“Let me guess, you are 20.” The Dane who opened the door said. The slight, dark-blonde boy who said he was 17 then carried my luggage to the room on the second floor. This new home for me, just outside Copenhagen, had about 24 rooms, two kitchens, and living rooms that local students and young adults shared. One of the buildings done in the exposed concrete look, my house sat next to a big man-made lake near a wastewater treatment facility.
I asked to move there from the castle-like residence for international students in the old Viking City of Roskilde. “I want to live with the natives,” I told the professor supervising the post-graduate program on Environmental Economics at Roskilde University.
This query on my age threw me off. Caught between lying I was 15 and telling the truth that I was older, much older, than this helpful 17-year-old thought, I said: “YES, you’re right, I’m 20.” Of course, I had trouble keeping up the disguise. When the brief but still cold summer came, I could not complain about feeling tired from walking for miles to the beach, swimming barely clothed, and then playing a made-up version of basketball all in one afternoon. But I had no regrets.
I got to experience life with a Danish teen living on his own. He and I shopped, cooked, and ate lunch or dinner together. He showed me how to use bain-marie to roast “Flæskesteg,” pork with crispy crackling. The future chef taught me to pan-sear steak at a high temperature and finish roasting at a low temperature. Through him, I discovered béarnaise and hollandaise sauces. I watched him brown and simmer “Millionbøf,” the Danish comfort food of minced beef in gravy.
We woke up early Sunday morning to be first at the bakers to buy French bread straight out of the oven. I could barely keep awake from having spent the night out with other housemates. Still, we sat on the bench to feed our leftover bread to aggressive swans on the lake. We both loved free food at the supermarket. I eventually acquired a taste for lamb roasted rare from all the sampling. Together with one of the two Africans in our house, we made Eritrean bread, first by fermenting and then pan-frying the dough in lamb fat and spices.
To Know the Danes is to Love Them
I did not drink alcohol with my 17-year-old buddy. Instead, starting Thursday nights, I partied with the rest of our housemates and friends from other houses who were much older, of course. Over Grøn Tuborg beer they spoke freely about the intricacies of Danish culture. So, aside from the history of WWII, gender relations, and dating, I learned about food too.
First, the law student among them asked me to refrain from calling them “Danish.” He explained that “it’s ‘Dane’ like ‘Great Dane’ the dog breed.” He told me that “Danish” in the Royal Dansk butter cookies, known worldwide for its iconic blue tin, is an adjective. I never saw my housemates eat those cookies. But they were keenly aware that the world knew a category of pastries called, “Danish.” Ironically, they refer to them as “wienerbrød,” or Viennese Bread. Apparently, those buttery multilayered or laminated breads, like croissants, were first brought there by Austrian bakers.
Most of the young Danes I met traveled all over Europe, so they had cosmopolitan tastes in food. They talked less about their home cuisine because they enjoy all kinds of gastronomy. Long winter months limited the variety of ingredients that can be grown, so a meal with vegetables, to them, was fancy. Back then, they associated quality with the moniker, “English Beef,” even though the meat likely came from Danish-raised cattle from British breeds.
Danes told me they miss “Rugbrød,” the dense Danish rye bread, whenever they travel. A staple to them, one thinly sliced piece is the foundation of the Danish open-faced sandwich, “Smørrebrød.” The name translates to “smeared bread,” which means slathered with animal fat – much needed for Nordic winters. This to me was another misnomer because “smørrebrød” is usually piled high with artfully arranged toppings in specific combinations of delectable ingredients.
To Cream or Not to Cream
Visiting member countries of what is now the European Union was part of the program. So, we went on a three-week study trip to Italy. When I came back to the Philippines after my adventure in Europe, I eagerly shared with friends my amazing discoveries. But I could not recreate Denmark’s beloved national dish, “Frikadeller” pork meatballs, nor find “rugbrød” rye bread and pickled herring. So, I cooked them Italian.
My well-traveled friends chuckled at my creation and asked, “…but where is the sauce?” I made them the “Spaghetti alla carbonara” recipe that I learned from our program assistant, a Dane who lived in Rome. He mentioned that the name came from “carbone” for the charcoal-like appearance of freshly cracked black pepper on the pasta. Black pepper was essential to this dish of spaghetti coated with tempered eggs in the rendered fat of “Guanciale,” the Italian cured pork cheek. Black pepper was one of only three ingredients. The sharp and slightly spicy Pecorino Romano cheese tied them all together. Apparently, the trick was to avoid turning it into scrambled eggs. I succeeded, but my friends expected heavy cream and bacon in their carbonara.
Today, the internet buzzes with debate on whether carbonara should be made with cream. Some insist that adding heavy cream makes it “Fettucine Alfredo,” or its version popular in America. Roman restaurateur Alfredo Di Lelio, creator of the “Fettucine al burro” that inspired his namesake pasta, used only butter and parmesan cheese. But most of the world knows the Carbonara and Alfredo with cream. Credit Italian immigrants in New York for that. Since the 19th century, Italian Americans have been adapting Italian cuisine to the American palate.
Italian immigrants made the most of ingredients abundant in the U.S. and created Italian American dishes that were satisfying and profitable, yet still Italian in essence. American staples like pizza and pasta gained popularity worldwide as America’s global influence grew. So, looking back to the 90s in Rome when I was served pizza topped with caramelized onions and anchovies, I got confused. I thought pizza was never without cheese, pepperoni, and tomato sauce. Of course, I thoroughly enjoyed food in Italy. But I could not convince friends that pasta or pizza were all about the dough, and not only the sauces or toppings that enhance them.
Italian as the World Knows Them
Today, even I cringe at some interpretations of Italian food. I heard an American say that “cacio e peppe” is the Italian mac n cheese. Older generations of Filipinos have yet to consider pasta as a meal. But their fast-food chain, Jollibee, has successfully sold its sweetish “Jolly Spaghetti” as the same celebratory pasta Filipinos traditionally served at birthday parties. Both topped with ground beef and sliced hotdog in sweet tomato sauce; Filipinos simply call them “Spaghetti.”
Is Italian cuisine a victim of identity theft? I do not think so. Statista reported that the value of the global Italian cuisine market reached 228 billion euros in 2022. Italian success stems from their wise use of Mediterranean endowments. Italian food tastes of its vibrant ingredients. And cooking techniques retain or enhance natural flavors, not hide or alter them.
That is why Italian food lends well to adaptation. Variations can be as many as the number of local ingredients useful as a topping or sauce. Marketing dishes as “Italian” also helps. Instead of local names, Italian branding sounds more familiar in this globalized world. But does this popularity benefit Italians back home?
During my student days, whenever I cooked with Italians at communal kitchens, I remember hearing them complain that local pasta cooked fast and became soggy quickly. Now, Italian-made pasta is everywhere. According to Statista, “In 2022, Italy was the leading exporter of pasta worldwide, accounting for 28.9 percent of the total pasta exports.” Only five percent of the pasta they produced was exported abroad in 1955.
Today, I head to the nearest Ikea, the Swedish global chain, to enjoy their non-meat balls whenever I crave Danish “Frikadeller.” Although not the same, I make do with the cousin that is available. I think when it comes to food, “mistaken identity” need not always lead to “identity crisis.” Everybody wins, but only if everyone is in on the game.
About the Author:
George Banez is a writer of Filipino descent and is a retired non-profit professional living in Florida.
