Some summers ago, I found myself sitting on the rocky shore of a small island just off Björkskär, which is part of the archipelago that surrounds the Swedish city of Stockholm. It consists of roughly 30,000 islands and inlets and Stockholmers look upon it much as we do upon Muskoka, a summer retreat, but also as an almost mythical home of their culture, their identity and history. The Group of Seven would feel very much at home.
Entire families move out to their clapboard cottages, many painted a deep rich red, during the summer months; the breadwinners either joining them on weekends or even commuting back to the city by boat every morning. Old fashioned mailboats, a few still driven by steam, deliver provisions, meandering lazily from island to island, some of which are so small that they play host to just a single windswept structure.
This particular evening, the midsummer sun still high in the sky, my host came walking down from the cottage brandishing a shovel. “Let’s get dinner”, he said, walking towards the tiny sandy beach.
This of course set my mind racing. Were we about to dig out some mythical Norse root vegetables or was the plan to brain a small seal, then roast the flippers? The reality turned out to be somewhere in the middle. We walked up to a point just above the high tide mark and marked with a piece of driftwood stuck in the sand, then started digging down.
When my friend had dug down about two feet into the cool, damp ground, he reached into the hole and removed a sandy parcel about the size of a shoebox, tightly wrapped in old sacking.
Unwrapping it revealed a glass container containing something red swimming in a mysterious liquid, wrapped into a layer of plastic film. “Gravad Lax”, he nodded, Swedish for “Buried Salmon”. He had cured, wrapped and buried the fish three days earlier, in preparation for this evening’s dinner.
Back in the small cottage kitchen we unwrapped the fish, scraped off a thick layer of chopped dill and gave it a quick rinse under cold water before drying it with a kitchen towel. Later that night it was served in thin slices on black bread, with wedges of lemon and a dollop of hovmästarsås, a simple dill and mustard sauce.
It was utterly delicious, the fresh tasting fish with a slight tang of dill and lemon, accompanied by contraband German beer and Polish vodka, flavoured with more dill.
The good news is that this recipe is incredibly easy to recreate, without the need for a sandy beach or a tall Swede. A glass or porcelain container, some plastic film and a fridge is all you need. Here’s how to do it:
- 1 2-3 pound salmon fillet, skin on, bones removed. Make sure to get a nice fat piece cut from the middle.
- 1/2 cup white sugar
- 1 cup brown sugar
- 3/4 cup salt
- dill, a large bunch.
Optional:
A swig of gin
Some juniper berries, bruised in a mortar.
You will also need a non-reactive container, ideally glass or porcelain large enough to hold the fish in one piece.
- Start by mixing the cure. Add the juniper berries if using them.
- Spread half the cure into your container.
- Put the fish on top, skin side down.
- Spread the remainder of the cure over the top of the fish. It should be quite thick.
- Spread the dill on top of everything, about a finger’s width thick. This uses a lot of dill, don’t be shy.
- Pour in your gin, if using.
- Wrap everything tightly into plastic film. The cure will remove water from the fish, creating a brine.
- Put into the fridge, weigh down with a couple of cans of beans or tomatoes and leave for a minimum of 48 hours but not for longer than three days.
- Unwrap, wash under cold water and pat dry.
- Serve, sliced thinly, on pumpernickel bread with chopped capers and a spritz of lemon juice.
Leftovers keep in the fridge for up to three weeks, so get creative. Scrambled eggs, boiled potatoes, latkes all make perfect bedfellows with gravlax.