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Soft cod fish cakes fried golden in butter, set on dark rugbrod with remoulade, cool cucumber salad, and capers. Honest weeknight cooking from the Danish coast.
Cod is at its best in the dark months. When the water turns cold, the fish firms up, the flesh goes white as paper, and the taste is clean and sweet. This is when fiskefrikadeller come into their own, though truthfully they belong to the whole Danish year, because the coast is never far from the kitchen and fish cakes are the kind of cooking that does not need an occasion.
Fiskefrikadeller paa rugbrod are weeknight food with Sunday-lunch confidence. You mix, you rest, you fry, you build. The whole thing takes half an hour once you know the rhythm, and the rhythm is what I'm here to teach you. The frikadeller are soft at the center and golden at the edges, lighter than you'd expect, because Danish cooks learned long ago that sparkling water in the mixture does something still water cannot. The bubbles create tiny air pockets that survive the frying, and the result is a fish cake that holds together without ever feeling dense.
Pay attention to two things. First, the mixture must rest. Twenty minutes in the fridge, no less. That rest lets the flour and egg do their quiet work, and it isthe difference between frikadeller that hold their shape and frikadeller that fall apart in the pan. Second, don't crowd the pan. The fish cakes need room to breathe, and butter that is foaming and warm, not burning and brown. You'll know when it's right because the smell will turn nutty and hazelnut, and that is the moment the first cake goes in. The rest, I promise, will take care of itself.
Fiskefrikadeller grew out of the Danish coastal kitchens where nothing from the catch was wasted and every village had its own version. The word frikadelle arrived from French via German in the 1700s, meaning a small pan-fried patty, and Danish cooks adapted the method to whatever the day brought: pork in the inland kitchens, fish along the coasts of Bornholm, Funen, and the Jutland shores. By the late 1800s fiskefrikadeller had earned their own place on the smorrebrod menus of Copenhagen's lunch restaurants, where the smorrebrodsjomfru, the formally trained women who ran the cold kitchen, set them on dark rye with remoulade and cucumber salad in a pairing that has not needed changing since.
Quantity
500g
skinned and pin-boned
Quantity
1 small
finely grated
Quantity
1 large
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
small handful
finely chopped, plus extra fronds to finish
Quantity
from half an unwaxed lemon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
30g
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 small
sliced paper-thin
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
4 thick slices
Quantity
4 tablespoons
Quantity
2 tablespoons
drained
Quantity
to serve
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| fresh cod filletskinned and pin-boned | 500g |
| yellow onionfinely grated | 1 small |
| egg | 1 large |
| plain flour | 2 tablespoons |
| whole milk or single cream | 3 tablespoons |
| cold sparkling water | 2 tablespoons |
| fresh dillfinely chopped, plus extra fronds to finish | small handful |
| lemon zest | from half an unwaxed lemon |
| fine sea salt | 1 teaspoon |
| white pepper | to taste |
| unsalted butter | 30g |
| neutral oil | 1 tablespoon |
| cucumbersliced paper-thin | 1 small |
| white wine vinegar | 3 tablespoons |
| caster sugar | 1 teaspoon |
| dark rugbrod | 4 thick slices |
| Danish remoulade | 4 tablespoons |
| capersdrained | 2 tablespoons |
| lemon wedges (optional) | to serve |
Lay the paper-thin cucumber slices in a shallow bowl. Stir the vinegar together with the sugar and a small pinch of salt until the sugar dissolves, and pour it over the cucumber. Press the slices down gently so they sit in the liquid and leave them to steep while you make the frikadeller. Fifteen minutes is enough. The vinegar softens the cucumber without turning it limp, and the sugar rounds the sharpness into something cool and bright that will cut through the richness of the fried fish.
Check the cod carefully for any pin bones the fishmonger missed, then cut the fillet into rough chunks. Pulse it in a food processor in short bursts until it looks like a coarse mince, not a paste. You want texture, small pieces you can still see. If you go too far the frikadeller turn rubbery, and there is no way back from that. If you don't have a processor, chop the fish finely by hand with a sharp knife. It takes five minutes and the result is arguably better.
Tip the minced cod into a mixing bowl. Add the grated onion, the egg, the flour, the milk, the chopped dill, the lemon zest, the salt, and a good twist of white pepper. Mix it all together with a wooden spoon until it comes together as a soft, loose mass. Then add the sparkling water last and fold it in gently. The bubbles are the whole point. They create tiny air pockets that survive the frying and give the finished frikadeller a lightness that still water cannot match. This is something Danish cooks learn by watching rather than reading, and now you have read it anyway.
Cover the bowl and put it in the fridge for twenty minutes. The rest is not optional. It gives the flour and egg time to do their quiet work of binding the mixture together, and it is the difference between frikadeller that hold their shape in the pan and frikadeller that collapse and weep. Use the twenty minutes to slice the rugbrod and set the plates out.
Wet your hands with cold water to stop the mixture sticking. Scoop up a generous tablespoon at a time and shape each one into a small oval patty, a little flatter than a round meatball. You should get eight. Flat is right, not round. The flatter shape gives you more crisp surface, and the crisp surface is where the flavor concentrates.
Heat the butter and oil together in a heavy frying pan over medium heat. Butter alone burns before the centers cook through. Oil alone tastes of nothing. Together they give you the golden crust and the nutty richness that make these taste the way they should. When the butter stops foaming and the smell turns warm and hazelnut, lay the frikadeller in the pan with room between each one. Crowding steams them. Fry for about three minutes on the first side until deep golden, then flip and give them another three minutes on the second. Press the top gently with a finger. When it springs back rather than sinking, they are cooked through. You'll know when it's right.
Spread each slice of rugbrod with a thin, even layer of remoulade, going right to the edges. Lay two warm fiskefrikadeller on top of each slice, slightly off centre so the dark bread frames them. Lift a small heap of the pickled cucumber from its liquid, shake off the excess, and drape it beside the fish. Scatter the capers, finish with fresh dill fronds, and serve at once with a lemon wedge. Eat it with a knife and fork, never picked up. That is the rule, and the layered architecture is the whole point of the dish. Tak for mad.
1 serving (about 250g)
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