Tatarsauce

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.