The Great Taste Test
Who determines standards of flavor?
I go down the list. “Best smørrebrød,” “king of smørrebrøds,” “serving the finest herring dishes since 1877.” The accolades continue, each proclaiming to be the worthiest of what Copenhagen has to offer. How am I to choose? There’s only one way to determine whether any of these places have the quality to support their assertions.
I’m not going to be convinced by medals displayed in their lobbies, or their names catalogued on some esoteric guide. I won’t accept celebrity endorsements or chef reviews. I can’t trust online surveys or even local recommendations. No. I’ve got to do the only thing I can to convince myself of the best herring in Copenhagen. I’m going to go on the great taste test.
The view at the first restaurant is sublime. Right by the waterfront white umbrellas shelter us from eager gulls. But, I mustn’t get distracted by ambience. The silver darlings arrive laid out on dark rye bread and blanketed by a snow of cilantro. They reek of vinegar and the sea…or is that the harbor I’m smelling? It’s my first go so I reserve judgment.
The second place is tiled with a lot of walnut furniture. My dish comes on a plank, presented like sushi: on the left toast points, in the middle fish, on the right mustard sauce. I’m intrigued by the presentation, but can’t tell the difference between the separate clumps of sliced seafood.
The third eatery serves me their combination platter on sixteen small ceramic salvers. Against the ash-hued terra-cotta background the elegant slivers topped with bright green dill and lemon wedges perch like stilettos at a shoe boutique. I’m afraid to ruin the look by shoving them into my mouth.
On and on it goes. Eventually, I’m too lost or too drunk on the flavorless glasses of aqua vita that go down like water to have an opinion on the best herring in town. Was it the triple sauces that I preferred? Or the one accompanied by a ramekin of capers? Or the ones displayed like petalled roses?
Taste, it turns out is impartial. There are only five that exist for humans: sweet, salt, bitter, sour and umami. Flavor, however, is subjective.
So who gets to decide what constitutes great flavor? Does one person’s love of fermented food translate if another person gets put-off by acrid taste? Can a lover of dairy trust the advice of the lactic intolerant? Why are vegetarian dishes compared to meat flavors to appeal to the masses?
Why is the use of heavy salt and butter seen as the epitome of haute cuisine by some? Shouldn’t spice blends be equally lauded in culinary academies? I try to implement parameters into my herring evaluation, but the overall metal feel on my tongue precludes any deep analysis. Other than that all the dishes were fresh and edible, I’ve come up with nothing.
Perhaps all awards and certifications restrict our collective imaginations because they inherently involve some level of gatekeeping. I get easily convinced by the stickers on my grocery products advertising “voted best biscuit since 1924,” “finest in the land from those who know,” “farmers choose Farmer’s Brand.”
In the end I’m the only one who can judge what tastes great to me. So, I’ll have to do the hard work of being my own taste-tester when I want to find ‘the best’ of any dish. It’s a challenge I relish when traveling but one I avoid at home, claiming lack of time and interest. But, if I don’t do the legwork of critiquing the food I consume, how will I ever truly know what tastes great?
TRAVEL NOTE:
Herring has been a staple food source in places regions of Northern Europe for 2000 years. The movement of herring spawning grounds shifted monopolies of trade and influence from the 15th to 19th centuries.
How do you take your herring?