Dining in Copenhagen
Nokia is to host a dinner for us. Not that there is an occasion that calls for it. The project is still stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no shore in sight. But Wade, the big American guy, is leaving tomorrow, and if there has to be a dinner, it has to be today.
So at 6:30, we head out. We reach Nyhavn, one of the many canals in Copenhagen, and launch into a search for a nice place to eat in. This is difficult in Copehnhagen, mind you, because every one in two establishments is an eating place. The Danish eat a lot, but it does not show on them. They are all fit and athletic.
But coming back to the hunt. Our group is a queer one. Two French, two Danish, one American and an Indian. The Danish speak English like any American, the French manage, and I am somewhere in between. The Danish have something in mind for the restaurant. And in trying to do a random search for a specific place in the restaurant lined streets around Nyhavn, we land up at quite the wrong places. One such is a restaurant called TopDollar, which gives the American a big scare. The Danish laughingly apologize, and continue with the search.
When we finally get there, it is not like anything that I have seen before. The table has been laid out for six, but there are four glasses per person there. If they are all going to be used, then I want to rethink eating here. But I do not have much of a choice. One of the Dans has already taken the liberty of ordering a five course meal with four wines. A girl in black arrives, and tells us about the menu. It is in English, with a smattering of French words for the ingredients used in the food. She puts up a nice show, quite intimidating for me. I tell her, quite apologizingly that I am a vegetarian, but I can have some chicken. She asks if I can have duck, and does so in a manner that I can not refuse. I don't. My fate is sealed. I am to eat duck today. Quite against my will. I know I would not like it. I am doing no better today than the dead duck I would soon be eating.
We drink four wines, the last one a dessert wine. The dessert wines have low alcoholic content, and are sweetened. But the ones before that, the REAL ones, are heavy duty stuff. The first two are white. Everyone except me joins in a discussion on wines. There is quite a consensus that the first one "just disappears from over the tongue", while the second one has a "buttery taste". To me, they all taste quite the same. The red one is heavier than the white ones, but that is all I can say. I do not even get close to dreaming up quaint descriptions like "disappearing from over the tongue" for wines.
The American is a nice guy. But he is a snob. He says his annual wine budget is forty to forty-five thousand American Dollars. He might have said it under the effect of alcohol, but that is enough to give me a complex, as that is twice what I manage to earn in India. He drinks up the salary of two engineers like me. That is a humiliating thought. I hate the American. I swear I do.
The dishes are all queer. But there is one commonality that I do not miss. They all come in plates much bigger than they need to come in. It makes them look very less and inadequate. And actually, they are much lesser than one would like to eat. Not more than three or four spoonfuls. But I have the idea that everyone is quite enjoying it. With five westerners, I do not have the option of not enjoying it. Even if it is bland tasting, half cooked rice (Risotto) with some very absurd tasting sea-food (mussels). Three glasses of wine only help the purpose. I would, now, have found it easy to enjoy just about anything. After three glasses of wine, life is, in general, good.
It ends with a dessert. Finally, something I can make sense of. It all tastes sweet. Finally, something that tastes like it is supposed to. Everyone seems to have enjoyed the dinner. The American thanks the Danish guys profusely. Everyone is happy, we head home. On the way back, one of the French guys, Rochdi, walks with me. We start talking, and I ask him if this really was typical French food. He says, yes, but it was as weird for him as it was for me. It is not everyday that one eats like this, not even in France. And not every restaurant there serves food like this.
So it is not just me, a disadvantaged third-worlder that sees it like that. The French agrees! I get some of my pride back. Maybe, in Copenhagen, I am not ALWAYS off the mark.
So at 6:30, we head out. We reach Nyhavn, one of the many canals in Copenhagen, and launch into a search for a nice place to eat in. This is difficult in Copehnhagen, mind you, because every one in two establishments is an eating place. The Danish eat a lot, but it does not show on them. They are all fit and athletic.
But coming back to the hunt. Our group is a queer one. Two French, two Danish, one American and an Indian. The Danish speak English like any American, the French manage, and I am somewhere in between. The Danish have something in mind for the restaurant. And in trying to do a random search for a specific place in the restaurant lined streets around Nyhavn, we land up at quite the wrong places. One such is a restaurant called TopDollar, which gives the American a big scare. The Danish laughingly apologize, and continue with the search.
When we finally get there, it is not like anything that I have seen before. The table has been laid out for six, but there are four glasses per person there. If they are all going to be used, then I want to rethink eating here. But I do not have much of a choice. One of the Dans has already taken the liberty of ordering a five course meal with four wines. A girl in black arrives, and tells us about the menu. It is in English, with a smattering of French words for the ingredients used in the food. She puts up a nice show, quite intimidating for me. I tell her, quite apologizingly that I am a vegetarian, but I can have some chicken. She asks if I can have duck, and does so in a manner that I can not refuse. I don't. My fate is sealed. I am to eat duck today. Quite against my will. I know I would not like it. I am doing no better today than the dead duck I would soon be eating.
We drink four wines, the last one a dessert wine. The dessert wines have low alcoholic content, and are sweetened. But the ones before that, the REAL ones, are heavy duty stuff. The first two are white. Everyone except me joins in a discussion on wines. There is quite a consensus that the first one "just disappears from over the tongue", while the second one has a "buttery taste". To me, they all taste quite the same. The red one is heavier than the white ones, but that is all I can say. I do not even get close to dreaming up quaint descriptions like "disappearing from over the tongue" for wines.
The American is a nice guy. But he is a snob. He says his annual wine budget is forty to forty-five thousand American Dollars. He might have said it under the effect of alcohol, but that is enough to give me a complex, as that is twice what I manage to earn in India. He drinks up the salary of two engineers like me. That is a humiliating thought. I hate the American. I swear I do.
The dishes are all queer. But there is one commonality that I do not miss. They all come in plates much bigger than they need to come in. It makes them look very less and inadequate. And actually, they are much lesser than one would like to eat. Not more than three or four spoonfuls. But I have the idea that everyone is quite enjoying it. With five westerners, I do not have the option of not enjoying it. Even if it is bland tasting, half cooked rice (Risotto) with some very absurd tasting sea-food (mussels). Three glasses of wine only help the purpose. I would, now, have found it easy to enjoy just about anything. After three glasses of wine, life is, in general, good.
It ends with a dessert. Finally, something I can make sense of. It all tastes sweet. Finally, something that tastes like it is supposed to. Everyone seems to have enjoyed the dinner. The American thanks the Danish guys profusely. Everyone is happy, we head home. On the way back, one of the French guys, Rochdi, walks with me. We start talking, and I ask him if this really was typical French food. He says, yes, but it was as weird for him as it was for me. It is not everyday that one eats like this, not even in France. And not every restaurant there serves food like this.
So it is not just me, a disadvantaged third-worlder that sees it like that. The French agrees! I get some of my pride back. Maybe, in Copenhagen, I am not ALWAYS off the mark.
posted by niraj at 11:15 AM
2 Comments:
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Awesomely written. Good construct! Better sense of humor.
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