Let's start at the beginning; part II

I can’t tell you too much about my first impressions of Sweden. I was far too absorbed in the biggest heart break in the history of the world, to register the postcard perfect scenery speeding by the window, as the train made its way from Stockholm to Båstad, my destination of self- imposed exile.

I spent my first night at the home of one of the three couples who own the hotel. In the morning I met Karin , whos English is generally very good, but due to the quirky kiwi accent and habit of speaking very fast, wondered what language I was speaking. She took me by the arm, spoke very slowly in English so I could understand and announced that she was my Swedish mother and I was to come to her at any time of the day or night for whatever reason.

 She is partly responsible for my love of Sweden. In the following year she treated me just like a daughter. I was always welcome at her home, my room always ready, should I feel the need to come ‘home’ for a few days after the summer, when I moved north to Lund. Midsommers, Christmas, Easter ( more on Swedish celebrations later) and birthdays were all celebrated with my Swedish family.

Karin on Midsommers day

My arrival coincided with Bjäre Potato week. In nearby Båstad, along with celebrations dedicated to potatoes, ten restaurants from the region had to showcase their food every morning for the week. In order to encourage people to begin dining out again after a winter spent in hibernation, each restaurant also had their own set menu for the week, at a reduced rate. So my first day was spent prepping the courses on our menu as well as a few hundred canapés for Tim ( my new boss) to take into Båstad the following day. The next morning I spent a few hours adding the finishing touches to the canapés. Tim left Viktoria and I to it, reassuring us that it would be fine with only twelve people booked for lunch and in any case he would only be gone a couple of hours. I should mention at this point the kitchen was in the middle of being refitted so there were only two big barbeque's, to cook on until the new equipment arrived. All was set to go, tables set for maximum capacity of around fifty inside and out, gleaming glassware and cutlery, plates warming and the first course of soup, heating. I was even quietly congratulating myself at having prepped extra, just in case we had one or two drop-ins. This was going to be a breeze.

The first few tables arrived and got their courses on time, the chicken was even cooked right through.
 I must have repressed the memory of what happened in the following few hours. I am told that on top of the twelve booked the anticipated few drop-ins escalated to more than fifty. Anything we had ordered in for the dinner service was used, after that was gone; alternatives to the menu were offered and ordered.

I remember looking up in horror as Viktoria came through to ask if we could do another table of six that had just walked in. I told her no way in hell, she told them of course not a problem, let me show your table and I’ll ask the “chef” what we can offer you. Somehow Viktoria managed to serve all of these people, reset tables, settle bills and wash the mountain of dishes, all the while with a smile on her face. I wasn’t so graceful; too traumatised to even be grateful that none of the customers seemed to contract food poisoning.
I will never forget the sensation of that first lunch service, the feeling of the wheels only just hanging on by one loose nut while you’re speeding out of control down a zigzagging mountain road.
Tim returned in time to see the last guests leaving and suffice to say was over the moon with the unexpected turn out. Stocks were restored for the dinner service and we went in for round two. After finishing for the evening, with just one tearful breakdown from me, quickly remedied by Tim with a shot of brandy, I crawled into bed to face reality.
Let me tell you the glee at having pulled off such a big scam, convincing someone I had capabilities I now quite clearly wasn’t in possession of, was fast replaced with sheer terror. I was not looking forward to the next day.


In the end, life in the kitchen was made easier, with the realisation that going home wasn’t an option. After restaurant week, things calmed down to a far more reasonable pace. An al a carte menu was offered for the remainder of the summer and gradually my confidence in the kitchen grew. We can’t have done too badly as we were awarded highly recommended in the national restaurant guide after just one summer.

Down time at work: Tim and Viktoria

So it was definitely more of a learning cliff than a curve. I am now fully aware that ‘have experience making school lunches for my family’ does not translate to ‘can run a commercial kitchen.’

Despite its curious name, Kvinnaböske, which translates directly to woman's bush, couldn’t have been in a more picturesque setting. Set out in the countryside, about 8km from Båstad, the hotel, with its thatched roof and red exterior, looks a little like the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel. One direction looks out over fields of horses down to the most beautiful white sandy beaches just five minutes away by car. Behind the hotel, lays an expanse of forests where, depending on the season, you can go foraging for wild mushrooms, Raspberries, Blueberries or Hjörtron berries ( Cloud berry). I was even lucky enough to spot a baby white reindeer and her mother, when out riding with Viktoria one winter’s morning. 

Cloud berries, Blueberries and Chanterelle mushrooms

Looking across the restaurant to the sea

Viktoria riding into the forest

I moved into a derelict old farm cottage 200m down the road. One day I returned from a day off to find five young Swedish guys had also moved in. They were friends of Tim's who were promoting their kitesurfing school at the Swedish tennis open, held annually in Båstad. Apart from Viktoria they were the first Swedes I had met my own age. As therapeutic as working 15 hour days 6 days a week is, having the attention of five lovely, entertaining Swedish boys will do the same job in a fraction of the time. Delusions aside, the following three weeks were great fun. Mornings would start with a walk down to the beach for a swim (that summer was almost as good, weather wise as the following one, with sunny skies and 24 degrees plus the norm) followed by work for Viktoria and I, with the boys occasionally coming in to serve later in the day once they had finished doing kitesurfy stuff in town. The evenings were spent in Båstad.

                        Boys donning the fetching uniform of Kvinnaböske Krog

Erik doing some nifty trick

Now is probably a good time to describe what happens over the weeks of the tennis. The permanent population is about 4700, this swells to more than 25,000 over these weeks. This is when a number of businesses make their profit, enabling them to close down for the remainder of the year. The attraction as it turns out, is not the tennis, but the opportunity for the Stureplan Brats to sail their yachts into the harbour, spray champagne over the plebs and climb a few rungs in their social hierarchy, before sailing off to the next summer hot spot. The pampered spawn of Stockholm's fabulous, Brats tend to operate in packs, easily identified by their slicked back hair, pink pressed shirts and never empty glass of champagne. Brat spectators also account for the swell in numbers. Although slightly disturbing to watch, tennis weeks in Båstad are well worth experiencing. Brat behaviour is by no means the norm for the average Swede, nonetheless it is a fascinating phenomenon.

Ageing Brat

It was during these weeks that our first proper cultural exchange took place. After one of the boys ran out of the kitchen, close to tears and clutching his throat, having mistaken my Vegemite for chocolate spread, they decided to introduce me to a Swedish delicacy.

Vs

Literal translation 'sour herring'

 Surströmming is the name given to fermented herring. As Henrik's mother was from the north, where surstörmming has its origins, he was self-appointed expert on the dish. Alarm bells should have been ringing when he herded us all outside just to open the tin. (In the north many homes have an outhouse far away from the main house, especially for eating surströmming). If you are game/stupid enough to partake in such event, it’s advisable to wear old clothing and stand well away from the tin, as it bursts open, drenching unwitting bystanders with a nauseating spray of rotten fish. To be fair Henrik had put a lot of care and effort into doing the dish some justice. Each of us were handed a piece of hard bread with boiled potato, dill crème fraiche and a sliver of the herring. Erik went first and put on quite a display of theatrics just getting it to his mouth followed by projectile vomiting and a torrent of swearing in Swedish, The others all followed suit, each meeting the same fate, until it was my turn, and I can tell you my senses have never been so horrendously violated by anything like it before. Words cannot describe the smell that would linger for the rest of summer, in the garden, in the toilet, on clothes that little flecks of other peoples vomit had unknowingly landed on and in the resulting nightmares for the months to follow. I can smell it now two years later and hundreds of miles away in my bedroom in Spain. Any thoughts that the others before me were being overly dramatic were dispelled as I too wretched into the neighbours garden.


Despite our reactions, which may have been due to Henrik's inexpert preparations, I am told that many people actually do enjoy this dish, although I think it unfair to place it in the same category as our beloved Vegemite.

 Between Karin, the kite boys and Viktoria's family alone I never once experienced the supposed coldness of the Swedish. In fact I was often overwhelmed by their total kindness and hospitality toward me.
So after such a great summer I jumped at the chance to stay longer when my friend, Charlotta offered me her room in a small student corridor in nearby Lund, while she went on exchange to Cork for three months.