Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Lisa Elmquist
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Dear Travel Journal,
In Stockholm this week, I am proving that I’m the fusion of two culinary traditions: overeating and indigestion. When I’m on holiday, savoring new tastes goes right along with savoring new sights.
I’ve become a regular at Lisa Elmquist, a fish restaurant in the upscale food market Östermalmshallen. As any fish-to-fork sea creature might tell you—if it could—the delicacies served at Lisa Elmquist are to die for.
Elmquist is like the stage set for an MGM musical about marine life. The furnishings are as clean and spare as a taut fishing line. The room is a sea of stylish, well-turned-out diners. Their convivial conversations ebb and flow. The crisp ambiance, like the smell of sea air on a breezy day, whets my appetite. Brightly welcoming waiters and waitresses remind me of the ship’s crew on board the Love Boat.
For centuries, Swedes have been voraciously, ravenously, insatiably fishing the Baltic and North Seas. They have perfected their cuisine by cooking boatloads of cod, crab, coalfish, sole, shrimp, salmon, sea trout, mackerel, lobster, plaice. An upwelling of oceanic fish flavors.
Alone at a table for two, to avoid eye contact and social chitchat, I read -- or pretend to read -- a book. I’ve choked on too many human fish bones to want companionship from strangers when I’m traveling.
A herring tasting menu is Stockholm’s culinary answer to sushi. Rectangular slices of pickled herring, portioned out in small ramekins, are garnished with individual toppings: creamed mustard, chopped chives, diced red onions, boiled egg, garlic and dill, beets, hard cheese, sour cream. Aquavit to pair.
Each morsel slides along my lips like a wet kiss. A sweet, briny tang floods my mouth, breaking over my tongue in waves. The fresh fish smell envelops my nose.
A herring sampler—a kind of mini smorgasbord—is a meal unto itself, a dietary fact-of-life that gnaws at me when my waiter asks, “Can I get you anything else?” My stomach says, “No, I’m full.” My lips say, “Let me see the menu.”
I order a dozen oysters arrayed on a bed of ice like synchronized swimmers captured in mid-performance. The silvery grey oysters, dark rye bread, frothy black beer on a bleached white tablecloth are a 17th Century Dutch still life. A plated seascape.
Then comes shrimp sandwiches on toast, open face. Creamed dill potatoes, warm. More dark beer.
When I’m not traveling, I only overeat when relaxed, stressed or with friends or alone. In much the same way tidal estuaries calm breaking seas, dining out soothes the turbulence in me.
Seafood is also a memory. My dad. Our boat. Fishing before daybreak. In a metal pail brimming with ocean water, a striped bass splashing out its final moments before it is gutted and cleaned.
After dinner, I loosen my belt two notches. I make my way along the Stockholm quay pausing to steady myself against an encrusted railing. A seagull squawks as if to speculate on my odds of making it to the hotel and a needed package of antacids.
