Danish Remoulade, Yellow with Curry, Sharp with Pickle

A spoon of pale yellow sauce on a hot dog at Nyhavn, flecked with pickle and caper, the harbor wind tugging at the napkin. In Copenhagen, where the old city and the new one share the same cobblestones, they tell of a cook named Anders. He was a restless man. Cooking the old dishes well did not satisfy him. He wanted to turn them, the way a sailor turns a boat into the wind, and the dish he chose to turn was the humble sauce called remoulade.

Anders believed smørrebrød deserved a companion with as much life as the coast. So he tried and tried again, each bowl bolder than the last. Mustard for its heat. Pickles for their sour snap. Capers for a little brine, mayonnaise to hold it all. Then, on a whim, a pinch of curry powder, a wink at the wandering spirit of the old Vikings.

What came out of the bowl surprised even him. It would not sit in any one box. It was still remoulade, and it was also his own, the old recipe and the new idea in a single spoon.

When he first served it, the city split down the middle. Some called it a revelation, a small step away from habit that made their favorite dishes taste new. Others frowned. A few were offended on behalf of their grandmothers. What is a sauce, after all, but a promise about how things have always tasted?

Days became weeks, and weeks became months. Slowly the yellow sauce found its way into the mouths of the Danes, and then into their habits. From the hot dog stands near the harbor to the neat smørrebrød shops along the old streets, Anders’s remoulade became a fixture, the spoonful no plate could go without. It outlived its early quarrel. The Danes, the story suggests, like a new idea well enough once they have had time to chew on it.

A new thing is often met with folded arms. Patience and a good recipe can turn doubt into welcome, and welcome, given time, into something like love. The odd sauce that once divided a city now sits in the door of every fridge, the familiar and the surprising in one jar.

Old recipes keep the table. New ones set it again.

Tonight at a stand by the water a hot dog is getting its yellow spoonful, the wind still pulling at the napkin, and no one is arguing anymore.