Long ago, when I was 17, I spent a year as an exchange student in Sweden. This account of one of the more memorable meals I had there was written in the early days of the Worldwide Web, which is why I can no longer link to the sources of the quotations. I’m posting it now for reasons that will soon become clear.
“Hellooo?” Rune’s voice precedes him up the stairs.
“Ja,” I reply, rising from my bed where I’ve been reading.
“Ah,” he says as he appears at the door. Mats and Eva, my Swedish “brother” and “sister,” hover behind him.
“Would you be so kind as to change into something fancier?” he asks in his impeccable Oxford-accented English. “We’ve been invited out to dinner tonight.”
Mats and Eva look at the floor, trying not to laugh.
“All of us?” I ask, immediately suspicious.
“No. Just you and me.”
“What kind of dinner?”
The siblings break into a fit of giggles.
“Well,” he says, “it’s rather hard to describe in English.”
Something is definitely afoot. The last time I’d heard him use that phrase was when I found him in the kitchen, frying slices of a big maroon sausage for lunch. “What’s that?” I asked.
“Well, it’s rather hard to describe in English,” he said, handing me a plate and a jar of lingonberry preserves.
Later, after I’d eaten it, I learned it wasn’t at all hard to describe: flour bound with pig’s blood, a.k.a. blodpudding.
“I think I’d better stay home and study,” I say.
“Nej, nej, nej,” he replies. “Meet me downstairs in half an hour.” He heads into his bedroom.
“Eva,” I say. “Where is he taking me?”
“To a surströmming party,” she stage-whispers. I blanch. She shrieks, turns and runs laughing down the stairs.
A little etymology. Strömming is the Swedish word for Baltic herring. The name derives from ström, the Swedish word for stream, which the schools of small silvery fish are said to resemble.
Sur is the Swedish word for sour.
Surströmming is the Swedish word for fermented herring.
Rune is waiting for me when I arrive downstairs. As we step outside, a taxi pulls up, the first I’ve taken in Sweden.
“You aren’t driving?” I ask.
He gives me a “duh” look and climbs in. Soon we find ourselves in a part of town I’m unfamiliar with, a new development full of comfortable houses the Swedes call villas. We stop in front of one that looks just minted.
“Here we go,” says Rune. “Lena and Thomas moved in last week. Tonight is – how do you say? – a housewarming.”
Rune rings the bell. A woman in her 30s opens the door and welcomes us in. Rune does the introductions. We are the first to arrive, Lena explains, taking our coats. We follow her to the plank-floored, off-white living room furnished with a mix of old and new pieces, including a sideboard on which sits a pitcher.
“May I pour you a Tom Collins?” Lena asks.
“Yes, but only a small one for our American friend,” Rune replies.
The doorbell rings and Lena soon escorts three more guests into the living room. Once they are settled, she excuses herself saying that she and Thomas must finish their preparations.
The conversation, or what I can follow of it, is friendly yet formal in that way peculiar to Scandinavia. At one point my attention wanders and I look through the sliding glass door into the back yard. I am surprised to see our hosts standing on the deck in their shirtsleeves – it is November after all – and even more surprised that Thomas is spraying water from a garden hose onto Lena’s hands.
“Rune,” I say, giving him a nudge. “What’s going on?”
“Well, it’s difficult to explain.”
“Give me a break! What are they doing?”
“The theory is that if you open the cans of surströmming like that, the water catches some of the gas and carries it into the ground. They’ll also leave the open cans outside for a half hour or so… Er, why don’t I freshen your Tom Collins?”
Surströmming is a specialty of northern Sweden. Its origins are shrouded in the distant past. Only herring from the northern Baltic, which are said to have a special flavour due to the water’s low salinity, are used. The herring are fished in the spring just before they spawn. Once caught, they are rinsed but not gutted. A typical recipe reads:
When the herring has been rinsed, it is put in a kolfat for a day or more, so that the water is drained; it doesn’t matter if the fish becomes soft. For each firkin of fish, take 7 marks ground salt at the beginning of summer, but 6 marks in the autumn, and mix it and the fish in a large container, stirring with the hands. Then pack in barrels and cover with salt. When the barrel has stood uncovered for 8 to 14 days, put the top on and turn the barrel over. The herring will go sour, but take care to make some holes with a tap so that you can air it during fermentation.
(This recipe was written down by the ethnologist Hülphers in the town of Härnösand in 1780.)
Fermentation allows the fish to be preserved with a minimum of salt, once a very expensive commodity.
These days, surströmming is packed in shallow cans about six inches in diameter. As the fish ferments, it produces gas, which causes the can to swell. By fall the top and bottom of the can are noticeably convex (the surströmming is considered to have reached its peak at this point). By the following spring, the cans are shaped like balls and explosion is a danger.
A schoolmate told me that his brother once drove home from university during a late spring heat wave with a can of surströmming in the trunk of his car and the unthinkable happened.
The car had to be scrapped.
Lena and Thomas come in from the deck, a strange odour trailing them. Two open cans sit on a table outside.
“Did you warn the neighbours?” one of the guests asks.
“It’s a new development,” Thomas says. “We don’t have neighbours yet. That’s why we decided to do the party now.”
The doorbell rings. “That’ll be Gunnar,” Lena says. “My, my, he’s late.”
A few minutes later, Gunnar enters the room, looking flustered. After the mandatory round of greetings, he sits down.
“I’m late because I lost Lena and Thomas’s new address,” he explains. “I called Information, but they didn’t have the number.”
“The phone’s going in on Tuesday,” Thomas calls out from the kitchen.
“Well, anyway,” Gunnar continues, “I knew the general neighbourhood and I knew what we were having for dinner. So I had the taxi driver let me off down the street and I followed my nose to the right house!”
“Brilliant, Sherlock,” says Lena. “Now, why don’t you follow your nose into the dining room?”
Serving advice from a Swedish surströmming site:
All of the people who is going to participate in the dinner must sit close to the can when opened and they should as soon as possible inhale the smell. If you are more than 20 feet away from the can, you will not be able to inhale a concentration big enough. This is the trick—you must as quick as possible so that you strike out your smelling sence. Now you are ready to start eating!
We guests are seated three along each side of the table, alternating men and women. At each place is a large plate. Smaller plates are at the two o’clock and ten o’clock positions. A snapps glass of aquavit and a tumbler of pilsner are at noon. Baskets of a matzoh-like bread, tubs of butter, plates of sliced onion and bowls of steaming fingerling potatoes are placed strategically around the table. Thomas leaves then reappears carrying a tray on which sit two cans. An overwhelming stench, nauseatingly putrid, fills the room. The cans are placed in the middle of the table. After a few doubtful minutes, I can breathe again.
Lena asks me for my plate. It returns bearing a small fish that looks dull, limp, a little sad.
There is, I am told, a proper procedure for eating the delicacy. First, you butter a piece of bread and place it on the small plate to the left. Then, using your knife and fork, you gut the fish and place its entrails on the small plate to the right. Then you cut a piece of fish and spear it with your fork, followed by a piece of potato and a slice or two of onion. Now, take a bite of buttered bread. Then eat your fish, down the aquavit, drink some beer and Bob’s your uncle. You’re ready to repeat the process.
I take a bite of bread and, with all eyes on me, raise the loaded fork to my mouth. I chew. The taste is nothing like the smell nor is it very fishy. In fact, I rather like it. And the potatoes are superb.
“Det är bra,” I announce to smiles.
“Don’t talk,” Rune whispers. “Drink!”
The aquavit burns my throat but cleans the palate. (It was the one time during my year-long stay that I enjoyed the taste.) The beer has a cooling, thirst-slaking effect.
I repeat the process once more, finishing my herring. I ask Lena for a second fish and am greeted with bravos all around.
“The only thing,” Rune says, “is that you have to switch to the traditional drink for minors.”
The wave of nausea returns.
“Can we compromise on water?”
Of course, the adults don’t stop drinking and soon become very merry. Most guests eat four herrings. I wonder what will be done with the leftovers. More beer, much more beer, is drunk.
Lena begins clearing the table and takes the plates into the kitchen. We hear her “oh, no!” over the diners’ din. A few minutes later, she returns, carrying a somewhat burnt fruit cobbler. Thomas follows with a coffee pot and a pitcher of cream for the dessert. The cobbler is served and Lena refuses the complements that are her due, so Gunnar stands on his chair and sings an improvised Ode to Burned Desserts and Their Cooks, with everyone joining in on the chorus. Lena acknowledges the thanks with a smile.
The doorbell rings. Thomas returns and explains that it’s the first of the taxis they’ve arranged to transport us home. First to arrive, Rune and I are also first to depart. As hastily as is possible at a Swedish dinner, we thank our hosts, wish everyone farewell and trundle off into the chilly night.