Breaking ground early on in relationships, we often look for habits that seem a little out there. Sometimes we find quirks to share, flavours that shouldn’t go together, figures of speech that border on archaic. Exploring these unique landscapes, we come across completely foreign aspects of our partners. These can bring people together, or drive them into dizzying canyons of difference. Finding out your significant other likes ketchup on their vanilla ice cream would make anyone back away slowly.
These little quirks worm their way into our psyche, for better or for worse. I still scramble eggs the same way my ex did. I also can’t stand people who play white noise to fall asleep, because of the same person.
Sometimes, we acquire traits that sink into our persona, without us realising. Sometimes, these can help us anchor ourselves in times of distress, upheaval. And sometimes, these alternative models of existence come from a cultural beckoning; they are elements of an upbringing that can help us understand the self as part of the collective, and draw us closer to our partner’s worldview.
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Enduring my first winter in Copenhagen was a true test of character. I’ve gotten better and better with candles, earl grey and dairy intake, but in the beginning, I was truly lost. On a whim, I started messing with my brain chemistry, testing combinations, spiralling in a room with no light.The Northern Europeans and their proclivity towards alcohol as a jacket didn’t help.
During ill-fated outings in the city soaked with ethanol and abandon, I often stumbled into Vesterbro’s late night sinkhole: Isted Grill. There’s a lot of things on the menu. None more mythical than The Sandwich, which fuses impossibly crispy pork belly with pickled cabbage and remoulade, the national condiment of Denmark. Similar to a good slice of its local cuisine, it was pinched from its southerly neighbours.
Whether I’d emerged smelling like ten packs of Marlboro Gold from Mc. Kluud, (the infamous bodega up the road), come from legendary kick-on venue Jolene, or finished a shift in one of the city’s bustling restaurants, the grease from this holy matrimony of filthy saturated fats saved me repeatedly.
Most high risk, high reward foods of this ilk end up disappointing in the bare light of day. In fact, the best times I’ve been in were stone cold sober. I was always rewarded with real time theatrics unfolding on the greasy marble floor, as people jostled and elbowed over fried pork and ‘Cocio’ (the best chocolate milk in the world, and the only thing to consume with this sandwich). Not beer, pet nat or Gatorade. Chocolate milk. As fervently recommended by the locals.
I began to see the allure of a snow-covered city during my fourth year, when the coastline appeared to freeze during motion, waves holding still and coastal grasses standing to attention. Visiting my partner’s hometown in the far north of Sweden, I was introduced to all manner of hearty fare to ward off the cold.
When discussing these layerings of fat, starch and protein, I put the question of pairing to the table. As the uptight sommelier I was, I suggested characterful red wines and linear whites. But for my partner, the answer was always milk.
To pair with gluey béchamel and braised meat: milk. To gulp alongside the traditional dumplings of the North, Palt, which wrap pork mince in thick rounds of dough, often infused with pig’s blood: milk. Milk in the morning with cloud berry jam mixed in. Milk late at night, home from the bars, with powdered magic O’Boy (Sweden’s, dare I say, superior answer to Milo). It was always there, and called to me like the warm glass I drank before bed as a kid.
This was not a quirk unique to my partner, but is a practised indulgence in Sweden and beyond. In the Netherlands, you will consume croquettes with a big glass of whole milk, strapped to a tiny bar stool with communal mustard jars and all manner of fried carbs.
In Denmark, many visitors can’t understand the offering of Cocio on the shelves of every pølsevogn, the hotdog street vendors. At first, the last thing in my mind when chowing down on a salty, mustardy hotdog was chocolate milk. But Harry’s Bar in Copenhagen will tell you a different story. A tiny counter stuck in the middle of a suburban street of Nordvest, this shed-like structure is a haven for sausage lovers. The giant queue often comprises haughty Americans who seem incredulous, skeptical Germans, and hungover locals: all with serious stakes in the processed meat-stick game. Each and every one is humbled inside, either by the effusive cheekiness of Harry himself, or the glistening snags and litany of sauces. You eat directly off the bar top. The flat-top sizzles in front of you. You are cured, delivered. And the Cocio comes in litres.
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Now, upon reaching the time of the year where the days slow down and the light dims earlier, I make the journey to the inner suburbs of Copenhagen’s north, to enjoy the dark arts of meat and dairy. There’s nothing culturally correct about this pairing – Denmark’s pork industry is a dirty piece of national shame, and ultra processed milk isn’t exactly a whole food. But sometimes, the reward for foregoing a glass with dinner needs to be riddled with saturated fat. Neural pathways need to be rewarded, but the lesser of two evils triaged effectively.
I always look forward to the infamous ‘Paltzeria’ when I go to my third home, Piteå. Feeding the city's pensioners for decades, this is an institutional, buffet-style homage to Palt. You’ll find me in the back, a pile of dumplings and a large glass of jersey udder juice, not cold lager. And for that pairing, I am ever grateful. I have been anchored by it. In this way, I draw one step closer to Scandinavia, and the place and the people I call home.
After putting up a valiant fight for the first years of my relationship, I sleep well even with the window open thanks to a concoction of dairy that would subsume a normal person’s stomach lining. I no longer rely on anything other than nicotine, caffeine and the perfect marriage of dairy with dinner. I am grounded, I am lactose tolerant (for now..)