by Julie Caplin
‘I guess eating and drinking,’ he answered before adding flippantly, ‘it’s always good to know where the next meal’s coming from.’
‘I don’t think I am happy,’ said Avril suddenly and then as if surprised by her unexpected admission, stared self-consciously out of the window avoiding catching anyone’s eye.
‘Food, making it and sharing it. Oh and my boyfriend,’ said Sophie quickly filling the awkward gap.
‘Singing,’ I blurted out. It wasn’t exactly true, but I felt I needed to say something to back Sophie up and draw attention away from Avril who looked close to tears. Besides, I wasn’t sure I could say what made me happy. I’d enjoyed hyggifying the office when Lars came in. I’d been happy when everyone had liked the cookies I’d made. It didn’t amount to an awful lot. Did my job make me happy? Once it had, now I wasn’t quite so sure.
‘Company,’ said David. ‘Being part of something.’
Eva clapped her hands as if delighted by her pupils. ‘Togetherness is very important. This is very much hygge.’
Ben gave a low snort and I glared at him. Luckily Eva didn’t seem to have heard or if she did she ignored him and carried on. ‘Creating that feeling of togetherness involves connecting with others without fear of judgement. In Denmark people don’t try to take the centre of attention. No one is more important than anyone else.’ She shot Ben a blithe smile and I hid my own. Maybe she had heard him after all.
‘Ok, now, it’s time to bake.’
Fiona sighed. ‘I should have brought a GoPro, so I could film us while we all make pastry.’ She frowned, tilting her head as if she might figure out another solution.
‘Do what I do,’ suggested David. ‘Stick your phone in your pocket and film from there.’
‘That’s brilliant.’ Fiona switched on her phone and stuffed it into the top of her apron, swinging her chest around to capture us all.
‘You look a bit like a Dalek,’ said Ben, watching her jerky movements as the rest of us started to laugh.
‘I will film you. I will film you.’ Fiona lurched around the table.
It took a while for us all to calm down and start following Eva’s instructions although she didn’t seem to mind. In the meantime, Ben had slipped outside again with his phone.
‘Tip the butter, sugar, yeast and milk into the bowl and mix. Yes, Avril you do need to get your hands dirty.’ Eva’s final instruction was given with a gentle reproving smile which brought a very delicate pink blush to Avril’s face.
I looked out of the window. Ben was still out there on his phone but he looked up and caught my eye.
I nodded my head towards the table in a not so subtle ‘you need to get in here’ gesture. The cheeky sod simply smiled and then turned his back on me.
What would he do if I marched out, grabbed his phone and rammed it down his throat, apart from choke of course? He really brought the worst out in me.
He finally deigned to return by which time everyone else was already kneading their dough.
‘I’ll watch,’ he said coming to stand next to me. He peered at the bowls arranged in front of us from a safe distance, like a commuter standing behind the lines on the platform.
‘For goodness sake, stop being a big girl’s blouse and get stuck in,’ I said and grabbed the bowls of pre-weighed ingredients and tipped them into the main bowl, handing him a whisk.
With a sniff, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and took the whisk from me.
‘Ben, what does hygge mean to you?’ Eva asked.
Ben stopped stirring his mix and looked at her, his pose on the defensive side.
Ooh, I liked her. Straight for the jugular.
He met her gaze head on. ‘No disrespect, but I think it’s a fad, if I’m honest. Clever marketing. I get the cosy stuff, styling your house, making it look nice with candles and stuff. But it’s just an interior design trend.’
Eva nodded, smiling but non-committal, like one of the cool teachers in school. ‘Anyone else? Here like this,’ she paused to help Fiona, whose dough was making a bid to escape over the edge of the table. ‘Don’t be scared of the dough. It needs a good work out.’ She held up her biceps. ‘Pastry making keeps you fit.
‘It’s very difficult to explain hygge to someone who hasn’t experienced the long dark winter months of Scandinavia and it has a lot to do with our national psyche. As a nation, we love our design and it’s not limited to certain sections of the population, class, education or wealth. Every Dane knows the names of Arne Jacobsen, Paul Henningsen, Hans Wegner.’
Conrad nodded. ‘Chairs, lights, architecture. Some of their designs date from the sixties and still look fresh today.’
‘Exactly and that is reflected in our homes. In England, you say an Englishman’s home is his castle, here the home is a haven of hygge. We spend a lot of time inside in the winter months and so over the years, our homes have become a place to create special times, look after yourself and others. To entertain people you care about. Your friends and family. An evening can start at six and go on until at least one o’clock in the morning.’
Sophie said something to Fiona and David about cooking, so missed Avril’s plaintive comment, ‘That would be no good for me. I have to be up for breakfast TV. That would play havoc with my schedule. My husband is always complaining about the state of our house. I’m the messiest person on the planet. He never used to mind.’
‘Perhaps you need to give it and I’m thinking, him, a bit more attention.’
The others were busy chatting and missed Eva’s gently spoken observation. Avril looked slightly taken aback but it was impossible for her to take offence as Eva’s words held no hint of judgement.
Eva scooted around everyone supervising their technique. It was hard work as I discovered when I took over from Ben.
‘This is very good exercise and I often think it’s a good way to get rid of any bad feelings you might have.’
Sophie laughed. As a veteran baker, she’d immediately got into the proper rhythm and wasn’t rubbing pitifully at her arms like the rest of us. ‘I quite often imagine my boss, she’s an absolute dragon. Oops I shouldn’t have said that.’
Everyone laughed.
After everyone had kneaded to Eva’s stringent satisfaction, we were allowed to sit down while the dough proved for a well-earned coffee.
‘So Eva, why is Denmark the happiest place?’ asked Ben, his journalist hat well and truly in place.
‘Work here in Denmark is very different to the UK. On average Danes work thirty-five hours a week and finish in time to pick up the children from school.’
‘Sounds cushy,’ said Avril. ‘I can’t imagine that going down terribly well in my office and we’re all women.’ She paused before adding, ‘Having children might as well be career suicide.’
‘Here there is no badge of honour to be gained for working long hours.’ She looked at me. ‘Or for constantly checking your emails after hours or when you are away from work.’
It was all very well for her to say that. Running a café didn’t bring with it the same sorts of stresses and strains of an office based job but then again it didn’t have the same prestige or career opportunities.
As if she read my mind, she added, ‘In Denmark everyone is very equal. What you do as a job isn’t so important.’
‘But you have very high taxes,’ said Ben.
‘Yes, but everyone does, whether you are the man who works in a shop or the boss of a big company. And people are well paid for the work they do. Everyone has the same chances because there is a good support system for all. Health and education are free. We have the lowest divide between rich and poor in Europe.’
After twenty minutes of lively debate, comparing the utopian Denmark, Eva turned her attention back to the cooking and we put our aprons back on and went back to work.
‘Now I will show the secret of light airy crisp pastries. Come.’
She rolled the proven dough out and then took a large piece of butter and dipped it
into flour and then with her quick precise economic movements, showed us how to roll butter between sheets of greaseproof paper.
‘Now, it is your turn.’
‘I think I’ll duck out, if you don’t mind,’ said Conrad. ‘I’m worn out already. Food’s not my thing.’
‘Oh, but you’ve got to give it a go, now you’re here,’ said Sophie.
‘Never too late to learn,’ David chipped in. ‘And home-cooking can save you a fortune. Much cheaper to make things from scratch.’
Conrad’s face sharpened with sudden interest and he gave a reluctant smile.
‘Go on, then, I’ll give it a whirl.’
I looked at Ben. ‘You can go first.’ I handed over the rolling pin. He took it dubiously, which made me say, ‘You have used one before, I take it.’
‘Not since food tech,’ he muttered. ‘And that was a while ago.’
He wasn’t the only one but I certainly wasn’t about to admit it to him.
Across the way, Sophie was already expertly wielding her rolling pin, explaining to Fiona the best technique.
Greaseproof paper rustled and the wooden rolling bins banged on the table, as Eva wandered around tweaking people’s hold on their utensils, with quiet words of encouragement.
Ben’s brow furrowed in concentration and his tongue glued itself to his upper lip, which made him seem a lot more human, as he set to trying to master the rolling technique.
‘David that’s excellent,’ said Eva, pointing out his even and well-shaped butter pat.
‘Thank you. I do quite a bit of baking at home,’ he admitted shyly. ‘It’s a good way to pass a few hours and you have something at the end of it. Although,’ he paused, ‘it would be nice to have someone to share it with.’
‘I used to be quite a baker. My sponges were as light as anything. Before me and my husband were married,’ said Avril crisply cutting over his words, brushing flour from her apron, and surveying her neat results. I realised she was fiercely competitive. ‘He loves cakes.’ She looked wistful. ‘Coffee and walnut’s his favourite. I haven’t made that in ages.’
After five minutes Eva stopped us all and everyone showed their progress. Sophie and Fiona’s butter was perfectly shaped in a long flat oval, along with David’s who looked rather pleased with himself. For someone who professed not to be interested in food, Conrad’s like Avril’s, was also surprisingly neat.
‘Oh dear,’ laughed Eva when she came around to our side of the table. Ben’s floured butter looked rather like a map of Denmark, jagged edges with various islands adrift from each other and rather sticky and squashed.
He winced. ‘Hmm, not sure what I’ve done wrong.’
‘Not feeling the love, perhaps,’ I quipped and received a glare from him.
‘You’ve over rolled it,’ explained Eva, pushing the butter smeared greaseproof paper aside. ‘Made it too warm, so the butter is melting too much. Your mind wasn’t quite on it. With cooking you need to focus on the job in hand. Leave the work behind and stop worrying about those emails. Let’s start again. You can join in this time, Katie.’
‘Oh, it’s OK. I don’t need to.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Eva firmly, pushing her rolling pin into my hand and explaining again what we needed to do.
Ben shot me a triumphant grin and I glared at him.
‘Both of you, off you go.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ teased Ben as she walked off to supervise the others.
Damn. I grabbed my pat of butter feeling stupidly self-conscious; everyone else had made it look easy. Grabbing the butter and sprinkling flour half-heartedly over it, I set to work quickly. It wasn’t as if I was ever going to make this again. Bugger, it was harder than it looked. The butter massed up into one lump and then when I tried to roll it, it squished away.
‘I think you need more flour,’ observed Ben gleefully.
I pursed my lips and ignored him. What did he know?
I set to again but my butter was beyond help.
‘Not feeling the love either,’ said Ben with a sly grin when he saw my mangled butter.
‘It’s harder than it looks,’ I muttered, flushing. I hated not getting it right.
‘Don’t worry,’ sympathised Ben, ‘I’m sure your talents lie elsewhere.’
I gave him a sharp look but he seemed genuine and I softened, saying with uncharacteristic weakness, ‘Hmm, I’m not so sure about that.’ I stared down at the table, suddenly conscious of his nearness and a sense of disorientation. What was I good at? Work? That didn’t say much about me. Fiona had her photography. Avril had a husband, who clearly doted on her, as well as an amazing career. Sophie had a passion for food. Conrad had his reputation and knowledge.
Eva showed us how to roll the layers of butter between the dough and shape the finished pastries and by the end of the demonstration, there were several trays of spandauer, dotted with strawberry jam, ready to bake.
We sat down at the tables with coffee as she whisked about tidying up, Sophie assisting her. Sophie didn’t seem to be able to sit down for any length of time.
‘It’s been a wonderful morning,’ said David looking round at the group. ‘I spend so much time on my own.’ I saw his Adam’s apple dip. ‘I-It’s nice to be … with everyone. I have to admit, I do get very lonely.’
‘Oh, David.’ Sophie laid a hand on his arm. ‘I know what it’s like. Before I met James, I felt like that. You can be surrounded by people but invisible, especially in London.’
‘Well, you know how it is with freelancing. With the Internet and email, you don’t need to go out as much and meet people. You can get everything online. My editor communicates by email.’
‘What about family?’ asked Sophie.
‘I moved away from Cumbria years ago. My sister and dad live up there. I see them at Christmas but I put everything into my career. Came to London. Worked. Moved around.’
‘But what about friends?’ Sophie persisted. ‘You seem a pretty personable bloke to me. No halitosis, dodgy geography teacher clothes or obvious unseemly habits.’
David crossed his legs. ‘Yeah, I’ve got friends. Plenty of them but it’s not the same. Most of them have families. Other priorities. Busy at weekends with their own things. You wake up one morning and everyone else has moved on.’ He took his glasses off and turned them over in his hands. ‘God, I didn’t mean to say any of this stuff. I think you’ve given us truth serum, Eva.’ He shot her a grateful look which she returned with a sympathetic smile. ‘There are only so many art galleries and museums you can visit on your own. You go out for the sake of it. Just to get out. I shouldn’t complain I’ve got my own house, a big one, but I rattle around on my own in it. It was my mother’s but she died several years ago. I have to force myself to go out for a walk otherwise I might not leave for days.’
‘Lucky you, old chap,’ said Conrad in his gravelly smoke-roughened voice. ‘After three wives, I’ve been taken to the cleaners. I’m renting a bedsit in Clapham, the arse end of Clapham at that. Through the keyhole, it ain’t. You can take me out to lunch any time you like,’ he said. ‘I always thought I’d be glad of the peace and quiet, but I can’t stand being on my own and my place is a bit cramped, so not that conducive to having visitors.’
‘I’m in Clapham too,’ said David.
‘Well plenty of fine watering holes in the area and we don’t even need to get a cab home,’ said Conrad. ‘Talking of which, what time is lunch? And is it time for a drink yet?’
‘Why don’t you take a lodger, David?’ suggested Eva.
‘I’ve never thought of that. I don’t need the money, so it didn’t occur to me.’
‘Don’t need the money!’ muttered Conrad into his coffee.
I ducked my head and smiled, feeling just a little bit pleased; this session in the café, that in truth I’d been a little bit sceptical about, had really brought everyone closer together. Even Ben had joined in properly for once.
The morning was rounded off when the sp
andauer came out of the oven and there was much hilarity at the results, with some very misshapen pastries. Ben and I shared a chagrined smile, ours were the worst, Sophie’s were perfect and Avril’s very good. She smiled and took lots of pictures, immediately posting one on Twitter.
Look what we made. #WonderfulCopenhagen #presstripantics
‘I’m going to WhatsApp these to my husband. Prove to him I can still cook and that I’m not so high maintenance after all.’ Her words held a poignant mix of defiance and petulance.
‘I’m going to use this recipe in the magazine,’ said Sophie.
‘I’m going to put the pictures up on my blog,’ said Fiona and with a sudden grin she added, ‘And I’ll be naming names.’
‘Good God, dear girl. Do you want to ruin my reputation?’ teased Conrad, although he looked rather pleased with his results and picked up his tray of pastries posing for her as she snapped off a couple of shots. ‘I guess it might add to my debonair man about town image. Impress a few ladies.’
‘I’m sure they will be, they look great,’ said Fiona, showing him the pictures she’d taken. ‘David, you next.’
She seemed to be revelling in her new role as official photographer.
Conrad peered at them. ‘Excellent work. Thank you, young lady.’ Fiona nodded with quiet pleasure. It was rather like watching a bud unfurling in the sun.
‘Take one of me,’ said Avril, with a perfect Instagram pout.
‘Brilliant as your pictures are,’ said Ben dryly, ‘I’d rather not be seen posing with pastries, I’ll never live it down in the office. I got enough stick as it was abandoning my post for a week’s jolly.’ For once the look he shot me was much less hostile, you could almost imagine he was enjoying himself.
Mads appeared bang on the dot of twelve-thirty, after we’d all eaten some of Eva’s home-made fish soup and whole-grain rolls, scooping us up in readiness for our next trip.
‘Right everyone it’s a short walk to our very fine Kopvahn Station, where we will take a train to Helsingor. Or as you may know it Elsinore. Kronberg Castle, the home of Hamlet.’
‘I’ve been so looking forward to this,’ said Fiona and then stopped, as if she’d startled herself by volunteering this piece of information. With her customary blush, she ducked her head mumbling. ‘I love Shakespeare. And Hamlet.’
