Noma and John's Hot Dog Deli, Copenhagen
Whether or not you have been to eat at Noma, chances are that you will have heard of it. It has won all the awards there are, started foraging-based food movements, turned Copenhagen from a food desert into a food paradise and generally been a by-word for the kind of fancified, out-there eating that at once makes it rain Michelin stars and at the same time gives ordinary people cause to wonder what all the fuss is about.
As much as I like food, my starting point on places like Noma tends to lean sceptical. Scepitcal of whether it is worth the money or going such a long way. Sceptical of food people who covet stars over substance. Sceptical of if it is worth paying £500 to eat some ants. Like I said, sceptical.
Even as an adventurous eater, I could imagine myself sitting down to eat and, having taken a bite of a disappointingly small morsel of something I didn’t recognise, saying something like “that’s interesting” or “it really tastes like X”, when what I actually wanted is a non-interesting, giant plate of actual X for about a fiftieth of the price at somewhere I knew and loved.
Perhaps, this is why, touching down in Copenhagen on the kind of balmy evening that Scandinavian mid-summer dreams are made of, I was primarily interested in where the nearest hot dog cart was than when we would get to visit the Noma mothership.
This first stop then was John’s Hotdog Deli, which had the dual benefit of having the Anthony Bourdain seal of approval and being right outside the main train station on the way to our hotel. My 40-year-old body can no longer sustain the type of prodigious consumption of processed meat that it once could, but every now and again I allow myself to indulge. And being in the home of street dogs and with months of sausage-free eating behind me, it was time for an allowance to be made. Perhaps not the kind of allowance that saw the consumption of at least three hotdogs in 48 hours, but once the (hot)dogs have been let out, it’s hard to get them back in the yard.
It took until our second visit to get the hang of the Danish language menu, which meant that the first time my dog with all the trimmings was too small and my dining companion’s purchase was one of those weird hollowed out baguettes which is eaten vertically not horizontally. Having fixed this glitch we feasted on jumbo dogs with everything on, grinning like loonies and standing in a wide stance as the saucy overflow dripped onto the pavement between our feet. It was exactly as glorious and life affirming as it sounds and, in my very limited experience, John’s remains the undisputed king of the Copenhagen street dog.
In addition to swearing off processed meat in my ordinary diet, I also regularly eschew bread. Not because it’s not delicious, but because it is delicious and is a fast-track route to bloats-ville (via nap town) for my tender middle-aged constitution.
Copenhagen was then perhaps not the wisest choice for a weekend away as the things it does really well are…bread and meat. And it does them by the truckload. In addition to our bread-laden breakfast buffet and street dogs, we scoffed pizza at Mother, lapped up cinnamon pastries and salmon sandwiches at Hart Bageri, sampled fancified smorgasbord at Aamanns and, as things got increasingly ridiculous, had to plead with a waiter for only one serving of bread at our fancy dinner at Restaurant Barr, where apparently it was sacrilege not to give each person their own embarrassingly large basket.
Coeliacs must really struggle, or perhaps just drop dead as they enter the city borders at the first whiff of baked wheat.
The main event of the weekend, however, was a visit to the esteemed Noma. Strangely, not to eat, but to attend some fancy workshops and see how it all worked under the hood.
As we strolled towards the restaurant, passing a beautiful lake surrounded by wildflowers on a stunning summer’s day, it all felt a little too good to be true. Like the day had been put together in the most discerning way, giving only the merest hint that perfection could be curated.
In the circumstances, it was hard to hold on to my usual scepticism, and even harder when we were guided through 2 or 3 blissful hours of workshops and talks by the charming staff, who not only generously and patiently explained their work, but also somehow made us feel right at home.
We made miso in the factory, drank sumptuous saffron and honey infused orange juice in the lounge and pretended to understand the ins and outs of lacto fermentation in the prep kitchens. A tattooed forager even served us some ants from a garden bag that tasted like…I think ants.
The experience was, being honest, overwhelming, weirdly emotional and not at all what I expected. I came away enthused, charmed and utterly in love with a place where people at the top of their game could pursue their passions without the slightest hint of pretense. I guess when someone loves what they do and work hard to be very good at it, there is very little you can do but stand back and admire.
It is quite the feat to make a Michelin starred restaurant feel grounded and groundbreaking at the same time, but somehow they did. Was it magic? Were the ants psychedelic? Who knows.
Weirdly, despite being an experience I will treasure forever, it didn’t want to make me return for dinner. I don’t know why. The treats we sampled were delicious, the atmosphere beguiling and the staff utterly and brilliantly charming. I did, however, want to return just to be around the place. To learn more what makes them special and how they make people feel special. Perhaps to learn their secrets and bottle their passion and give it out on the street.
It turns out that, for me, the best restaurant in the world wasn’t about the eating at all. Noma is the anti-hot dog. I wanted to know all about what was in it and yet didn’t want to take a single bite.