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Legend of lutefisk lives on despite enduring ‘yuck’ factor
Question of the Day
LITCHFIELD, Minn. — Dozens of Minnesota Scandinavians and the people who love them flock to the VFW Club in Litchfield every Thursday from November through January, where $20 will get you a big steaming hunk of the frequently mocked fish dish known as lutefisk. It comes with meatballs, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and the potato flatbread known as lefse — all of which helps to make up for the dubious entree.
“Butter helps it slide down your throat,” said Dennis Voss, the husband of a Norwegian-American, revealing his own survival secret for stomaching the gelatinous blob as they dined with friends on lutefisk amid a bustling lunchtime crowd.
America’s rising foodie culture has inspired a new generation of chefs and adventurous eaters who have mined ethnic and antiquated food traditions to create gourmet delicacies. Even Scandinavian cuisine, not usually considered the most savory, is sharing the spotlight. It is winning plaudits at restaurants from Minneapolis’ nationally recognized Bachelor Farmer to Copenhagen’s world-renowned Noma, where globe-trotting diners wait months for reservations.
But lutefisk, a dried white cod reconstituted in caustic chemicals, is one heritage dish that has remained stubbornly unimproved. Yet it lives on in places where people of Scandinavian descent are numerous.
A list of churches, Scandinavian cultural gatherings, restaurants and clubs that serve lutefisk runs to 22 pages on one website dedicated to the dish, showcasing sites in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, the Dakotas, Montana and Washington as well as snowbird outposts like Arizona and Florida.
Every year, come the holidays, a loyal legion shows up to partake. While their ancestors needed hardy food that wouldn’t spoil, lutefisk fanciers agree the reason to eat it now is less obvious — or entirely lost — on most people.
“You have to try it at least three times,” said Mr. Voss, 79.
Tradition — and even the ridicule lutefisk widely evokes — provide much of the answer.
The heart of lutefisk country is west of Minneapolis, where eastern river valleys flatten into western prairies that were heavily settled by Scandinavian immigrants in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Farther west from Litchfield, a sign in the tiny town of Madison welcomes visitors to “Lutefisk Capital U.S.A.”
The VFW’s lutefisk special comes in “ole” (large) and “lena” (small) portions. The fish resembles a quivering hunk of white Jell-O, and is served with an equally snow-white cream sauce and a small cup of melted butter, which really does help. The demographic is noticeable: “You got to have white hair to eat it,” Mr. Voss said.
Chris Dorff, president of Olsen Fish Co. in Minneapolis, a major supplier of lutefisk, said he has read histories that trace the dish to the time of the Vikings. The unusual process of drying and later rehydrating it was born of necessity in a part of the world where long winters required creativity in food storage and preparation.
“It wasn’t about enjoying food, like the Italians,” said Mr. Dorff, whose company still buys all its dried ling cod for lutefisk from Norway. “It was about sustenance.”
The tenacious blandness has provided fodder for everyone from amateur humorists like Jim Nord Harris, the Minneapolis-area retiree who runs the LutfiskLoversLifeline.com website, to Minnesota’s homegrown satirist Garrison Keillor. Mr. Harris, whose mother was Swedish, uses that country’s spelling; Norwegians add the ‘e.’ Most pronounce it LOOT-uh-fisk.
“Ole and Lars were talking,” Mr. Harris said, mining his arsenal of lutefisk jokes. “Ole says to Lars, ‘I’ve got these skunks living under my porch.’ So Lars says, ‘Just throw some lutefisk under there.’ A week later, Lars asks Ole, ‘Did you get rid of them skunks?’ And Ole says, ‘I sure did, but now I’ve got Swedes living under there.’”
Chefs who have found redeeming qualities in other bland Scandinavian staples have mostly avoided the lutefisk challenge. On the menu at Minneapolis’s Fika, a restaurant at the city’s American Swedish Institute, you’ll find grilled white asparagus in an emulsion of shallot and pine essence, topped with house-made gravlax and syrup made from pine cones and pine buds. At Bachelor Farmer, owned by Minnesota Gov. Mark Dayton’s adult sons and which recently landed a spot on Bon Appetit magazine’s 2012 list of the 10 best new restaurants in America, you’ll find a modern take on Swedish meatballs and other Scandinavian-inflected delicacies. But no lutefisk.
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