When we were in Denmark a few years ago researching the Borderlands Project, we were encouraged to splash out (literally) one night at Schackenborg Slotskro, the posh ex-coaching inn in the picturesque South Jutland village of Møgeltønder (the correct pronunciation of which is almost hernia-inducing).
The inn is associated with Schackenborg manor house, which until recently was the home of Prince Joachim of Denmark. Joachim and his brother Frederik, are the Danish Wills and Harry - they also married below the salt, which only makes them more popular with the Danes. As I'm writing this in 2025 and all this took place six years ago, Frederik has since become King, taking over from his mother Margrethe II, who retired gracefully and probably sensibly to make way for the younger generation - how very Danish.
Anyway, on this particular night we arrived in a torrential downpour so intense we could barely see to the other side of the cobbled main street. Given the cultural status of the place, we were expecting to be welcomed with open arms by a classy Maitre 'd, but no chance. We stood in the entrance in soaked coats and had to find our way to the dining room, where there were a few diners - most of them over 70 - and no visible serving persons. Finally, after what seemed about half an hour, someone came and offered to take our coats and showed us to our table for two. This is where things began to get a bit weird. It was indeed a table for two because it had two sets of service, but it was stuck on the end of two more tables stretching to the wall, covered with white tablecloths. It felt as if we were marooned in the centre of the small dining room, at the end of what looked like a long, white catwalk. If Naomi Campbell had come leaping through the window and waltzed up and down a bit, I wouldn't have been surprised.
We were then left for about 10 minutes with no human contact; not even a small person to offer us a glass of water. Finally a very tall person came to ask if we would like some water. "And perhaps some wine?" I ventured in Danish, fearing that perhaps they had run out.
"I'll go and get the wine list," she muttered in English. We wondered why she hadn't just brought the thing when she came to ask if we were thirsty. But no, one thing at a time, as it transpired.
Five minutes later she returned with the wine list. "Would you like to see the menu?" She then enquired. I wanted to say, "Well, this is a fucking restaurant, so a menu would seem to be an obvious item" but desisted as I could see my wife looking sternly at me from behind her severely professional-looking glasses. "Yes, that would be lovely," I simpered instead.
Things got rapidly worse. The other half is a veggie and the menu, when it arrived, had no vegetarian options whatsoever. However, she does do fish when cornered, so this looked like the opportunity for both of us to go for what was announced on the menu card as 'Frowned collop with sour apple and Tarragon 'oil' ". This rather surprised me as the Danes are normally fluent English speakers and writers so this did not bode well. 'Collop' was obviously meant to be scollop, or scallop as it is properly spelled but why was it 'frowned'? Why did tarragon have a capital T and why was "oil" in citation marks?
"We'll have the scollops," I said.
The tall serving wench looked a little confusticated... "I'll just go and see," she said and disappeared. Just go and see what, we wondered - if the chef's poorly, perhaps? She returned, hands wringing, "I'm afraid the scollops are off tonight, we just haven't had time to take them off the menu." Great. The conversation then went something like this:
"Well, what other vegetarian options do you have?"
"I don't know." More hand-wringing.
"Does the chef know, then?"
"I'll go and ask."
My glorious significant other takes over, to save me from committing a murder.
"Herring, there must be herring, there's always herring in Denmark. I'll have marinated herring, if you have that." She said.
"I'll go and ask,"
FFS... this is supposedly a top-flight Danish culinary experience. They serve lunch; Danish lunch always includes marinated herring, so bring forth the herring.
Back she comes. "Yes, we have herring, would you like that?"
Phew.
I chose cod with parsnip 'in its own fume' whatever that was, but that is insignificant because it's my other half's experience that is key here. Anyone who has had a proper Danish lunch knows that the marinated herring usually comes on a slice of rye bread with all sorts of other goodies and assorted greens piled on top. Yummy, as she might have said, except this wasn't. When it arrived, it was basically an entire herring curled up snugly in a bowl with a bit of cress on top and what was described as curry sauce. It actually tasted fine, it was a top-quality, very well marinated herring but it was the presentation that was dreadful. Whatsisface from Master Chef would have been rolling his eyes. As he would when her main course arrived too. "Panfried redfish with saffron risotto and rieslind foam" when it arrived turned out to be a massive oval plate with an enormous slab of browned-off red snapper plonked down indiscriminately in a puddle of risotto only remarkable as saffron because it was a bit yellow. What 'rieslind foam' was we never discovered because it wasn't even evident on the dish. What there was though was a pile of coarsely chopped white cabbage in some kind of creamy sauce which may have contained traces of 'rieslind' Everything was anaemic shades of cream. It did, however taste fine, which was I suppose, some consolation.
For the sake of argument, I should mention that my own experience wasn't quite as mind-numbing. The cod starter was decent enough, as was the teal (a ducky thing for those that are unsure about game) with foie gras, although it was a little chewy. The best bit of the meal was the wine: a crisp Alsace and a meaty Zinfandel, which, as we were driving, we were allowed to cork and take home.
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