Chapter 1: The Coc and the Dog
The Danish Cocio is one of my favorite drinks in the world, though it might harbor few differences from its Nesquik cousin across the Atlantic. Distinct yellow packaging envelops the bottle like a national emblem, the curvy white letters a refreshingly familiar sight for travel-weary eyes. I seek out the elusive Dansk Waldo everywhere I go in Copenhagen, though it can often be found peeking out from amongst the many hot dog stands sprinkled throughout the city.
It’s true, the Coc is really nothing but chocolate milk. Every bottle is creamy and rich, with a velvety milk-chocolate smoothness that tickles the sweet tooth perfectly. The entire process is also as addictive as its content; the sedimentary chocolate layer at the bottom necessitates a good shake, as the milk-based liquid swirls in a turbulent vortex of increasingly darkening hue; then, a twist and a hiss, followed by a cheerful pop as the cap comes off.
Pair it with a Danish dog, however, and there’s no going back. On paper, it shouldn’t work. Every component on the hog dog is palely shaded, a stark contrast from the suspiciously luscious red of its American cousin; the mustard remoulade, lathered on without a care, isn’t the usual bright, radioactive yellow, but a gray, worn out reflection of the Copenhagen overcast. The crispy fried onions sprinkled on top of a generous mound of its pickled and raw counterparts finishes off the depressing picture. But upon first bite, not even Papaya King and his New York City ilk would dare mock the glory of the Danish Royalty.
Chocolate milk and a hot dog – sounds unappealing when you put it like that. But the Coc and the Dog is a sublime combination; the fattiness of the brown drink matches blow-for-blow the porky savoriness of the sausage that snaps against the teeth from its elastic casing being bitten through. Fat, cut through with the acidity of the pickles and the unexpectedly crispiness of the deep-fried garnish. Yeah, it makes a mess; the bun is slim and barely encases the equally anemic-looking sausage, the fried onions scatter everywhere with every bite. But who cares? As a street food, that’s all I can ask for.
Chapter 2: The Nordic Greenhouse
In retrospect, it was a terrible idea to attend a three-hour tasting menu meal at the most influential restaurant in the world a few hours after a 14-hour trans-Atlantic flight. On the way there, we passed out almost immediately in the warm and compact embrace of the taxicab.
Noma 2.0 might as well have not been in Copenhagen, as our journey consisted of snaking through long-winding rural roads and cutting through industrial complexes and residential outposts. Upon reaching the darkened, barely-lit Noma Megaplex situated off the pier in some random corner of the city, the only backdrop left was a towering behemoth of a power plant across the water, bellowing out plumes of steam in the bitter-cold of the Danish winter.
In the barely visible darkness framed by the bay area and dotted with duck-shaped silhouettes, only the warm glow of the glass greenhouse indicated any signs of life. A pair of front-of-house staff members greeted us as we breathed puffs of cold air into frigid hands. A brisk check-in process later under the guidance of a flashlight, and we were ushered into the welcomed sanctum of the Nordic Greenhouse.
Immediately we were in an herb jungle, greens caressing every nook and cranny of the interior. Pots and basins of every color, shape, and size were strewn about in organized chaos, a flurry of tags delineating the vast array of herbs, plants, vegetables, and spices that garnished the cavernous greenhouse. We were given cups of homemade tea, a warming blend of star anise, cinnamon, pears, and various spices grown in this sliver of eden, to no doubt serve as a gentle reminder of the ever-present principles of hygge the Danes so stringently uphold. The cups were very obviously hand-made, as each bore distinct marks and cracks, and no two were the exact shape and size.
The Nordic Greenhouse is vastly different from the almost immaculately designed dining room we would inevitably be seated in, both in style and atmosphere. Yet, there’s a satisfying moment in this ephemerality – entering from the outside cold and into the the belly of the glass beast – that can’t be defined.
Chapter 3: Noma
There’s really nothing more I can add to the René Redzepi highlight reel that would breathe new life into the Danish chef’s already peerless career. The compendiums written about Noma could undoubtedly fill the Royal Danish Library. Documentaries made about the institution have surely already covered the interweaving narratives espoused by food authorities on a global scale.
However, some key takeaways from the night:
1. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I expect reindeer moss to be the thematic ribbon tying together the cohesive tasting menu. But perhaps it is the ingredient that best reflects the restaurant’s relationship with its hometown – humble in origin, mild in flavor, and long been ignored until a genius chef lifted it deservedly into the global spotlight.
2. While the meteoric success of Noma implies its positive ripple effect of the dining scene around it, that would push a narrative disingenuous to the intrinsic value of Copenhagen as a premiere dining destination. It was there in the first place – homegrown, rather than imported; Danish in identity, averse to he American blitzkrieg of the Colonel and the Clown; open kitchens and pure Scandinavian design now emulated as a millenial-attracting design in metropolises everywhere.
3. The Danes apply very few broad strokes to their dishes, usually opting for subtle Japanese finesse instead of the magic of French sauces or the Southeast Asian spice symphony. In fact, they take quite a few pages from the Japanese art of worshipping ingredients on a pedestal (and, to a degree, the island nation’s exemplary design sense), letting the indigenous residents of the Scandinavian north make their case.
4. The dining room of Noma seemed lifted straight out of design magazines, elevated by a gorgeous open kitchen for which chefs would trade kingdoms. As the night slowed and the waiter dragged our drowsy, jet-lagged asses to the prepped lounge area, a flawlessly made cappuccino miraculously appeared to bring it to an uncannily perfect close.
5. As a last tongue-in-cheek Redzepi flair, we were served some duck fat caramel shaped into bird legs nestled within makeshift nests. It almost makes no sense how well it pairs with the coffee, in both taste and design. Pleasantly cold, with an initial bite that gives way to a gooey center, the post-dinner snack is accented by an initial swell of sweetness that, with additional chews, becomes a salty tang and a deeper, savory undertone from the duck fat. Just when I felt I didn’t want it to end, the last tasting note hits like nostalgia — the reindeer moss here to say farewell.
Chapter 4: One Nation, Under Grød
Back during my college days, I had a friend who, without fail, would make and consume oatmeal porridge most mornings. I, also without fail, would jokingly mock his palate and his unfathomable enjoyment of the mascot for bland food. How appropriate then, that during my first foray in Copenhagen, I discovered that grain porridge is also immensely popular there.
This time, however, I was forced to swallow my words, along with some delightful porridge, perfect morning fuel for a highly walkable city. More than the taste, the sheer variety of grød – Danish for porridge – was quite a culture shock. Scandinavia, due to geographic restrictions, is largely a grain-dependent region. Naturally, dishes that incorporate heavy grain elements are a common sight. Never a people to accept mediocrity in the face of adversity, the Danes transformed what the US perceives as old people gruel into a staple popular with the masses – bowls of carefully constructed, sweet-and-savory blend of healthy ingredients and carbohydrate explosions.
Grab a bowl of the eponymous Grød‘s “oat porridge” – crunchy oats submerged in decadent Danish whole milk, topped off with homemade caramel sauce, slices of crisp apples, and roasted almonds – and treat yourself to a spectrum of textures and flavors from the refreshingly sour acidity of the apple to the sweet fattiness of drowning caramel in milk.
Their more decadent “Buckthorn Chia Special” comprises chia seed pudding and almond milk stacked with sea buckthorn compote, roasted coconut flakes, banana, peanut butter, roasted almonds, and that last Scandinavian touch – freeze-dried cranberries and skyr.
Danish grød is a far cry – in both ingredients and composition – from the good General’s American gruel in a box, but I guess I can sort of see the American obsession with a hot bowl of oatmeal porridge in the morning.
One nation, under grød.
Chapter 5: Window Hygge
On the quaint road of Jægersborggade, sandwiched between the Nørrebroparken and the larger Jagtvej street, the Christmas spirit was in full force early December. A quick cup of joe at the Coffee Collective on the corner followed by a porridge feast at Grød across the street, and you’ll be sufficiently caffeinated and carb-loaded to take in the fairy-book aura of Copenhagen sidewalk culture.
Copenhagen’s streets, similar to its kind on the American east coast, are built lower to the ground, some even partially underground. The conferred advantage to such a unique construction is the way windows can be framed for peak hygge. Expansive windows at ground level offer passerby a higher perspective that allows them a peek downwards at traditionally private operations, like looking down into a freshly opened Christmas present, from chocolatiers pouring delectable, molten goods into molds to broødmaskiners removing trays of steaming loaves from bellowing ovens to swarming line cooks busy prepping for a hectic night at the world-famous Relæ.
All the while, decorative lights and vines border these magical Christmas portals as you walk down the street, demarcated by festive Jul (Danish for Christmas) trees along the road. It’s rather astounding how differently Christmas is accessorized in one of Copenhagen’s many streets, yet with all of its similarities to the Yuletide festivities in New York City, there’s a missing component on the American side that is intangible, but evident nonetheless.
Chapter 6: Home Away From Home
Taiwanese food in the United States, historically, has never impressed me. After all, I grew up with the ubiquitous food stalls and night markets of Tainan. My two grandmothers’ cooking got me through nine years of my formative childhood, and my mother followed up for the next fifteen with home-cooked Taiwanese meals. As a rule of thumb, I tend not to seek out my hometown’s tastes, and in turn, I don’t judge the efforts of Taiwanese-American establishments in trying to replicate the flavors of my youth.
I gnawed on chicken cartilage and gorged myself on stinky tofu before ever knowing what Macaroni and Cheese were; slurped down tripe, gobbled livers, and chewed on kidney before ever touching a buffalo wing. A Friday night treat involved bright-pink pork sausage enveloped by sticky rice, aptly named “large intestine wrapped small intestine”, followed by pork-blood rice cake impaled on a stick, deep fried and doused in peanut powder and soy paste. These were dishes my Taiwanese-American cohort did not have easy access to.
So imagine my surprise, on a dark and stormy morning in Copenhagen, when I chanced upon a Taiwanese restaurant in the middle of the city, appropriately named “A Taste of Taiwan.” The place was closed, as most establishments do on Sundays. Despite a total Chinese population of around 12,000 in the entirety of the country, it wasn’t improbable that there would be Chinese restaurants here and there.
But a Taiwanese joint, operating smack-dab in the middle of downtown Copenhagen despite Taiwan being a separate Chinese culture, was a surprise to be sure. Its culinary presence is already relatively obscure in the diverse United States, so to come face-to-face with my home away from home, 5,543 miles from its namesake, was a scene I did not expect on a gloomy Sunday morning.
In a way, I’m glad it wasn’t open that day. Curiosity would have gotten the best of me, and surely, disappointment to follow.
Chapter 7: Deck the Food Halls
I love everything about the Torvehallerne – it’s easily my favorite place in all of Copenhagen. The massive food hall stretches across a carved out plaza in the middle of the city’s busiest intersections, accessible through the main transportation hub right next door. Two long buildings built across the length of the space are adorned with enormous glass panels, placed side by side across the entirety of the twin buildings. During the busy Christmas season, decorative lights are strewn across the exterior, making the sight even more homey to travel-weary visitors.
In the middle of the two structures, an open bazaar of fresh produce and a vast array of flowers light up the scene with polychromatic hues. Rotating stands of Mexican food, craft beer, sushi, and more fill out the busy corners of the outdoor marketplace with an eclectic mix of immigrant culture.
Inside the glass buildings are endless rows of food vendors slapping together sandwiches, plating towers of Smørrebrød, and roasting pieces of poultry and livestock over roaring flames. They pulled fresh seafood from iced encasings – slicing, dicing, and shucking bountiful plates of ocean harvest. Butchers mirrored their movements with slabs of beautifully marbled meat, slashing out prime cuts both raw and dry-aged. Baristas tended to increasingly long lines of caffeine addicts with streams of water over coffee grounds and an endless amount of filter handles.
Amongst the surging waves of visiting locals, tourists, and suppliers, the resident artisans masterfully peddled their wares – polishing knives, rearranging cheeses of different shapes and sizes, topping off different locally-sourced poisons.
All of this happens while the soundtrack of a busy marketplace loops in the background, the din of vendors clashing with patrons the type of cacophonic timbre I adore. Having grown up strolling through Taiwanese public markets, the commotions of Torvehallerne’s organized chaos are rather tame by comparison. Even so, seeing the specialized stands with goods and produce stacked high, the experience and camaraderie of their operators on full display, impressed me to no end. They proudly swear by the quality of their products, convincing travelers not with words, but with all the aplomb of seasoned veterans.
Chapter 8: What The Duck
A friend from Boston, who once studied abroad in Copenhagen, recommended that I eat the best sandwich in the city, a French joint in Torvehallerne by the name of Ma Poule. I handed over 60 kroner (criminally low in my opinion), and received a baguette sandwich stuffed with a generous portion of confit duck that has been bubbling irresistibly in a large, open cast-iron pan. The girl working the station then lathered the bread with a healthy spread of Dijon mustard and sprinkles in handfuls of arugula before slicing the creation in half for the grab-and-go food hall experience.
I still dream about this sandwich: piping hot, duck juice soaking into the firm baguette, the acidity from the Dijon a nice contrast along with the slight bitter tinge of arugula, the mochi-mochi goodness of the bread. On a cold day, it’s easily washed down with a coffee, and on a bright summer day, a glass of cold beer will do the trick.
The hot sandwich offered a welcome buffer against the outdoor frost, even more so while observing the undulating groups of people flowing in and out of the market’s hospitable embrace. Unsurprisingly, the sandwich disappeared in mere bites. Perhaps that’s the key ingredient to a good confit, to always leave them wanting more.
Chapter 9: Mikkeller & Friends
Mikkel Borg Bjergsø and Kristian Klarup Keller, two halves of the infamous Mikkeller Gang, run a notorious craft beer ring in Denmark. The hipster hops mafioso have infiltrated institutions at every level, from ramen shops and BBQ spots, to Michelin restaurant and bars across the globe. Entrenched in their ethos of not being an established brewery – opting instead to parasitize other breweries with experimental creations and niche brews – these ubiquitous bars with the ominous “Mikkeller” branding have popped up randomly throughout continents.
Brazenly, Mikkeller calls them “Friends”, but we all know the truth. Sample our brews! Lend us a bit of counter space! Stock some of our beers! Pretty soon, the dependency on Mikkeller’s protection and infamy took hold, and establishments left and right in Copenhagen began to sport the nefarious symbol itself – the Mikkeller mascot people, disproportionate, 2D cartoon figures staring at patrons with a menacing gaze. Don’t let the Picasso-esque drawings fool you, the eyes of the beer syndicate see all, through every perfectly poured pint, freshly cracked bottle, polished bar counter, and indulgent gulp.
Not satisfied with its domestic conquests, Mikkeller quickly made its way through Asia – Bangkok, Seoul, Taipei, Tokyo – before setting up its first brewing outpost in sunny San Diego, California. With eyes on an east coast expansion in New York while stacking bars and partnerships in over 40 countries, the unquenchable thirst of Mikkeller knows no bounds. It would undoubtedly be unsatisfied until every supermarket, restaurant, brewery, bar, hotel, airport, and fridge in every corner of the world became its “Friends”.
Yeah, the Beer Geek Breakfast, brewed from oats and coffee, is deeply complex and satisfyingly flavorful. Sure, its array of fruit-flavored pours and ales are refreshingly sour and pleasant on the palate. So what, if it’s won numerous awards and innovated the industry with its experimental “one-off” brews, and has been considered one of the best breweries in the world on multiple occasions. That’s how they get you, how they slip their products in every nook and cranny of their home turf, slapping their characters and labels on every wall in the city; the slow domination is as conspicuous as it is shamelessly bold.
But before all that, let me have another glass.
Chapter 10: A Danish-Mexican Institution
When in season, you can often find it tucked within Torvehallerne, an unassertive stand displaying a small sign that reads: “Hija de Sanchez.” It’s easy to dismiss Mexican food in Denmark, the common preconception being that the best Mexican food outside of Mexico can only be found in regions adjacent to its borders – California, Texas, etc. But an often misguided travel fallacy is the concept of stringently adhering to “authentic, local cuisine,” never mind the fact that authentic has an amorphous definition at best; it constitutes an act of self-sabotage that not only misses the bigger picture of a country’s culinary identity, but also inherently rejects establishments that serve… well, good food.
Rosio Sánchez is a force of nature, having built up an astounding culinary résumé at the world-famous WD-50 and then as the pastry chef of Noma, before going on to trail-blaze her own taste of home in Denmark. With two taco shops under her belt as well as her newly opened flagship Sanchez, the rising chef introduced novel tastes and Latin American flavors to a country that couldn’t be more different from her home, and managed to surpass her lofty ambitions. Even Redzepi himself heaps praise upon his former protégé’s restaurant, as his Instagram stories often place him with his family at Sanchez for Sunday brunch.
During a particularly overcast Saturday, in a desperate attempt to fight off travel fatigue, bone-shattering cold, and the miserable, perpetual rain, we huddled into a Hija de Sanchez outpost in the Kødbyen district. Situated in an expansive plaza just off the bay, pounded by salty sea breeze and maritime smells, the shop was already full when we’d arrived, largely from patrons that sought shelter as well. Immediately, the unmistakable scent of fresh-made masa wafted past the door, affirmed by the sight of cooks feeding kneaded corn dough into a tortilla maker. This was a rare process, even in Los Angeles, land of the taco trucks; pre-made tortillas were often more efficient, not to mention easier on the operating costs for small taco stands.
Hija served the standard picks: a trio of pork carnitas, al pastor, and tostada with avocados and a fried egg on top. Both the carnitas and al pastor were textbook perfection, tender meats cooked with retention of moisture in mind, with onions and cilantro showered over the hick corn tortilla to inject a sweet bite. For the latter, the addition of the pineapple accentuated the elaborately layered taco by not only elevating the acidity, but further tenderizing the spit-roasted pork with its protease juices. Surprisingly, the standout of the night didn’t contain any meat at all. The tostada, with crunchy edges and a crispy middle, sloped downwards like a bowl to swaddle its hefty package of pasilla salsa, fresh avocado, and pork juice-tinged fried egg. As the jelly-like yolk breaks upon first bite and runs down to encase the rest of the ingredients in a protein-filled embrace, the lightly-fried tostada vehicle then catches the rest, ready to be shoveled back in again – no mess, no foul.
Grab a bottle of Jarritos to wash down the grease, as quintessential Mexican as can be, and you’ll be blissfully unaware of the squall rampaging just outside. For a brief couple minutes and in a few small bites, Rosio Sánchez managed to convince me and – judging by its popularity – most of Copenhagen, that we were sitting in a Mexico City mercado, snacking on tacos to pass the time.
Chapter 11: The Great Dane
If the Danish hot dog is royalty, then surely John Michael Jensen is its rightful ruler. The sausage connoisseur used to operate a hog dog cart just outside of Copenhagen Central Station, the pumping pacemaker of the city’s arterial bus lines across from the pulsing vibrancy of the Tivoli Gardens. Back in 2016, the Great Dane was conspicuously absent from his known place of operation on one of my last days in the city. I pivoted from his Axeltorv outpost back to Central in a desperate attempt at climbing the pig-in-a-blanket zenith that the elusive man was sure to offer. Sausage John’s social media later revealed him in the midst of a well-deserved respite during that time, and I had no choice but to accept the exacting plight of a man running 2015’s “Takeaway of the Year”.
Fast forward two years, and we stumbled upon what appeared to be a recently erected temple dedicated to the Danish way of life. John’s modest cart had ballooned into a full-on operation in Vesterbro, appropriately sequestered within Copenhagen’s Meatpacking District, a former meat- processing-area-turned-foodie central. Absorbing the aesthetic of the bombastic and unabashedly USA-themed gastropub War Pigs next door, John’s Hot Dog Deli now churns out more than its eponymous origins, slinging out classic hamburgers, frikadelle (meatball) sandwiches, Mikkeller brews (of course), and the sort of fare one expects at a rowdy BBQ shack in the American South. Parked in the middle of the restaurant is a buffet cart of garnitures and condiments, compartmentalized and sorted in various plastic tubs. Diners are free to dress up their dogs with a diverse array of accoutrements, from chunky remoulade and Mikkeller-spiced mustard to a cosmopolitan selection of pickled vegetables and dips.
John’s dogs are a more gourmet depiction of their street-side counterparts. The meat is more specialized, hailing from different sources, and its construction more attentively composed; the Durum bread, lightly buttered and toasted. The shop, of course, carries the dog’s trusty companion, Cocio, albeit with a heftier price tag than the ones you’ll find in local supermarkets. But an extra couple kroners are worth it for the irreproachable pairing. The shop’s dedicated staff certainly wouldn’t mind if patrons partake in its generous offering of beers either, an equally formidable partner for the Danish street food.
At 4 in the afternoon, the Nordic north has long swallowed up the fleeting sunlight, plunging the area in darkness. The buzzy, neon-lights of the surrounding shops’ interior and signage swamped the plaza in a hazy, low-light blanket; the warm glows colored in the puddles that the downpour has generously deposited all over the ground, a glistening palette of an industrial, cosmic radiance. All around, drowsy and fulfilled patrons stumbled about in the ensuing fog for their next carnage, others withdrawing back into their abodes to sleep off the long night.
Not us, not the ones that have scaled the Olympian peaks of Danish tradition, the purveyors of local culture. A Nordic bender, self-destructive and obstinate towards the cold, doesn’t end with the hot dog. It is but a means to fuel the end, a stepping-stone to the long, winding road of Danish gastronomy.
Chapter 12: Christmas Markets
Christmas is serious business in Europe. Not in the American interpretation, with its 24-hour cycle, jingle-and-deals bash that’s been spewed forth ad nauseam by the conglomerate clogs of the advertising machine, but in a more spiritual endeavor. Noël’s camaraderie manifests as a labyrinthian expanse of Christmas markets strewn across the major squares and avenues of the brightly-lit city. The long stretch of individual booths extends forth, connecting major streets and old-town plazas like a stationary Yuletide parade. It encapsulates the Danish Christmas fervor within a walking tour of repeating stands, packed with street food, warming alcoholic beverages, intricately crafted knick-knacks, and an assortment of take-away sweets and mobile desserts.
The atmosphere exuded by the collective efforts of city vendors ensconces the darkened city in a sheath of heartwarming joviality and pure Christmas joy. Contrasting the loud and rambunctious chaos that makes Asian street stalls so appealing, the endearing stands of Copenhagen’s Christmas markets are markedly wholesome, each one decorated in a distinctive festive costume of ornaments and trinkets, hawking its own signature goods.
There’s glögg, a type of intensely-spiced, mulled wine carried over from Swedish neighbors to the east. Intrusively sweet, with a slight bitter tinge and strong notes of cloves and cinnamon, the traditional Scandinavian Christmas drink is as addictive as it is protective from the harsh conditions of Nordic nights.
There’s a festive medley of various sweets, from fresh-made Belgium waffles shaped into arrowheads, drenched in various condiments like chocolate and dusted with sugar, to traditional Danish æbleskivers – essentially a pancake-battered and sweetened version of the Japanese Takoyaki, made in specialized pans indented with spherical cutouts, plunged in fruit jams, and finished off with powdered sugar.
For savory options, German wursts, roasted meats spinning slowly over low, coal-fueled flames, and sizzling plates of deep-fried french fries can be found at seemingly every other stand, interspersed between dessert stands and drink stalls. Those in the neighborhood for more elaborate dining options and heartier fills will find vendors at full-scale operations happily grilling steaks, methodically turning over roasting pig hocks, and ladling steaming bowls of stew brimmed with chunks of meat and vegetables.
For the post-dinner crowd angling for a quick snack while perusing the rich offerings of the Julemarked, the usual European bounties of intricately packaged peanut candies, lush caramels, and a thousand different incarnations of chocolates line the shelves of specialty kiosks, free for children and tourists alike to examine and rummage through. Of course, no European festivity is complete without alcoholic drinks. Aside from glögg, the usual pickings are in order, consisting of hard cider, spiced and steaming, with the option of adding Bailey’s, hot chocolate with a richness that may very well have derived from the chocolates sold in blocks, and beers on tap whose labels rival the heterogeneity of the market lights.
As we wound our way through the curated Christmas celebration, the route hugged illuminated piers, snaked through major commercial streets, bisected historical plazas and squares, and encircled prominent motorways in a perpetually irradiated path from one end of the city to the other. Eventually, the contents of the market booths began repeating themselves every couple stands between the different major fairs, and the whole ride became a blurred experience; we were swept along the crowd and the twinkling waves of red and green, drink in one hand and snacks in the other.
The end of the Christmas market crawl spit us out near a backstreet alley close to the tourist district, hopped up on sugar, incapacitated by booze, stuffed from an amalgamation of small meals eaten throughout the day and late-night treats, and made delirious from jet lag. Christmas is as much a trial as it is a revelry here, accessible only to those with steel stomachs and physical stamina for the gastronomic spree, along with a certain level of tolerance against the frigid cold. But the enlivening markets set visitors up for success; the vendors churn out touted products of both quality and quantity, helping to keep the crowd at bay and moving along on their individual conquests. Most importantly, they underscore the best of what Christmas truly represents – immersive companionship and endless provisions of food and drink, wrapped up with a stroll through one of the most beautifully designed walking experiences the season has to offer.
Chapter 13: A Rainy Interlude
Rain is a torrential deterrent in most travels, the perpetual pitter-patter and dampness able to scatter tourists and wash away any signs or semblances of a historically popular hotspot. In a walking city like Copenhagen, the constancy of falling water effectively forces locals and visitors alike into nearby burrows for shelter – hotels, restaurants, libraries, museums, and most popular of course, coffee shops. The hackneyed scenery of sipping a cup of the brown stuff while admiring the chaotic swirls of rain droplets pounding against picturesque window panes is as ubiquitous as can be, but its efficacy in shaking off the discomforts, literal or otherwise, can’t be overstated.
In the kingdom of the kaffe, its languished citizens inundated by the overcast deluge often crowd the hygge hotspots, bumping shoulders with out-of-towners equally intent on experiencing the amplified effects of downing coffee in the drizzle. Hell, the most constructive way of handling the city in the rain is probably to string together a series of cafés, minimizing trek times and optimizing frequency of espressos, interweaving bites and books here and there to spice up the squall-spoiled indoor adventures.
It is one such day that we ended up at Heimdalsgade 22, a quaint coffee-shop-cum-record-store just off the main street, neighbored by an industrialized playground dressed in Danish design that unfortunately, few could appreciate in such cloudburst weather. The wood-furnished interior blasts newcomers with an aggressive embrace from the heater, enveloping the comfortably compact, dual-room shop with sleep-inducing warmth. Ambient acoustics and jazz records coupled with a well-made cappuccino in the rain is a dangerously placative combo, able to render complacent any wet and weary traveler that may have grandiose plans for the already-dimming morning (sunset is around 3pm). It takes almost superhuman willpower to detach oneself from the cozy counters of Heimdalsgade, especially to head back into the precipitous outdoors – battered, beat, and bruised by the plunking droplets whipped up in a frenzy by the accompanying gall.
Alas, avarice and gluttony for food require a certain degree of sacrifice. And so, belly full of liquid, bloodstream circulating with caffeine, and soul overflowing with hygge, we drew the curtains on the rainy interlude with agonizing reluctance, and the violent greeting of the downpour welcomed us once more.
Chapter 14: Spread the Hygge Cheer
Though Møller Kaffe & Køkken, the trendy breakfast restaurant tucked cozily on a street corner of the Nørrebro district, isn’t known for its fast-paced service, is there such thing in the European dictionary of hospitality? Sunday breakfast (or brunch for a bunch of soggy, immensely jet-lagged sightseers) marches to the beat of its own, slackened drum here, a philosophy clearly reflected in the decor. There’s an area for tables immediately upon entry; idyllic, pastel-smoothed constructions that beckon to the offspring of IKEA and West Elm, really the synonymous aesthetic for hipsters nowadays. Past that, a rectangular counter wraps around the middle of the room, a makeshift barista viewing area for single-party drifters to admire the diligent caffeinistas hard at work. Just beyond the central area, the furniture paradigm shifts to an upscale, interior-design showfloor, with mismatched sofas, tables, and fur-draped chairs that form an eclectic jigsaw puzzle of Scandinavian whimsy.
It starts, as it always does here, with bread. Grain-fueled sustenance, after all, is the bread-and-butter of the Nordic culinary code – a basket of fresh-baked slices with its trusty, creamy butter sidekick to start. And when it rains, it pours. The gastronomic ensemble came all at once, the spread quickly taking over the table in the blink of an eye. Our server laid down plate after plate of food in precise, abrupt succession, a conspicuous departure from the lull of the aura before – sausages, delightfully singed on the outside, with a scattering of pine for that signature “wild” taste of the Nords; avocado toast, with a spread as silky smooth as butter; two fried eggs, topped with freshly chopped herbs, and a dab of of the shop’s own hollandaise interpretation; fluffily scrambled eggs, sprinkled with a generous heap of King Trumpet mushroom for the extra umami kick; a cornucopia of Danish Danbo cheese, soft and hard, dressed with watercress; stir-fried chunks of sweetbreads, oiled and garnished with microherbs; and of course, a heaping bowl of pink Danish yogurt.
Perhaps more telling of quality beyond descriptors is that the food disappeared into thin air almost as quickly as it had arrived, four ravenous travelers pushing the limits of physical fatigue one indigenous bowl at a time. The food was fleetingly delicious, and scratches that quintessential spot between local consumption and tastiness in a much-craved, serendipitous spread of hygge.
Chapter 15: An Immigrant’s Tale
To truly glimpse the extent of a culture’s culinary identity, one must go beyond the obvious, the accessible, and the “authentic”. Case in point, Nordic food can probably cultivate a lifetime of debate and research, but even that offers a poignantly incomplete picture of Copenhagen’s resilient gustatory spectrum, propped up by the city’s often overshadowed half, its immigrants and minority members.
Doner kebab shops are everywhere in Copenhagen, inserted in obscure streets and busy corners, often with the same flamboyant photos and 90’s era store fonts plastered all over the shop. The relatively more subdued Kebabistan, though less visually intrusive as its neighbors, slings out its signature shawarma wraps and deep-fried potatoes fries with commanding authority, its name alone able to conjure forth decorated chefs from far corners of the globe that descend upon Copenhagen once a year for Mr. Redzepi’s MAD Symposium. The venerable Peeter Meehan, former editor of Lucky Peach and current editor of the Los Angeles Times, first partook in the rapturous tales of the meaty metropolis KEBABISTAN under the tutelage Rene himself. It was in the now-defunct Lucky Peach website that I stumbled upon his revelatory documentation of the fabled rotisserie experience, and one that compelled me to retrace his lamb-scented steps the first time.
The second time around needed very little persuasion, as the preponderance of shawarma shops in every block failed to distract us from the massively embellished KEBABISTAN sign literally next door to our brunch location. We sheepishly stumbled into the store, pretended to peruse the menu to appease our hedonistic guilt, and eventually succumbed to the oil-dripping, vertically-erected Holy Grail just a couple arm lengths away.
Sheets of thinly sliced lamb, sheared amongst the embalming flames, were stuffed into a hot, puffing pocket of pita. Layered with fresh herb salsa and drizzled with the acidifying Tzatziki sauce, the entire construction was dunked into a pit of fries that just went for a dip in the fryer. The primary economic export of Kebabistan drags locals in through the door on olfactory prowess alone, able to convince the healthy, fit, and multi-grain obsessed Danes that, yes, once in a while we should all plunge into a pool of slow-roasted meats bathing in its own juices and smoke, while enjoying a basket of fries on the side.
And this is why dedication to perceived authenticity often causes gastronomic negligence. To eat locally while traveling doesn’t mean to simply adopt a dietary schedule of rotating national dishes embossed by the glossy pages of travel guides. The original ethos revolved around an adaptation to what the locals eat. Often, immigrant dishes are molded and shaped according to the indigenous palate, with generations of subtle changes that may eventually transform these foods to something completely unseen outside of its assimilated country. History has definitively shown us the culinary potential of Tex-Mex, Mission-Style Cal-Mex, Nikkei Peruvian cuisine, Chinese-Vietnamese cookery, and the multi-faceted, untraceable origins of Singaporean hawker center eats. Authenticity has become a dangerous buzzword of ignorance, a hill of misguided intentions that outsiders often die on, failing to look a little deeper at the foundation of that very hill, born from the food of the marginalized.
Chapter 16: Cozy as a Cub
Often during travels, there’s a singular locus that the mind often turns to in remembrance of the journey, an entrenched point of memory that comes up time and time again in reminiscence. For me and Copenhagen, it’d be CUB. At one point the winners of the Danish Aeropress Championship, the baristas there are certainly up to par, able to whip up an intricate brew on demand.
For one, with a name like CUB, short for Copenhagen Underground Brewers, the coffee shop’s intentions did not dawn on me until I had left: the aesthetic was seemingly modeled after its fluffy, hibernating namesake, the juvenile bear, or more specifically, its preferred abode. CUB was located relatively deep underground, a short but steep flight of stairs leading almost vertically down to squat doorways that took some wrangling to climb through, especially with cumbersome umbrellas. Inside, visitors are immediately greeted by an L-shaped coffee bar. Affixed to the wall behind the practiced barista were slats of wood signage depicting an impressive selection of welcomed cold deterrents – sundry coffee drinks of differing dairy levels.
As expected from a prestigious establishment, and a winner no less, the coffee was beyond reproach, but the real head-turner was the decor. Smooth, grey-colored surfaces emulating deep bedrock enclosed the floors, walls, and ceilings of the underground cavern, engulfing patrons in a den-like ambience. Trapped heat circulated the multi-roomed dugout in cozy embrace, almost aggressively so. Warm drinks, paired with a toasty sweater of air and appropriately fur-draped benches and tables, gently suggest hibernation as the only acceptable activity, or lack thereof, in that moment.
Sat against a side wall encircling the seemingly carved-out cavern chambers, I fell into a kind of trance, incognizant of the cacophonic murmurs of nearby denizens and the clinking of cups against tables. Still, I was not so comatose that I couldn’t admire the impressive movements of the single barista hypnotizing with caffeinated potions and brews. With intense dexterity, she transitioned seamlessly from collecting empty cups and glasses from tables to coaxing aromatics out of stubborn beans with concise flourishes of hot water, stopping only to greet newcomers at the door or quickly jot down orders at the bar.
Eventually, the atmospheric temperature felt like it had matched the level of the beverages at hand, a heated smog that collapsed upon itself – comfortable in the presence of the glacial outdoors, increasingly unbearable as the body’s homeostasis kicks in. Despite being clocked by the rain-fueled gale still prancing about outside, I felt sufficiently energized by the re-emergence from the cub’s den.
Chapter 17: Major City, Minority Culture
Japan and Denmark. Tokyo and Copenhagen. These locales could not be more far apart on the surface, culturally and geographically. Take a closer look, however, and one might find more concealed similarities than expected. In fact, resident gastronome Rene Redzepi once hosted a pop-up in the Japanese megalopolis before, and shared trade secrets with the sushi deity Jiro Ono himself. If you manage to find yourself in the Copenhagen Design Museum at any point, you’ll learn that historically, the Scandinavians owed much of their design philosophy to the Japanese, and vice versa. It’s no surprise then, that the two countries – situated in opposite sides of the world – remain the peerless trendsetters of the industry.
In dissecting the two cuisines, parallel cultural mindsets begin to converge, running a singularity that places certain priorities among all else: seasonality, locally-sourced produce, and an upheld creed of letting the ingredients speak for themselves. Analogous components of these two powerhouse gastronomic regions are more obvious in certain respects – kaiseki and New Nordic tasting menus; dedication to grain products; small, shareable plates with strong focus on custom wares and vessels; obsession over vast seafood bounties plucked from off the coast. Other culinary facets are harder to discern. For example, there’s no real Nordic equivalent to yakitori, nor is there a Japanese counterpart for the Scandinavian hot dog. Nevertheless, the intertwined approach of two cuisines now at the forefront of the culinary stage showcases a more refined and subdued way of cooking, drawing immense potential from their backyard fauna and flora with a soft, almost hands-off approach to delicacy.
Once in a while, however, the importation of foreign culture learns towards the heavy-handed side, as seen in the less-than-subtle Ramen To Biiru in Copenhagen. Translated literally as “Ramen and Beer” in Japanese, the city’s only joint slinging out bowls of Japan’s major noodle export adequately emulates the humble spirits of a ramen shop. Cramped, with a jumble of disorganized seating options ranging from small counters to single seats that jut out from wooden pillars, the density of the noodle bar is eerily familiar. For that added sprinkle of authenticity, a ticket-dispensing vending machine stood near the entrance, though functionally, it was more decoration than an alternative to a POS system that day.
After securing our bowls of ramen, of which there were standard options like the Shoyu-Shio-Miso trio one often finds in ramen menus around the world, we took in the surroundings with amused curiosity. Gizmos, gadgets, and obscure antiquities lined the decorative shelves around the restaurant, from 80s pop-culture memorabilia to faded movie posters of the hand-drawn era. A window into the operation revealed a scene not unlike what one might find in open-kitchen ramen counters in Japan: vats of bubbling stock as cooks rushed about, pulling al-dente strings of noodles from hand-held baskets and ladling bowls of broth, all with the chaotic urgency rarely seen in Nordic society. The concept of “Ramen to Biiru” was a cross-continent collaboration between Mikkeller and restauranteur Daisuke Uki, continuing a long line of symbiotic design influences that propers to this day.
The ramen itself was nothing to write home about. The noodles, slightly overcooked, failed to pick up any of the fatty oils floating about the broth, which was a bit light for my taste. Still, being able to find a functioning and rather immersive ramen shop in the far North was an impressive feat in itself, speaking to the dedication and deference Mikkeller surely held for its country’s Asian complement. A line of Japanese-inspired craft beer (Mikkeller-branded of course) offered patrons a uniquely Danish experience in its take on Japan’s revered street food. Mikkel, despite his multi-cultural tendencies, is still proudly Danish after all, and understandably so. Scandinavia’s cultural exports may not yet have the influential clout of Japan, but their ascent to relevance have undoubtedly been making waves.
Quality of the food aside, there’s something to be said about the fact that 150 years after Denmark and Japan established diplomatic relations, the intangible interconnectedness and history of two disparate cultures clearly manifested in a bowl of ramen, 5,374 miles apart.
Chapter 18: A NUMTOT’s Farewell
Public transport and urban design are some of my greatest passions in life, and by extension, a significant area of focus in my travels. Expansive and well-functioning mass transport is synonymous with a widely accessible city; it almost always correlates with its walkability and appreciating value as a tourist destination. Of the global metropolises of the world, transport hubs and pedestrian-friendly design are points of pride, indispensable cogs of a well-oiled municipal machine that serve a dual purpose: economic lifelines for locals and displays of infrastructure prowess shown to international visitors. Central subway stops, train stations, and airports are often the most intricately designed sites, built for amenities and efficiency; understandable, given these are key gateways for foreign visitors, the vital first impressions of a city’s global reputation. In addition, attractive and reliable modes of transport also translate to higher standards of living for citizens that consistently use them. In fact, research has consistently shown that infrastructure-oriented cities often produce happier inhabitants, with Copenhagen being the proven archetype for this hypothesis.
Copenhagen, above all else, has one of the most painless airport-to-city-center rides in any city, a brisk 15 minute ride from the airport with no transfers and a handful of stops. Only two lines run to and from the airport. The portal to Downtown Copenhagen takes visitors through Nørreport Station, one of the city’s epicenters and a major stop for the city’s army of buses; their various migratory routes often intersect at this transport nucleus, sucking in and spewing out residents and guests alike, a prime watering hole for the homogenous pack of towering vehicles.
The 5C buses stood out as the apex of the herd, a 24-hour dedicated line that patrolled the major avenues in the area. A few could be sighted seemingly every 5 minutes, plodding along in opposing directions. The streamlined mobility of just one of these bus lines already ranks Copenhagen amongst some of the most ergonomic cities out there, especially compared to most US equivalents where pedestrians play second-fiddle to motorized terrors.
The most evident signs of a city’s merits are the contours carved into its design, literal paths laid out before its travelers to best take advantage of its urban charms and characteristics. Infrastructure, in its most developed form, should operate so seamlessly that it plays no evident role for the average foreigner – getting from point A to point B made so inconsequentially subtle that it blends into reminiscence. Memories of a pleasant trip should not include bumps on the road; conversely, a particularly bad case of transport malaise may very be the main takeaway for visitors. With that in mind, Scandinavia, armed with a breathtaking array of functional fleets, expansive coverage of bike-friendly lanes, citizens of a thousand daily steps, and interlocking webs of multimodal transport options, may very well have passenger delivery down to a science.
But despite my firm belief in the primary directive of public transport to be a discreet backdrop of a cityscape, integral but unobtrusive, it still impressionably remained the last thing I thought of before I departed Copenhagen Airport. The gulf of public infrastructure – a fissure wrought from bureaucratic inaptitude and apathy – between the country I would soon depart and the country I call home is egregiously disparate. Learned hopelessness, having long descended into self-deprecating jokes and derision, has long plagued the populace of US cities. They’re concrete jungles wallowing in structural mediocrity, sagging under the increasing weight of wealth inequality and bureaucratic incompetence. San Francisco, with its feces-filled BART stations and vanishing coffers; Los Angeles’ woefully inadequate rails, with outdated promises decades in the making. The arthritic tunnels and bloated maintenance costs of the NYC Metro, as iconic as its ethnically amorphous citizens; in contrast, Seattle desperately throwing tracks where they stick, swarmed by the Amazonian hives punctuating the city’s self-identity.
In an increasingly globalized society, cities wage wars not with ballistas and firepower, but a stockpile of soft power ammunition. Fresh coats of paint, hastily drawn across façades of artistic plazas and embellished shopping centers, can only distract from the crumbling foundations for so long. At some point, Americans must address the issue the rest of the developed world seems to have figured out: as more people set up roots in densely-packed metropolises, sustainability and standards of living now define their character.
It is with that melancholic note that I depart Copenhagen, leaving behind a concrete bar set way too high and the answer to an enduring question – yes, infrastructure can, and should, be hygge too.
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