
Chef Freja
Andesovs
The pan sauce that holds the Danish Christmas plate together. Duck drippings, good stock, cream, and a spoonful of red currant jelly for the tart brightness that makes juleaften taste like itself.
A cooking platform built around craft, culture, and the stories behind what we eat.

Created by Chef Freja
The sharper, brighter sauce for fried fish: chopped capers, cornichons, shallot, and fresh herbs folded into mayonnaise. Not remoulade. Its own thing entirely, and the plate needs it.
The first warm evenings of June bring fried plaice back to the Danish kitchen. Whole fish, dusted in flour and fried in butter until the skin crackles, served with new potatoes so small you eat them in two bites. And next to the fish, always, a bowl of tatarsauce. The plate is not complete without it.
Tatarsauce is not remoulade. The two sit in different places on the Danish table, and they do different work. Remoulade is sweeter, softer, curry-tinted, the companion to smorrebrod and frikadeller. Tatarsauce is sharper. It cuts through richness instead of adding to it. Capers, cornichons, raw shallot, and fresh herbs, all chopped fine and folded into good mayonnaise, give you a sauce with enough acidity and texture to balance anything fried. This is what you set down next to fiskefrikadeller, next to stegt fisk, next to anything golden and crisp that needs a cool, bright counterpoint.
The whole thing takes fifteen minutes. What matters is the chopping: everything cut fine enough that each spoonful carries all the flavors, but not so fine that it turns into a paste. You want to feel the texture of each addition against the smooth mayonnaise. Taste as you go. Adjust the lemon, the salt, the pepper. You'll know when it's right.
Sauce tartare appears in French cookbooks from the mid-19th century, named not for any direct connection to the Tatar people but for its association with steak tartare, the raw beef dish it originally accompanied. The Danish version, tatarsauce, adapted the recipe to local tastes over the following decades, replacing tarragon with dill and favoring small cornichons over larger French gherkins. By the early 1900s it had claimed its place as the standard accompaniment to fried fish across Denmark, occupying a distinct role from the sweeter remoulade that dominated the smorrebrod table.
Quantity
200ml
homemade or store-bought
Quantity
2 tablespoons
drained, finely chopped
Quantity
4
finely chopped
Quantity
1 small
finely minced
Quantity
1 tablespoon
finely chopped
Quantity
1 tablespoon
finely snipped
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| good mayonnaisehomemade or store-bought | 200ml |
| capersdrained, finely chopped | 2 tablespoons |
| cornichonsfinely chopped | 4 |
| shallotfinely minced | 1 small |
| fresh dillfinely chopped | 1 tablespoon |
| fresh chivesfinely snipped | 1 tablespoon |
| lemon juice | 1 tablespoon |
| Dijon mustard | 1 teaspoon |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| white pepper | to taste |
Drain the capers and chop them roughly. You want small pieces, not a paste. The capers should keep enough of their shape that you can feel them against the smooth mayonnaise. Chop the cornichons to the same size. Peel and mince the shallot as finely as you can manage. Raw shallot that's cut too coarsely will announce itself in every bite instead of blending into the whole. Fine dicing is the goal: small enough to distribute evenly, coarse enough to have presence.
Chop the dill fronds finely. Snip the chives into small rings. Keep the herbs separate from the wet ingredients until you're ready to mix. Fresh herbs bruise and darken if they sit too long against moisture, and you want them bright green in the finished sauce. That brightness is visual, but it's also flavor: dill that has turned dark has lost some of its life.
Spoon the mayonnaise into a bowl. Add the mustard and lemon juice and stir until smooth. The mustard gives the sauce a gentle heat underneath everything else, and the lemon opens it up. Now fold in the chopped capers, cornichons, shallot, dill, and chives. Use a spatula and fold gently rather than stirring hard. Vigorous stirring breaks down the chopped ingredients and turns the sauce murky. You want it creamy with distinct flecks of green and the visible texture of capers and cornichons throughout.
Season with salt and white pepper. Taste. The sauce should be bright and sharp, with the capers and cornichons providing a vinegary edge that lifts the richness of the mayonnaise. If it tastes flat, add a little more lemon juice. A squeeze at a time, tasting after each one. Cover and refrigerate for at least thirty minutes before serving. This resting time is not optional: the flavors need to settle and find each other, and the sauce thickens slightly as it chills. Straight from the bowl it tastes scattered. After thirty minutes it tastes like itself.
1 serving (about 60g)
Culinary guides, cultural storytelling, and the editorial depth that makes cooking meaningful.
Discover Culinary Explorer
Chef Freja
The pan sauce that holds the Danish Christmas plate together. Duck drippings, good stock, cream, and a spoonful of red currant jelly for the tart brightness that makes juleaften taste like itself.

Chef Freja
The patient, mahogany-dark gravy that Danish cooks build from butter, flour, and good stock. It goes over the meat, the potatoes, and the memory of every Sunday dinner you've ever sat down to.

Chef Freja
The classic Danish remoulade, made from scratch with chopped pickles, capers, a whisper of curry, and the particular warm yellow that means someone in the kitchen knows what they're doing.

Chef Freja
The Danish white sauce folded with a handful of fresh dill and balanced with lemon and sugar. Spooned over poached cod and boiled potatoes, it turns a simple plate into the meal that every Dane remembers from someone's kitchen.