I Attended Stockholm's ABBA Dinner Party

We had barely received the first serving of bread, olives, tzatziki, hummus, Greek salad, and an unidentified sausage, when an old lady materialized on a balcony over the bar. Two minutes later, we were all thanking ABBA for the music, spurred on by delighted waiters who strutted around clapping their hands. The show had started, and I hadn't even seasoned my salad.

ABBA's blend of stupendous songwriting, glam and disco remains a ubiquitous part of pop culture more than 40 years after they were formed. The Swedish super group's music is a gift that keeps on giving—especially financially for its founders Björn and Benny—even if they have hardly performed in public since 1982. But others have. Constantly.

First, the songs were turned into a London stage musical, Mamma Mia!, which was then turned into a film (treat yourself to the joy of watching Pierce Brosnan manhandle S.O.S. and now it's the backdrop for a Greek-themed dinner party and show taking place in the Gröna Lund amusement park in Stockholm. Only a few shows this year haven't already sold out, and the audience reviews are overwhelmingly positive, which is not surprising. Swedes really love shit from Sweden.

I had brought Nils, a musician and law student, to contribute color commentary and to keep me out of legal trouble. We were invited to attend a show the day before the final of the Eurovision Song Contest, the same gig that catapulted ABBA into international stardom.

At the entrance, the barefoot greeter, all smiles and donning a white shirt and knee high pirate pants, directed us towards a fountain where we were promised booze. After a shot of Ouzo, we were placed in between two unrelated couples at a table for six. Unlike Nils and I, all four of them had grown up while ABBA were still active. "I grew up in the end of the 70s," said the woman to my right. "When I was a kid and was playing with Barbie dolls, I always had ABBA on in the background. They followed me into my teens, then came Duran Duran."

She told us that restaurant where the event took place, Tyrol, is normally a Munich-style beer hall with buxom waitresses clad in green dirndl dresses (I found no confirmation of this—Tyrol seems to be all about schnitzel and rock concerts). Now, the restaurant is rebuilt to mimic the patio of a big-ass Greek taverna, with olive trees and grapevines and the temperature kept at a very Mediterranean-like 25 degrees. The actors and my fellow diners kept reaffirming that the atmosphere was indeed totally Greek.

The plot (and let's use that term lightly) of the dinner show unfolds on the island Skopelos (surprisingly unburdened by the country's debt crisis, and without traces of war refugees), and concerns Kicki who runs the taverna with her Greek husband Nikos. Central to the story is the familial love affair between Nikos' daughter Konstantina and Kicki's son Adam, a bit racy but very au fait with the current porn fixation with relations between (fake) step siblings.

Amid the show's quick dialogue and incessant singing, a sausage appetizer appeared; a fine piece of meat. In a very un-Swedish manner I finished off the plate. It's customary in Sweden to leave one piece of each food item, in case someone really desires one more bite. Even if you're the one who wants that last piece, you will not risk the stigma associated with taking it.

I digress, but it's hard to concentrate on a culinary experience when you are in the epicenter of this camp kaleidoscope where people climb, jump, sing and dance all over the place. At one point a person I'd seen waiting tables was standing right behind me, playing an acoustic guitar while I was trying to finish my beer. The actors kept interacting with members of the audience, making socially awkward Swedes worry that they were next in line. But when the Zorba commenced everyone joined in, except Nils.

He turned his nose at the musical performance, but the rest of the audience disagreed. The band opened the second act with Waterloo, which drove large portions of the crowd into a frenzied sing-a-long. The ground floor looked like a pond of jumping silver carp.

According to the press release, the service staff was supposed to be flirty, but the flirtiest person around was a loud man from Gothenburg sitting at the table across from ours. Unfortunately, he was ejected from the taverna just after the main course.

Ah yes, the main course… I almost forgot about the pork souvlaki and lamb chop with cooked potatoes, parsnips, and carrots. The meat was tender, which is no mean feat when cooking for 450 people, but it was served right before yet another intense period of singing and dancing.I was particularly distracted by a strange interaction between an actor and a man in the audience in white overalls and an outdated haircut who was wielding an inflatable guitar.

A nice but forgettable dessert, of Greek yogurt, walnuts, paximathakia (greek biscotti), topped with honey, was served at some point and quickly swallowed in its entirety.

It was by no means a Greek tragedy on the plate, but two and a half hours into the evening, the lady on my side got emotional while singing along to The Winner Takes it All. She shed a tear.

As the show ran out of storyline, the cast opted for an enormous medley, a total ABBA orgy, which was more than I had the capacity to mentally or mechanically record. We left the dinner shortly after it transitioned into Mamma Mia the 40+ disco night, where the man with the inflatable guitar was the undisputed king.

On our way home we passed the ABBA museum. ABBA is a franchise, just like Kentucky Fried Chicken and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It's possible that it will never end, even if the group ended 30 years ago. The premiere of the Mamma Mia! dinner party in January was the first time the group was reunited in eight years—a prime opportunity to get that clogged up disco juice flowing again—but no, they didn't perform.

They probably tucked into tzatziki and pork souvlaki like the rest of us, wondering what the man with the plastic guitar was up to. And maybe the enjoyed the fact that their iconic songwriting now soundtracked a boozy dinner party.