps.’

  I shuddered, thinking of Josh. ‘No. Not at the moment.’

  ‘Ah, there was one.’

  ‘Yes but … well I don’t really have time for one.’ And the most recent had been a gobshite. I didn’t think that would translate. ‘Work is … well my main focus at the moment.’

  She stroked the petals on the flowers on the table. ‘Yes, but there is more to life than work. For a pretty young woman like you. Friends, family.’ Her eyes twinkled as she pulled at a few dead leaves, her head cocked like a cheeky robin.

  ‘My family live just outside London. I see them, of course. I have two brothers.’ And what would they make of Copenhagen? John went on lads’ holidays, the gruesome details of which seemed to involve copious quantities of cheap lager, clubbing until dawn and sleeping indiscriminately with available women. Brandon had been saving forever to go to a Star Wars convention in California, although him ever getting there was about as likely as a trip to the moon and Dad, well, he hadn’t been on holiday since Mum had died.

  ‘My mum died when I was fourteen,’ I blurted out. I rarely told people that and surprised myself by telling Eva. There was just something about her though. She was so warm and friendly.

  ‘That’s very sad.’

  ‘Yes, well it was a long time ago,’ I said reaching for my phone but when I picked it up I was reluctant to look at the screen under Eva’s careful scrutiny.

  ‘That’s hard for a young girl.’

  I chased down a few flakes of pastry with the tip of my finger and nibbled at them to avoid looking at her.

  ‘The café is lovely. How long have you been running it?’

  Eva smiled. ‘For six years. I started it not long after I split up from Lars’ father.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t know.’

  ‘Like you say it was a long time ago and I’m much happier.’ Her mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Anders is not Danish, well, he is but he spent too long in the US and London. He’s a workaholic.’

  I frowned not quite understanding.

  ‘That’s not the Danish way. We do not live to work. I hoped when the children left that he would want to stop working so hard. We lived in London for many years and then when we came back to Copenhagen, I thought that he would slow down. That we would do more things together but he couldn’t let go. We had everything. A lovely house. Our children had grown up. It was time for us to be a couple but he is still in his office working and working and working. Life is short. Now I spend time with my friends.’ She rested her chin in her hands, exuding serenity and a confident sense of calm. She didn’t sound unhappy or regretful. ‘I have made a life here. Many of my customers have become friends. I have made something of my own but that I can share.’ Her face brightened. ‘I love to cook. Feed people. Look after them. I am very privileged to do this for the people of Copenhagen.’

  I nodded. Each to their own. As far as I was concerned cooking was one massive chore, a necessary evil that entailed washing up and cleaning up and far too much of a waste of time. Thank God for the express supermarkets which made it much easier to do smash and grab style grocery shopping and buy ready-meals.

  ‘What sort of things do you like to cook?’ she asked.

  Oops she’d taken the nodding as agreement. I froze and picked up my coffee gazing into it for inspiration.

  ‘Erm, well you know …’

  She pinned me with a ‘gotcha’ grin which left me nowhere to go but fess up.

  ‘There’s never enough time. I work late and me and my flatmate are in at different times. There’s not much point in cooking for one.’

  It was difficult to take offence at the amused disapproval in the quick shake of her head.

  ‘I think this trip to Copenhagen is just what you need, Katie.’

  ‘It’s Ka …’ I paused and changed my mind. The warmth in her voice softened my name reminding me of my mum. Suddenly there seemed a world of difference between a Kate and Katie.

  Chapter 10

  Being on a guided tour with everything organised for you was, I decided, a rare luxury. Our first walk took us to the Little Mermaid, considerably smaller than I was expecting – despite the clue in the name! Then on to the royal palace at Amalieburg, actually four palaces arranged around a square, with soldiers who looked remarkably like our own Queen’s guard in their traditional bearskins with dark navy tunics instead of our red ones. Mads got very excited when he spotted the Danish flag flying over one of the palaces, a sign that Margrethe, as if she were a neighbour rather than the Queen, was in residence.

  He grinned. ‘Our royal family is very popular and Margrethe is famous for being an unrepentant die-hard smoker, even in public.’

  Clearly with no sign of the queen popping out for a quick fag round the back of the recycling shed (the Danes are big on recycling), we gave up queen spotting and headed for lunch at Ida Davidsen, a family run restaurant concern ‘crazy for’ the typical Danish open sandwiches, smorrobrod.

  Sophie made Mads say the word five times before she was happy with her own attempt. He explained that Danish pronunciation was very difficult for foreigners as the Danish alphabet has 29 letters, the ø, å, æ all being separate letters with a distinct and very subtle vowel sound that was very difficult for people to reproduce.

  I fell into step next to her as we headed for lunch.

  ‘I’m so looking forward to this. Open sandwiches here are amazing. I can’t wait to try them.’ She paused and gave my arm squeeze. ‘Thank you so much Kate for inviting me. This is going to be such an amazing trip.’ She beamed at me so warmly I smiled back.

  ‘My pleasure. I’m so glad you could come. And you genuinely wanted to come.’ I glanced over my shoulder. ‘I had a devil of a job persuading some people.’

  Everyone but Ben had been asking lots of questions. He’d spent more time on his phone and several times I’d caught him yawning as if bored. He could at least make some effort.

  ‘Really? I can’t believe that,’ said Sophie looking round at the others. ‘Who wouldn’t want to spend five days in Copenhagen instead of being at work? Although, it is a pretty mixed bunch you’ve ended up with. David’s lovely. I’ve been on a trip with him before. Easy going. You’ll have no trouble with him. Avril and Conrad, I’m not so sure. And Ben, I don’t know at all, but he’s a bit of a hottie, isn’t he?’ She waggled her fair eyebrows in a woeful attempt at lechery.

  I shrugged as if far too professional to comment. If only she knew. I was ready to strangle him. He’d made sod all effort to join in, constantly tapping away on his phone like a recalcitrant teenager and yawning when he thought no one was looking. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help watching him, constantly trying to gauge his reactions, which so far hadn’t seemed that positive.

  ‘Good job I’m all loved up with James.’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’ I seized on the change of subject. I didn’t want to think about or discuss Ben, especially not regarding the subject of hotness.

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘He’s pretty lovely.’

  ‘How long have you been together?’

  ‘Nearly two years.’ She hugged herself and glanced at me. ‘I’m hoping he might pop the question soon.’

  ‘Are you living together?’ I asked.

  ‘Sort of, that’s the only difficulty. His mother is quite ill, so he works in London four days a week and then goes back to Cornwall on a Thursday to look after her. Honestly the care
system is crap. You can’t get carers over the weekend. It makes things a bit trickier but I keep thinking that if I can freelance one day we could both move down there. I don’t want to live in London for ever. What about you? You with anyone?’

  I was about to tell her about Josh but caught Ben giving me one of his usual glacial glares, in sharp contrast to the warm looks the first time I met him.

  My lip curled. ‘No, I was. But I’m off men for the foreseeable future.’

  The restaurant looked unassuming from the outside, almost like the front of someone’s home but inside had that stylish Danish design look that was quickly becoming apparent was part of the Danish psyche. Dark wood tables and chairs were arranged in neat order while the white painted walls were full of photos of famous patrons, cartoons and several of a very smiley Ida Davidsen, who was very much a real person.

  Who knew that the humble sandwich could be such a work of art? The menu featured over 250 and we were urged to go and check out the rainbow display in the cabinet. It was so utterly mouth-watering, I wanted one of everything.

  Piled on the dark rye bread were rows of thick juicy pink prawns, the deep amber of smoked salmon in rolls with black fish roe and wedges of sunshine yellow lemon sprinkled with dill, ripples of rare roast beef decorated with delicate shavings of pale cucumber and rolled herring encircled by quartered eggs, chopped chives and long slivers of spring onion.

  Sophie was in seventh, eighth and ninth heaven. ‘I think I might have to stay here forever. How on earth do you choose?’

  ‘My stomach thinks it’s died and gone to heaven,’ said Conrad, pulling out a pair of glasses and studying the display.

  ‘I’m not even sure what half of this is?’ said Ben.

  ‘That’s slices of pork,’ said Sophie pointing. ‘That’s …’

  She was very knowledgeable as you would expect from a food writer.

  ‘Gosh, they look pretty calorie heavy,’ said Avril, rubbing at her none-existent stomach. ‘I don’t want to go home the size of a house.’

  Looking at her skeletal tiny frame, going home the size of a normal person would be quite a feat.