grated horseradish, a cool breeze through the nose
A restaurant that was founded in 1789 looks as though it was founded in 1789, has oily-dark wood that looks like 1789, dripping candles on every table, mirrors so old they are peeling and pitting. A dim tavern has an entrance under street level on a street that, in 1789, was called Skidenstræde, the Strait of Shit. Now it is called Krystalgade, Crystal Street. The stained-glass lampshades clink, the dripping candles twinkle.
A word, handmåd, that translates to “hand food.” A word, smørrebrød, that translates to “buttered bread.” Words on a menu are assigned only loosely to a dish, how it is eaten. (A word in Swedish, smörgås, “butter goose.” Smörgåsbord, “butter goose table.” What the Swedes do is unserious, we are told. What the Danes do is unserious, we are told, later, across the sound. But first.)
A man behind the bar, just one, is always humming, always a different song, and a man in front of the bar, just one, is sitting in his overalls. Overalls that have been worn. A red knit cap, a white beard, boots, akvavit. A word, akvavit, that means something. A painted-tin advertisement for a coffee substitute called Rich’s, a memory from the occupation, the shortages, hangs under a grid of brass nameplates nailed to the wall, annual winners of a game unknown. The wall is seasoned like a cast-iron pan. Snaps (“schnapps”). Three open-faced sandwiches, the daily special. 90 kroner. Toothy rye, rullepølse (“rolled sausage”) streaky pink pork belly brined pressed, sweet raw onions, and sky, a meaty jelly, a heavenly name that becomes broth in the mouth. Another with thick roast beef, curry remoulade and orange, fresh grated horseradish, a cool breeze through the nose.
Tomorrow we will go to the harbor, enamel plates on the dock with smoky mackerel and salt. The sky turns orange through the masts and we watch from the sauna on the hill, then jump into the sea. A rush of blood to the fingers and toes. Sun in our hair. But first, rye with sliced egg and mayonnaise, piled with fjordrejer. A word, fjordrejer—tiny fjord shrimps, Danish summer, peachy pink.
would order again: 3 x handmåd (smørrebrød) lunch special, the recommended snaps