Swedish Seaside Massacre
Long flight from San Francisco, bleary-eyed breakfast at Heathrow, then the connection to Gothenburg. This time there was someone waiting for us. There she was at the arrival gate, waving two Swedish flags and lighting up the room with a smile. Jennifer, bonafide Swede, happy to see us and ready to take us to one of her favorite places in the world, her family's summer home in Bovallstrand.
So we got coffee to go and hit the road, arriving 90 minutes later for a brief stop at a lovely row of cottages overlooking the most placid sea. This was going to be our resting place for the night, but we were just stopping to air it out, put away some supplies, and sweep up fossilized flies from last summer. In a few weeks the place would be hopping with Swedes on summer holiday, but it had been closed up for most of the year and for now we were practically alone, this pre-holiday visit planned exclusively for us.
It was then off to another small town just a few miles away, and usually reached via boat. We drove to this spot partially for Jennifer to share tales of her youth - the illicit first drink, the random make-out, etc. but also to pick up the necessities for our first night in Sweden, and our night alone in a secluded cabin by the sea.
This was the most important destination of the day. The seafood vendor.
And these were one of the reasons we had come here. Fresh crawfish, pulled from the Atlantic ocean and boiled in their own seawater.
And these beautiful shrimp, just as fresh and given the same simple treatment. Succulent and tasting of the sea.
One always hears about how expensive Sweden is, and it is true. However, these fabulous creatures were not necessarily more expensive than they would have been in San Francisco, and they were so beautifully fresh. But wait, don't let me spoil the best part...
...We were picking out the shrimp and the crawfish, and some Swedish seafood salad, all the while eyeing this legion of crab on ice, staring us down like a frozen mob of soccer hooligans. One of us casually mentioned the crab, all the while assuming it was going to be expensive. Jennifer inquired, Swedish numbers were thrown around a bit, and then she gently but firmly took us both aside, telling us in a low voice,
"Um, okay, the crab is one-fifty a piece."
At first I though she meant one hundred fifty dollars per crab, thinking to myself that we had not brought enough money to last a day. But then she tried again,
"No, a dollar and fifty cents per piece."
I then thought she meant it was $1.50 per lump, or leg or something like that. So I said, "well, hey, let's get a couple of claws or something just so we can try some", now believing we could afford to eat reasonably well for about a week.
"But they are $1.50 per crab. The whole crab is the equivalent of one U.S. dollar and fifty U.S. cents!" her voice rising, tinged with a mixture of disbelief and excitement. "I didn't expect this... maybe it is because the summer season hasn't yet started and it is almost closing time and...and..."
"How many should we get?" the three of us said, almost at once, as it dawned on us just how good a deal we were being handed.
Long story short, we had already gotten a lot of crawfish, shrimp and seafood salad so we limited ourselves to two: one massive crustaecean that had to be a couple of pounds and one smaller, more dainty one. And they threw in an extra pair of claws. Big ones.
We gathered up our new hostages and headed quickly to our quiet little cottage. We had work to do.
This is what it looked like before the carnage: Crawfish, shrimp, creamy seafood salad, a huge wedge of cheese, bread, massive, angry-looking crab, a little green salad (for show, mostly) and a sampler pack of Swedish aquavit - liquor that has been distilled using a variety of herbs and spices.
We opened the first little bottle, toasted ourselves and our good fortune, and knocked back the inaugural shot of what would be many. Jet-lag and the extended hours with no sleep might have called for moderation at this point. Whatever. The herbal flavors filled my sinuses, the liquor warmed my chest and the alcohol went straight to my brain. We each started reaching in for the food and things quickly devolved into mayhem.
I went with crawfish first, tearing off heads and sucking out brains, exoskeletons dropping to the table like the armor of fallen crusaders. My fingers grew sticky with the salty juices of shellfish. The same with the shrimp, and then on to the crab...
Both of the women I was with come from cultures that know how to eat crab. Every ounce of meat on those two poor creatures was systematically stripped and consumed. And the fat - that gloriously rich, creamy, essence-of-crab substance that so many people ignore, or even despise - well, we ate all of it, and these women dictated my actions until every bit was mopped up with bread and devoured. Like other men have claimed at the end of various massacres, I was just following orders.
More than once we would crack a shell too hard, or pry open too forcefully, and crab fat and salt water would explode into the air, splattering against whatever lay in it's path, usually one of us. My sweatshirt was speckled helter-skelter with the precious fluids from innocent sea creatures. It was gruesome. It was delicious.
The slaughter eventually slowed, then stopped. We did our best to dispose of the evidence, then took a walk around this rugged, spare, beautiful place, letting our heads clear. If the scent of crab, shrimp and aquavit hadn't been hanging over us like Pig-pen's dust cloud, one would never had guessed the terrible wrath we had just spent the past few hours delivering. The sun began to go down (at around 10:30PM, only to be back up at 4:15 AM) and we finally made our way to bed.
I awoke the next morning and looked out the window. The same placid scene greeted me and I remembered I was in Sweden. I really was at a cottage by the sea. I really had devoured countless and incredible creatures last night. The disorientation wore off, and a smile crept across my face.
Hello Sweden, and thanks for having us.
