I Got Drunk on a Ferry to Learn What it Means to be Scandinavian

A hammered Swede with a brisk, spiky 90's hairdo staggers past us as we are shown to our table. She can't find the restroom, and a waiter, with an air of reluctancy, is attempting to guide her in the right direction. Our table is a bit remote but has a view of the ocean. The sun is setting over Skagerrak and the ferry is slowly drifting into the beautiful Scandinavian night.

We are on "Københavner-båten" (The Copenhagen Boat), as our Norwegian brothers call the ferry between Oslo and the Danish capital. Specifically, we're in 7 Seas, the buffet restaurant at the top of the bow.

Norway, if you trust the MUNCHIES guide, is a place where modern cuisine and ancient recipes with reindeer blood meet in a tribute to the cold North. It's all very accomplished and interesting, but maybe a little highbrow for the average Scandinavian. But one thing almost all Scandinavians agree on: our common food culture, which is probably best embodied in the form of a ferry buffet. So in the spirit of Scandinavian fellowship, I whisked my fiancé away on a mini cruise along the old sailing routes of the Vikings to see what we could eat.

The ferry buffet has an overwhelming selection of dishes, but I expected as much for 275 DKK per person (about $40). Nobody is being shaken in their foundation when they enter; most of the dishes remind me of childhood family dinners.

As a native Scandinavian I know it is customary to begin with cold fish: Crawfish, shrimp and smoked salmon. My date grabs the moules marinière. I love this kind of Scando raw bar.
The waiter takes our drink orders: I ask for a glass of white wine for my fiancé and a pint of Heineken for me.

"We're actually not allowed to call the draft beer Heineken, because it's not completely genuine," the waiter explains. He looks like the guitar player of a metal band, and his long hair is tied in a ponytail. I can't help wondering about the beer, but whatever. Beer is beer.

The shrimp and the crawfish are delicious as always. I've got roe and broken shells all over my plate, but my fiancé is less enthusiastic about her mussels.

"The sauce tastes like the pre-made one from the supermarket," she says.

When I go to fetch my second portion, a middleaged woman gets my attention. She points to the breaded and fried fish filets. "They are amazing," she says, with a dialect that's clearly from deep in the Danish countryside. We bond over our common love for breaded fish, and I build myself a classic piece of "Smørrebrød" (open sandwich) with the fish, asparagus, roe and remoulade.

The whole of Scandinavia is represented in the large room. Four women in their 30s are gathered around a table, laughing at pretty much everything. Two Arab girls are drinking tea, and next to them a large man has taken a round table all to himself. He seems to be on a mission, and has built himself a grand selection of smørrebrød.

I can't help feeling that this boat is what would happen if a village hall and a small-town disco had a love child. There's something deeply provincial about the whole thing. And something wonderfully unpretentious.

Here on the Oslo ferry they know the culinary zeitgeist, so in a corner of the buffet you can build your own pulled pork slider. It looks tiny on the plate, so I add a scoop of beef stroganoff on the side. The experience is more nostalgic than gastronomic, and I reminisce about my grandmother's cooking on her farm. She never really liked cooking.

A lot of the Norwegians on the ferry to Copenhagen are looking forward to all the meat they plan on buying in Denmark. Just like we Danes drive to Germany to stock up on beer, candy, and shampoo, some of our Norwegian friends still come to Denmark for fresh meat and alcohol. Scandinavians instinctually know what is essential for a night of "hygge."

My slender body is cramped full of food, but there's also a dessert buffet waiting, and even a table full of cheese and crackers. The cheesecake tastes like those yogurts in tiny pots, but the highlight is a light berry mousse served in an edible bowl, coated in chocolate with freeze dried raspberries sprinkled on top.

This is food without borders, and I can only name very few particularly Swedish or Norwegian dishes. The Swedes have surströmming, Janssons frestelse and beef Lindstrøm, and the only Norwegian specialties I can think of are myseost (brown cheese) and waffles. But sitting here surrounded by copious amounts of food, watered-down beer and my Scandinavian brothers and sisters at the other tables, I realize it is because we have so damn much in common. We have a shared history that goes far beyond Viking raids and the Union of Kalmar. We have heavy peasant food, cold pilsners, and fruit of the sea.

Okay, alcohol might be quite a bit cheaper in Denmark, and sometimes we pretend they are more PC in Sweden, but in actuality the differences are tiny. We can't even tell each other's languages apart—all we agree on is that "the others" are impossible to understand. But it's all a question of pronunciation, because basically we understand each other quite well. All around me people are eating breaded fish and drinking beer, and it is impossible to tell who's from Sweden, who's from Norway, and who's from Denmark. We are all Scandinavian. Drunk, overeating Scandinavians.

When we retire to our cabin the drunk Swedish woman passes us again. She has a 20-ounce beer in her hand. The way she walks suggests the wind has risen, and that the boat is rocking.
The water is completely calm. She has a blissful smile on her lips. She found the restroom.