Results tagged “Copenhagen” from eat drink one woman

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Tuesday, August 4

After a cheap, quick dinner at Wagamama, the British noodle shop (mmm, shrimp curry noodles), we file into Tivoli, located in Copenhagen's city center.  It's such a pretty Lite-Brite diorama of someone's oriental dreamscape.

 

Apparently, it's become a gourmet destination, too, with lots of high end restaurants of renown setting up shop here.  Sarah says that Nimb has been getting rave reviews for their housemade yogurt and chocolate.

But we are there to ride the roller coasters.   At 285 Kroners (about $57) for entry and unlimited rides, it's not cheap, but hey, how often are we at Europe's oldest amusement park?  Because it's raining and pretty close to closing time, there are no lines at any of the rides.  We hop on the Demon, a loop-de-loop roller coaster, twice -- once from the front where you can see the tracks, once at the back to experience the most Gs.  I love the Golden Tower, which affords us a gorgeous nighttime panoramic view of the entire city before dropping us into freefall.  It's now drizzling insistently, and we try to wipe as much of the pooled rainwater off the seats as we can. 

And then we get on the Dragon.  Doug straps himself in next to me.  While we wait for the ride to begin:

ME: So what's this thing do?  [I pull the harness down over my head and lock myself in.]

DOUG:  I have no idea.

The ride is like a ten-armed ferris wheel in 3-D, laid down on an angle.  Each arm gingerly holds a car at its fingertips.  As the wheel spins quickly counter-clockwise, each car begins to swing back and forth violently, until finally the car gives in to centrifugal force and spins upside down.  I am screaming.  Doug is laughing.  My brain is coming unmoored, the capillaries in my skull lose their grip en masse.  Just when I think I can't take it, the ride slows, thank God.  I can't wait to get off this torture device.  But then the ride starts up all over again.  It's like gray matter pinball up in my head.  The rain is needling us so hard I feel like I'm getting a Maori face tattoo.  I am cold and wet and miserable I want off this ride.

When it's finally over, I stumble down the slippery ramp and try to get my gummy worm legs to keep me up.  Doug wants to find another roller coaster.  We run into Emily and Mo, who are carrying concessions from a booze stand.  I get a whiff of Emily's vomit-scented Gammel Dansk and I want to puke.  I splinter off and join the warm, dry folks in a cafe near the entrance. 

ME: I don't know if I can ride home on the bike.  I might have to take the train.

HELEN: Why don't you get a cup of tea?  It might help.

ME: How long is the ride home going to be?

HELEN: Mmm...maybe 20 minutes?

LOUISE: Depends on the wind.  If it's behind you, you'll get there in 10 minutes. 

I warm up with some elderflower tea to mentally prepare myself for the ride home.  Shortly afterwards, Sarah storms into the cafe with Shannon in tow, her hoodie up over her head, her brow furrowed.

SARAH: Did you guys go on that spinning thing?  That made me so angry!  I feel like I need to take it out on someone. 

The revelers slowly trickle in.  The rain lets up a bit and I'm ready to climb back on my bike and get in bed.  Helen's been having trouble sleeping, so someone gives her half an Ambien, which she takes right away.  I'm feeling paranoid that she's going to pass out on her bike halfway home, so I try and cheerlead everyone out the door.  We ride north through the rain.  The wind is howling, but it doesn't seem to be pushing against us.  We're all exhausted.

Helen's got an old-school Danish apartment where the shower is in the kitchen and her personal toilet is out in the fire stairwell.  We come home to discover that the wind has blown in so hard that the door is latched shut, and the only way to unlatch it is from the inside.  And, unfortunately, there's no alternative way for us to get in the bathroom.  I suppose if one of us were Spiderman, we could climb up the 5-story building and swing ourselves into the skinny, open window by a cobweb filament.  5 people + no access to the toilet = disaster.  Heej tries slamming her body against the door to no avail.

HELEN: I don't know what to do.  This has never happened before.  Is Ambien supposed to make you feel dizzy?

ME: Wait, I'll get my skeleton key!

FRANCIS:  What, you just happen to have a skeleton key?

ME: Yeah, for my bedroom at home.

I stick the key in the lock as everyone looks on.  I feel the key catch the latch, turn it once to the right and pop the door open.

HELEN: How did you do that?!

HEEJ: Wow. I have to admit, I did not think that was going to work.

I wasn't sure if it would work either, but I'm pretty pleased with myself.  Despite my Dragon-addled brain, I go to bed feeling very puffed up and useful. 

Wednesday, August 5

Hej -- Hello and goodbye


We're off to Berlin today!  I'm not feeling too wistful because I'm sure that I'll be back in Copenhagen.  I'm fantasizing about moving here to live among the beautiful people, eat gigantic breakfasts and ride my bike everyday.  Helen makes us one last Copenhagen brunch with her amazing tuna salad.  I write down the recipe so I can bring a little bit of Copenhagen into my Brooklyn life.

Helen's Tuna Salad


Canned tuna
Cottage cheese
Yogurt
A bit of fresh squeezed lime juice
Sliced scallions
Sliced green olives with pimentos
Capers
Chopped hazelnuts
Chopped red pepper (not pictured)

Mix and serve with fresh bread, sliced cucumbers and cherry tomatoes.

Stay tuned for Berlin...

Again, the map.

Sunday, August 3 -- Recovery

øl, pronounced uhl -- beer


At around 2pm, we join the masses at the Stella Polaris festival for a picnic on the grounds of the Statens Museum for Kunst.  Helen has made bread from the dough which she prepared at 8am, still drunk, having danced all night and all morning at the wedding.  Impressive.

HELEN: Sorry, it's a little too salty this time.

HENRIETTE: That must have been what your body was craving when you made it!



Some of the braver souls are taking a little hair of the dog in the form of beer.  I don't know if you can see, but in the middle of this photo, there's a bald guy in a gray shirt carrying a genius cardboard transporter for five beers.  Danish drink efficiency -- love it.

And see all these people in this picture?  They all came on their bikes.  The clusterfuck of bikes locked up outside the festival entrance would probably make this guy pop a woodie.

sult -- hunger


That evening, we climb on our bikes for dinner at Sult, a restaurant in Det Danske Filminstitut in the city center.  We're practically the only diners there; when it comes time to order our prix fixe meals, we discover that there are only three fish plates available, which means that I, and the rest of our party, have to eat unremarkable hamburgers.  I can't say my meal makes me want to jump back on the beef wagon.  On Sunday nights, the prix fixe dinner is half off, which leaves the bill at 300 Kroners ($60) per person, which still doesn't feel like much of a deal.

Helen, La Doug, Heej, Francis and I get back on our bikes to head back home.  We're like a grown-up E.T. gang. Doug remarks, "I can't believe we can all fit in Helen's small apartment."

Monday, August 4

Helen takes a big group of us cycling through Christiania.  Francis, who's already gone through on bike, gives us a preview.

FRANCIS: It's hilarious.  It's like the dark, seedy underbelly of Copenhagen, where the overweight and ugly people go.

There are signs posted everywhere asking that people not take pictures.  This is the alleged free-state of Copenhagen, where the hash trade is alive and kicking, and nobody pays taxes. Tibetan prayer flags are strung up on solid little mushroom houses that seem to be built from junkyard detritus.

We cross a river over to the adorable, hobbit-scaled summer shacks with perfect little gardens.  The skinny wood bridges and dirt paths are barely accessible by bike -- it seems impossible to bring heavy things like washing machines or lumber over to the island.



Lunch is a super-civilized affair at Bastionen+Løven, an old-school restaurant that feels like a converted farmhouse, all eggshell white wood, with white butcher paper on the banquet style table.  We eat a late brunch of fiske frikadeller (fish cakes), coffee and beer.  It's a spare lunch, but it feels great to keep it light.  Outside, the storm clouds make heavy threats, the wind tickling the tall, latched windows.




Ama -- an island in east Copenhagen, colloquially called "The Shitty Island"


We ride east towards Amager Strandpark, where cement lookout points the color of kneaded eraser rise like monoliths out of the fine beige sand.  The wind whips my hair into my mouth as we glide along the perfectly smooth cement bike paths, curving our way around sand dunes sewn with long grass hair plugs.  There's something essentially Danish about the moment -- that stark, smooth melancholy, steadfast against the bluster. It's my other favorite Copenhagen snapshot.




To be continued...

I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map...I'm the map!

Saturday, August 2, 5pm -- Wedding Day

Det er (Det var) rigtig hyggeligt -- This is (This was) very cozy. A very Danish thing to say, maybe the most Danish thing you can learn to say.

We've been told to congregate at the polar bear statue on Langeliniekaj 5, close to Kastellet on the eastern coast of Copenhagen.  The actual location of the wedding has been a closely guarded secret for the better part of a year.  Here's what Sarah says in the itinerary:

"First off, you CANNOT be late to the meeting point.  Not to sound dramatic, but you CANNOT be late.  Ok?  Please get there early."

Helen, Francis, La Doug, Heej and I walk for about 20 minutes til we get to the octagonal ice cream shack in front of the meeting spot.  I think we're quite a striking bunch, strolling down the road in the pearly late afternoon sun.



La Doug and I are wearing the same shade of eyeshadow (because I borrowed some from him).  Along the way, one of Heej's snakeskin heels breaks off.  Once we arrive at the meet-up, Sarah R. manages to snap the other one off.  We're toting two bottles of Herradura silver, imports requested by the groom who insisted that there was no good tequila to be found in Copenhagen.  (The only available choice was a brand topped with a festive sombrero screw top.)

Guests trickle in at the harbor's edge.  We hear English spoken with an Irish lilt, with a clipped English accent, with slight Japanese inflection, with California upspeak question marks, along with the nylon string song of Danish. 



Louise, who's recovering from hand surgery, makes an elegant entrance folded and tucked in the front wagon of her sister's bicycle. 

Sarah's bridal gown has also been a well-kept secret; she's been creating it for months.  It's the first dress she's ever made, and it's been a labor so intensive that none of us were sure she'd actually finish it in time for the wedding.  But I have to say, never has a bridal reveal been so impressive.



Her dress and shoes are the grays of the cobblestones, the gray of the stones that tumble into the Copenhagen harbor, gray like Danish cloud bellies; the tulle is dense, plush and huggable, undulating softly like harbored ocean from her neck to her knees.



She sports an amber-colored vintage hairpiece, originally meant to be skewered into the stiff lacquer 'do of a Japanese bride. I love the way she looks, but mostly I love the way Shannon looks at her. 


At about 6:30pm, a ferry slowly inches its way towards the land, docking and releasing its contents onto the cobblestones.  Once emptied, it becomes our ferry.  The entire wedding party climbs the silvery ramp with anticipation and delight, dispersing themselves among the benches on the top of the boat.

For ten minutes, we chug through the saltwater, introducing ourselves to unfamiliar faces, drinking in the cool evening breeze, resting high heels and dress shoes up on the backs of the row benches. 

I had my suspicions, but I can hardly believe it -- the ferry makes its wide, slow turn into the harbor of a tiny island, the lighthouse like a tall, white push pin stuck at 12:00. 



According to our wedding program, we are at Trekroner Fortress, King Christian VII's fortress.  It was meant to be a safeguard against Napoleon.  It is now a novel blip in the Danish sea.  If you're interested, you can read the full program here -- if there were a Pulitzer Prize for wedding programs, Sarah and Shannon's would be a shoe-in for sure.



We start with champagne in a clearing, framed by the tall, blond-frosted grasses being blown out by the sea winds.  Then we head in to the party house for dinner and the rest of the wedding festivities.



There's no way for me to really encapsulate the evening/morning in words -- besides, what happens in Trekroner ought to stay in Trekoner.  Here are a few key snapshots for those of you who want to feel like you wuz here:

• We arrive at around 7pm.  The first ferry back leaves at 1am.  The only other ferry back leaves at 5:45am.  Word.
• We apparently manage to break the record on most alcohol ever consumed at a single event on Trekoner.
  
• The Danes have some great wedding traditions, my favorite being the one where if the groom leaves the room, all the men in the room descend on the bride for an obligatory kiss.  The opposite happens when the bride leaves the room. So charming.
  
• Sarah's poofball dress flaps and bounces like Donald Duck's tail when she's on the dance floor.
• Heej discovers Anders passed out at the top of the hill.  She rouses him to let him know that the only ferry is leaving in ten minutes.  Jens has also passed out on the lower hill, his shoes and the bottom half of his legs peeking out from a shielding patch of grass.
  
• 7am -- After a heroic evening and morning of dancing, a bleary-eyed Helen piles into a cab with eight life-sized, inflatable penguins.  The cab driver sternly refuses to take her unless she deflates her buddies. 
  

And this extraordinary, quiet sunrise, 5:19am, hot pinky orange over slate blue:


To be continued...

For those of you who want to follow along, here's a (super nerdy) map I made for my trip.  All of the places of interest mentioned in these posts will be on the map; the map has some extra recommendations from my friend Sarah which you may also enjoy.  Feel free to open it up in a new window and follow along with the story.  I wish somebody made me a map like this for my trip.  It's my souvenir gift to you.  Click on "View Larger Map" for details. 



View Larger Map

Wednesday, July 30 5pm

Anonyme Alkoholikere = Alcoholics Anonymous


Did you know that at the Dufry Duty Free shop at Newark, you can buy 1 liter bottles of Stoli for $12?  $12!  That's the price of a cocktail at some bars.  Heej, Francis and I spend a good twenty minutes debating whether or not we should get one or two bottles.  We wind up getting three, and another $21 bottle of Jameson's.  Just before we board the plane for our red-eye, I try and buy a fourth bottle, but it's too late to get it packed up and delivered in time.

Thursday, July 31 8am

København, pronounced kind of like "Kuhbenhoun" = Copenhagen



We've arrived in Wonderful Copenhagen! Francis, my super blond English friend, says he's never seen so many blond people in his life.  We take the incredibly easy train to Nordhavn St., the stop closest to our friend Helen's house.  It isn't cheap to ride short distances, but it's very user friendly, with folding seats and tons of bike racks in the cars.  After a quickie nap, we're treated to the first of many extravagant but easygoing Danish breakfasts -- Helen's crusty homemade bread with flaxseeds, walnuts and cranberries, my new favorite tuna salad, juice, fruit, cheeses and good, strong Danish coffee.  I love Helen's bread -- she's able to throw the dough together instinctually, even (and especially) after a night of serious, sopping drinking.  They're fragrant, moist and not too yeasty.  We find that most people and most restaurants serve their own homemade bread.  Eating out is not really a big part of Copenhagen culture.  People are much more inclined to make their meals; cooking and baking come naturally, and without much fanfare.   I admire their ease, the lack of self-consciousness in the food.

Helen's got style in spades, but it also is easy, nonchalant.  From her wasp-waisted vintage dresses to her Japanese grandmother's fluted plates to the vintage white and blue Poul Henningsen triple tier lamp hanging over the kitchen table, it's a pleasure to be surrounded by harmonious but not homogenous design.
 





The wedges of cheese are unapologetically huge here. One of the more interesting discoveries was Myseost, a Norwegian goat cheese that tastes like a cajeta cheesecake.  Slices up smooth, but has a bit of grit on the tongue and a rich caramel flavor.  I don't really know what to make of it, but I like it with grapes.  I've never seen it in the States. 



1pm



We head up north along the coast via train to Humlebæk, where we'll be spending the rest of the afternoon.  We buy discounted train+museum tickets at the Nordhavn station.  I sleep most of the way up and totally miss the scenery.

We walk to the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, a gorgeous seaside building with perfectly manicured glades dotted with sculptures.  It's heavenly to watch the sailboats and fall asleep on the grass on this perfect day.  The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, the greens and blues are as rich as I've ever seen them.




My glass of mineral water from the cafe is an impressive 30 Kroners, or about $6.  The exchange rate is putting the hurt on my vacation budget, but we're saving all kinds of money by sleeping like five sardines in Helen's 1 bedroom apartment.

After our museum visit, we walk along the beach up towards Sarah's house, passing defiantly quaint beach houses with thatched roofs and barnacled tugboats.



I walk with Louise, one of Sarah's oldest friends.  She's a lithe Dane with big Sally Jesse Raphael glasses and saucer blue eyes, framed by some of the longest eyelashes I've ever seen.  She has to curl her eyelashes just to keep them from brushing up against her lenses.  I ask her what's across the water.

LOUISE: That's Sweden.

ME: That close?

LOUISE: Yes, you can take a ferry from Helsingør.  It only takes about twenty minutes. 

ME: Elsinore!  Like Hamlet!

LOUISE: Yes, like Hamlet.

We reach a clearing and a semi-private dock where, despite the cooler winds blowing in, the Danes insist on going for a swim.  "It's not that cold," says local Henriette, "but the Vikings always say it's not that cold."

We jump into the clean waters which, to my surprise, aren't freezing.  The seaweed washes up on the short shore of rocky sand.  Blond "Viking" kids and teenagers jump into the waters with complete abandon.  I only last for about 15 minutes before I get dressed and join everyone for a chic seaside snack of potato chips, fresh peas, and champagne.





brombær = blackberry


There's a blackberry bush next to the picnic table.  Henriette and I pick blackberries until the thorns get in our way.  Some are sweet, most are tart, but I can't stop picking them and gobbling them down.  I mean, when's the next time I'm going to be able to eat blackberries I've picked on the beach?  We float them in the champagne and drink in the late afternoon sunshine.  Later, I notice the blackberry bushes everywhere, climbing fences in industrial lots, crawling up the sides of houses in Christiania, spilling over walls on the side of the road.  Every time I pass them, I want to put on a bear suit and go nuts in the brambles.



5pm Dinner at Sa's house

tandsmør, pronounced "ten smuhr" = literally "teeth butter", it refers to the practice of putting so much butter on your bread that you leave teeth marks in it when you take a bite.

Sarah's parents and grandmother have prepared a traditional smørrebrød spread for us, the classic Danish open-faced sandwiches usually eaten for lunch.  Sarah's father explains to the newbies that you start by piling your slice of dark, buttered bread with the fish items; only afterwards can you move on to the meats.
 


The bread in Denmark is unlike any bread I've ever had -- super moist and dense, dark like chocolate, it's like someone took a whole grain porridge, cooled it until it congealed, then sliced it thinly across the grains.  It's practically meaty, and one or two slices are enough to fill you up. 



It's a spread I'll probably dream of for the rest of my life -- hellefisk, halibut which has been fished up through the ice in Greenland, smoked and sliced into satiny, translucent leaves; herring in a creamy curry sauce sweetened with apples and sharpened with red onions; a beet salad, its sweetness tamed by what tastes like creme fraiche and heady horseradish; a potato salad made of the creamiest new potatoes and bold cherry tomatoes, dressed with chopped parsley and a vinaigrette; salamis and cheeses galore; Grandma's foie gras, veal and pork paté with olives and cornichons; and my favorite, fiske frekadeller, sautéed oval fish cakes made of ground whitefish (I couldn't get the translation for the type of fish, but I'm guessing it was something like pollack), served with a tangy Danish remoulade.  I shamelessly return to the table four times over the course of the evening as we down glasses of cool white wine and swat away the yellowjackets in Sarah's pretty, comfortable backyard.  Though we haven't had to practice anything, this is just what a wedding rehearsal dinner should be -- totally unpretentious, homey, and completely personal.

 

Dessert is a bakery-purchased jordbær tærte, a glazed strawberry tart with pastry cream and marzipan, divine with some dark, strong coffee.  We roll ourselves out the door and onto the bus to make our way back to central Copenhagen.  I can't wait to sleep lying down.

To be continued...