3 Days in Copenhagen
I’m interrupting my series on my spring break in 2023 to reflect on my most recent trip to Copenhagen, Denmark, in July 2024. Though this was my shortest trip to Europe by far, spanning only three full days and one city, it was truly unforgettable.
The genesis of this trip was serendipitous; let me set the scene. On Monday, January 29th, bookings for Noma’s final Vegetable Season opened at 8am Central Time. I was working remotely at the time and an early morning meeting ran overtime; I thought the race was finished before it had even begun. When I opened the Tock page, there was nary a table to be seen. Then, a glimmer of hope: random dates and time slots flashed with availability. I blindly clicked on whichever dates appeared, but each produced an error message that the table had already been booked. As I clicked, I began to understand the rhythms of the system. Clicking on a slot and moving to the booking page secured it for 15 minutes; you could click out of the slot to release the spot, or complete the booking process. I assumed that many, like me, were clicking on whatever was available, meaning that I just had to refresh at the right time. Each time I was ready to give hope, a new slot would tauntingly appear, until at last, I found myself on the booking page for lunch on Friday, July 12th for a party of 3. My fingers trembled as I paid the deposit, and when I received the confirmation email at 9:01am, I felt like I might faint with disbelief. I ran into the living room and said, breathlessly, “this might sound crazy, but can we go to Copenhagen in July?”
Admittedly, the cachet of Noma would have been hard for me to let go of, but the entire idea also felt somewhat unreal — I would’ve completely understood if we didn’t book this trip. We discussed, compared calendars, and in accordance with our ‘non-regrettable moves’ family philosophy, we decided to go for it, especially since we could visit nearby countries as well. Our plans evolved over the following months, in large part because I started my new job in May and moved to San Francisco! Ultimately, my parents and sister went on a longer tour of Iceland, Norway, Finland, Estonia, and Sweden, while I joined them for the last few days of the trip in Denmark.
When I first made the booking, I emailed Noma requesting a notification if a table for 4 opened up instead, knowing that chances were slim. On June 24th, one of their booking managers reached out to let me know that a dinner for 4 had opened up; despite responding late (the email came at 2:37am!), they were able to make the change for us, meaning that my sister could join as well. Hurray!
One unexpected feature of this trip was my limited mobility. In June, I was diagnosed with a bone bruise in my right foot and was therefore sentenced to two months of limping around in a boot. As a result, we took taxis more frequently than public transit, but our destinations were well-connected by Copenhagen’s bus and Metro systems, which are reliable and inexpensive ways to explore the city. Note also that Uber and similar ride-sharing apps don’t operate in Denmark, but there are taxi stations by most tourist destinations.
Day 1: Statens Museum for Kunst, Church of Our Saviour, Danish Architecture Center, Nyhavn
A part of me couldn’t believe this trip was really happening until I stepped off the plane into Copenhagen’s glossy international terminal. Though Copenhagen’s public transit system has received numerous positive testimonials, I was still impressed how intuitively I could navigate it. There’s a direct Metro from the airport to the city center (line M2), and it’s easy to purchase a ticket on the spot. You’ll be asked to select a time range; I wasn’t sure how long it would take for me to find the Metro station, so I selected one with a starting time ten minutes away. That proved unnecessary. From the ticket kiosk, there was an escalator and a less-than-five-minute walk to the platform. I briefly panicked that I’d gotten on the wrong train when the first stop was announced, before realizing I had simply been mispronouncing all of the stops in my head (humbling, but I think more people should embrace the fact that in most places, they are merely a tourist), and in just 20 minutes, I was hauling my suitcase out of Nørreport station.
I arrived in Copenhagen earlier than the rest of my family, so I checked into Venders first, which offers apartment-style rooms in a central location. I only had a few hours of solo exploring before our family reunion, so after dropping off my bags, I immediately set out to studio x kitchen to grab a snack. I’d been hoping to try their oft-photographed scrambled eggs, but I arrived at about 3pm and their kitchen was already closed, so I opted for a chocolate chip buckwheat cookie.
The rain that started when I arrived at the café politely stopped pouring when it was time for me to head back out, though for fear of a reprisal, I clunkily speed-walked to Statens Museum for Kunst (SMK), Denmark’s national gallery. I wasn’t particularly familiar with Danish art and artists before this trip, but I really enjoyed SMK’s collection. I was particularly charmed by the vivid facial expressions in Carl Bloch’s work (In a Roman Osteria pictured below features witheringly judgmental stares that feel far ahead of their time; the painting could easily be converted into a meme now), in contrast to the mysterious and muted interiors of Vilhelm Hammershøi. Other standouts to me were an excellent Surrealist collection, plenty of classical European religious art (predictably, I found myself drawn to variations of The Annunciation; it is always depicted so beautifully), and a sculpture gallery housed in the museum’s glass extension building.
As I wandered from the older collections to the modern wing, which featured large windows overlooking the surrounding park, I was gratefully surprised to see that the gloomy sky was now blue (my weather luck continues!). Even better news: my family had landed. I sped through the remaining rooms of the museum and practically skipped back to the apartment.
Once we were done squealing, hugging, and recounting our travels to each other, it was back to business. We had heard that Copenhagen’s summer weather could be unpredictable, so we wanted to climb the Church of Our Saviour for our typical panoramic shots while the sky was still blue. When we arrived, we realized we’d underestimated the popularity of this attraction and hurriedly purchased tickets online for the nearest time slot. The views were lovely and highlighted Copenhagen’s meticulous urban design. It’s a very neat city from above; most roofs sit at the same height, with only a few monumental buildings peeking out of the skyline. When we descended the tower later, we saw that tickets had sold out for the day — we’d been lucky enough to snag the last few tickets.
From there, we headed to the Danish Architecture Center. Unfortunately, their main permanent exhibit (So Danish!), which takes visitors through the history of Danish architecture from the Viking Age to the present day, was closed for renovations. Their temporary exhibition, Aware, focused on drawing attention to how spaces affect us. I found the curatorial description particularly compelling:
How aware are we of the impacts of architecture? When architects design spaces […] they do it to meet functional needs. But architecture is more than just its function, and space has the power to affect us in endless ways. It can move us, make us reflective, support community and create unexpected encounters — or it can isolate and divide. […] Design choices are never just aesthetic, they have the power to shape our paths, our moods, our lives. Are we aware of how?
[…] Aware is a fully immersive world, a world for sense and experience. Feel how the installations vary in shape, light, proportion, and material. Use your body to feel how the experience changes and how the spaces affect you. All of these experiences, be they spatial, emotional, or atmospheric, are what architects strive for when they design. This exhibition is about you, about all of us. It is about what you bring into a space, and how the atmospheres of space resonate within you. (Danish Architecture Center, “Aware”)
The exhibition began with a room filled with wavy structures and color-changing lights, paired with the sound of a resting heartbeat, guided by the question: Can architecture give a sense of calm? Admittedly, my immediate thought was: ugh, Instagram bait. In retrospect, I think this reveals an underlying assumption that contemporary spaces are only intentionally designed to be beautiful to spark virality or serve as a backdrop to someone’s internet aesthetic — which says more about social media’s influence on me than the exhibition itself. After all, most beautiful spaces are designed to be pleasant places to be, not to post. In fact, the installation in this room was adapted from a design concept for the children’s ward of a hospital in Copenhagen. I took my time walking through the room; the layers created by the wire structures transformed what could have been a plain rectangular hall into a place that invited one to linger. Later installations included interplay of light and shadow to arouse curiosity (an approach used in museum architecture) and a shell-shaped space inspired by classic Danish bus shelters, which is meant to feel like an ‘embrace’ and protect the visitor from wind and weather.
Charmingly, the Danish Architecture Center also has a 4-story spiral slide which you can use to exit the building. Carsten Höller, the artist, poses the question: “Why are slides not used in architecture, to complement stairs, elevators and escalators? […] They are fast, safe and energy-savvy – and they produce a sensation in the user that has been described as ‘a kind of voluptuous panic upon an otherwise lucid mind, somewhere between delight and madness.’” I was indeed delighted by the experience. Would I choose a slide over stairs in most cases? Probably not, especially since only one person can safely descend at a time, but it’s an unexpected creative solution. What other structures could be repurposed to change a norm, or simply add a bit of whimsy into our day-to-day?
With a little more awareness of the spaces we were traversing through, we made our way to Nyhavn, the postcard image of Copenhagen: a canal lined with brightly colored bars, cafes, and restaurants, buzzing with activity. Nyhavn means ‘New Harbor’ and was constructed in the 17th century by King Christian V. In addition to its importance as a commercial port, it was also the home of Hans Christian Andersen. He wrote some of his most famous fairy tales in No. 20 Nyhavn, including The Little Mermaid, The Princess and the Pea, Thumbelina, The Emperor’s New Clothes, and The Little Match Girl.
We ended the evening with a late dinner at Høst. This was a fantastic first meal of the trip! The five-course menu (featuring a few ‘surprise’ courses: very tasty bread and butter, a couple amuse bouche, and a palate cleanser before dessert) is offered at approximately $72 USD per person, which felt extremely fairly-priced.
Every dish really aligned with my taste. I was particularly impressed by inventive texture combinations, such as the baked hake in a blue mussel broth poured from a teapot, covered in crunchy white dill. The menu starts with delicious smoked scallops before moving to creamy, earthy asparagus, and for my entree, the best stuffed chicken I’ve ever had. When researching restaurants, I faced a dizzying array of appealing options (and of course, the only meal I was really allowing myself to anticipate was our dinner at Noma) so Høst far exceeded my expectations, landing solidly within my top 20 restaurants of all time for its balance of quality and price point.
Day 2: The Little Mermaid, Nyhavn, Louisiana Museum of Art, The King’s Garden, Noma
The next morning, jet lag woke me up at 4:30 AM. I checked the weather forecast, which predicted sun that day but rain the next, and proceeded to frantically rearrange the remainder of our itinerary — in hindsight, a brilliant move. I cancelled a lunch reservation that I’d made and decided that we could visit the Designmuseum while it was raining; these two changes cleared up the entire morning and afternoon for activities better suited for blue skies.
When I’d first started researching for this trip, I knew I wanted to visit the Louisiana Museum of Art, but the two-hour round trip from and to Copenhagen didn’t seem justifiable if the weather was unpredictable. The museum is most beloved for its synthesis of art, architecture, and landscape; their unique outdoor sculpture garden faces the Øresund Strait. However, since weather was now less of a question mark, I wanted to put the Louisiana back on the table.
The museum opened at 11am, so we still had the morning to cover some of Copenhagen’s outdoor sights. We started by visiting the wistful Little Mermaid by Edvard Eriksen. The statue is always called ‘overrated’ because it’s quite small and located in a promenade with no other notable attractions, but I found it lovely to behold. It evokes Hans Christian Andersen’s original tale, a melancholic and weighty story about the pursuit of an eternal soul, rather than Disney’s love story. Whichever version of the story one is familiar with, it’s still impressive to think about how this single story has been adapted to numerous forms — films, musicals, paintings; my friends and I have even watched a bafflingly-executed ballet adaptation in Chicago.
Are there any ‘new’ fairy tales or fables? Hollywood’s sequel-prequel-remake culture has regurgitated countless classic cartoons into live action adaptations or retellings (just count the many versions of Snow White or Cinderella). Have we run out of original story arcs, or morals-of-the-story? Perhaps I’m discrediting our collective imagination. Fairytales, folklores, and fables are often a reflection of humanity’s greatest anxieties and ethical dilemmas; while they may now play out in a society that looks materially different, it could also be comforting to think that the fundamental questions we’ve been concerned with over time have remained the same. Out of curiosity, I asked ChatGPT to write a few new fairytales concerned with the question of what it means to be human (click on the arrows to reveal the stories):
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Once, in a forest where time stood still, there lived a wooden doll named Lyra, carved by the hands of a lonely old craftsman. Though she had no heart, she longed to understand the humans who passed by the forest, laughing, crying, and embracing each other. One day, she met a wise owl who promised her a human heart if she could discover what it meant to be truly human. Lyra wandered far and wide, helping those in need, feeling the weight of sorrow and the joy of kindness. Yet, it was only when she found herself crying over a fallen flower, mourning its fleeting beauty, that the owl appeared, placing a glowing heart inside her chest. "To be human," the owl whispered, "is to care deeply, even for things that will fade."
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In a village at the edge of the world, where the ocean met the sky, there lived a girl named Isla who was born without a shadow. The villagers whispered that without a shadow, she wasn’t truly human, and Isla often wondered if they were right. One day, a traveler arrived, an old woman who claimed to know the secret of shadows. She told Isla that to earn a shadow, she must find the answer to what it means to be human. Isla journeyed through forests, climbed mountains, and sailed across the seas, meeting people who taught her about love, fear, kindness, and grief. But it wasn’t until she saved a drowning child, risking her life without a second thought, that a shadow appeared at her feet. The old woman returned and smiled. "To be human," she said, "is to choose compassion, even when it costs you everything." From that day on, Isla walked proudly, her shadow a testament to the humanity she had found within herself.
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In a land where the wind carried stories and the rivers flowed with forgotten dreams, there lived a creature named Eira, made of stardust and moonlight. Eira could shift into any form—bird, tree, river, or flame—but longed to know what it felt like to be human. One night, a celestial being appeared in the sky and told Eira that to become human, she must discover what it truly meant to be one. Eira traveled through villages and cities, observing humans in their joy and despair. She watched as they built, destroyed, loved, and hated, but it wasn’t until she found herself comforting a stranger who had lost everything that she felt something change inside her. The warmth of shared sorrow and the light of shared hope filled her heart. The celestial being returned, and with a gentle touch, Eira was transformed into a human. "To be human," the being whispered, "is to connect, to feel the world through the hearts of others." And so, Eira walked among humans, no longer longing, but understanding.
I’m somewhat delighted by the parallel structures of the first three AI-generated fairytales (and the use of names ending in ‘-a’ — I definitely used the names Lyra, Isla, and Eira when writing stories in middle school), as well as Fairytale #2’s accidental allusion to the drowning child thought experiment popular within effective altruism, a research field centered around identifying the world’s most pressing problems and how best to solve them (one of its central questions: how can we save lives and/or reduce suffering cost-effectively?).
However, something about these stories feels lacking. They don’t contain enough ‘plot’ to be adapted and universalized, unlike how every ‘rags to riches’ story recalls Cinderella or how Pinocchio’s nose has become a recognizable symbol of dishonesty. Additionally, classic fairytales are philosophically compelling because the listener wonders, what would I do in this situation? In Hans Christian Andersen’s original tale, the little mermaid is faced with seemingly certain death unless she kills her beloved prince and returns to her family in the sea; her self-sacrifice is what ultimately earns her the immortal soul she desired.
“Storytelling is unafraid to engage with the contextual, the messy and the specificity of the real in a way that the pristine structures of philosophy struggle to do. As such, it provides a more thoroughly examined path to what might be called the universal. Folklore is both a reflection of the Now from which it is being told, and a record of what persists throughout aeons of successive nows. To borrow Kroeber’s metaphor, folklore preserves ideas softly. It’s putting flowers in a vase rather than drying them – watery narrative is always moving, always in flux, so the ideas stay green and do not become brittle.” (Aeon Essays, Abigail Tulenko)
I changed my prompt to request that ChatGPT write some new fairytales concerned with modern ethical dilemmas:
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In a distant land where trees whispered ancient wisdom and the sky shimmered with endless possibilities, there existed a device called the Mirror of Truth. This mirror, unlike any other, could reveal the deepest secrets of the world—truths about the past, present, and future. The people of the kingdom revered the mirror, using it to solve disputes, predict harvests, and uncover hidden dangers. But over time, they began to rely on it for every decision, large or small, no longer trusting their own judgment.
One day, a young scholar named Elara questioned whether the mirror's truths were truly helping the kingdom. She noticed that while the mirror always revealed the factual answer, it stripped away the complexities of human experience, reducing life to simple outcomes without room for compassion, doubt, or growth. She proposed that the mirror be destroyed, but the people resisted, fearing a return to uncertainty.
Determined, Elara journeyed to the heart of the forest where the mirror had been created, seeking the wisdom of the oldest tree. The tree told her that the mirror was not meant to replace human intuition but to guide it. The real danger was not in knowing the truth, but in losing the ability to interpret it with humanity. Returning to the kingdom, Elara convinced the people to limit their use of the mirror, trusting in their own hearts and minds once more. And so, the mirror was kept, but used sparingly, as the kingdom embraced both knowledge and the wisdom of human complexity.
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In a world where everyone wore masks that displayed their perfect, curated identities, there was a girl named Alia who never took hers off. The masks were connected to a vast network that allowed people to project only their best selves, hiding flaws and fears behind polished facades. One day, Alia discovered a crack in her mask, and through it, she felt emotions she hadn’t experienced in years—raw, unfiltered, and real. As the crack grew, Alia saw others struggling behind their masks too, but no one dared to remove them, fearing judgment and rejection. Torn between the safety of her mask and the truth behind it, Alia made a bold choice: she took it off. At first, people recoiled, uncomfortable with her vulnerability, but soon others followed, revealing their true selves. In time, the world learned that it was through their imperfections, their struggles, and their authentic connections that they found real beauty and strength. And so, they built a society not on perfection, but on empathy and honesty.
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In a world where memories could be stored and shared like digital files, people no longer feared forgetting. They uploaded every moment—birthdays, weddings, even mundane days—to the Cloud of Memories, a vast network that allowed them to relive their past whenever they wished. The system became so advanced that people began editing their memories, erasing pain and enhancing joy, crafting perfect pasts to match their ideal lives.
But there was one girl, Leila, who found herself disconnected from the world around her. Though her life was filled with carefully curated memories, she felt an emptiness she couldn’t explain. One day, Leila encountered an old woman who had never used the Cloud. The woman’s memories were hazy and imperfect, but she spoke of them with warmth and emotion, cherishing even the painful moments for the lessons they brought.
Intrigued, Leila decided to stop relying on the Cloud and began living fully in the present, accepting both the beauty and the flaws of each day. Slowly, she discovered that the richness of life wasn’t in perfect memories but in the raw, unedited experiences that shaped her. As she let go of her dependence on the Cloud, Leila found herself truly connecting with others, forging bonds not through shared data but through shared humanity. In time, others followed her lead, realizing that technology could enhance life, but it could never replace the depth and meaning found in living it fully, with all its imperfections.
More names ending in -a, but I am quite impressed by these! They remind me of Black Mirror episodes or Ken Liu short stories (thinking specifically of The Perfect Match). Maybe science fiction is the place to look for modern folktales. Will our moral instruction to children change with the development of new technologies, and the corresponding cultural shifts they bring — and which new shared heroes and villains will emerge? Is there value in preserving and passing down the stories we grew up with?
That morning, however, I was less concerned with food for thought and more concerned with food. After impatiently ditching a line at a coffee shop, we proceeded to order almost every pastry at the acclaimed Andersen & Maillard. Their trendiest item is probably the cube croissant filled with pistachio cream. This was delicious, but I actually preferred their pain suisse, which had super crisp layers. From there, we wandered around Nyhavn for a bit before heading to the Louisiana Museum of Art.
What a special place! The museum was founded in 1958 by Knud W. Jensen, a Danish businessman, and the villa’s original owner named the building ‘Louisiana’ after his three wives, all named Louise. When you visit, take notice of how naturally the exhibitions flow into each other. There are several buildings connected by glass corridors, exposing the views and sculptures outside and offering alcoves to tuck a spare Giacometti or two. Rather than housing cold rooms of artifacts, art spills out of every corner at the Louisiana. This playful layout is by design: the landscape architects shaped the terrain to highlight the labyrinthine nature of the buildings, “constantly arousing our curiosity as to what may be hiding around the next corner,” recalling the insights of the Danish Architecture Center the day before.
While there are museums whose collections are more aligned with my aesthetic tastes, I was enchanted by the way that here, the surrounding environment felt like a part of the art. For example, one of the outdoor sculptures by Alexander Calder was mobile, and spun around when the breeze picked up, casting ever-changing shadows on the lawn below. One of the most-photographed rooms, whose current centerpiece is a Spider by Louise Bourgeois, is set against a backdrop of the lake garden; the floor-to-ceiling window is like a picture frame that invites the visitor to see the world outside as a work of art (which, of course, it is).
During our visit, the Louisiana was displaying works by Franz Gertsch, a Swiss painter known for large-format, photorealistic portraits. Gertsch wanted to depict the world with objective precision and in the late 1960s, he began to paint from photographs. His international breakthrough piece was a group portrait, Medici (1971-1972). It features five young men leaning against a barricade labeled ‘Medici’, which was the name of a construction company, but also the famed Florentine dynasty that funded the Renaissance — a name, therefore, associated with patronage of arts and culture. Ironically, the barricade is blocking the boys’ access to the Museum of Art in Lucerne, which was closed for renovation at the time the picture was taken.
When I encounter art that aligns itself with photography, I always think about my high school English class, Modernist Literature and Photography. One of the ways photography was disruptive was its claim to be ‘art’: clicking a camera seems to require far less technique than recreating a similarly realistic painting. Why, after the camera had been invented, should artists strive for photorealism when they could simply develop a photograph? An interesting aspect of photography (pre-deepfakes) is that the existence of a photograph seems to attest that its contents were real and true at some point; to call something ‘photographic’ lends the subject credibility. Photorealistic art can evoke a similar meaning while affording the artist some creative liberty: knowing that Gertsch’s work is not ‘merely’ a photograph seems to invite the viewer to speculate which parts were invented, embellished, unreal. Why did Gertsch choose to painstakingly preserve the particular details that he did in his paintings? In Gertsch’s own words: “The more I focus on the photographic image, the more I move away from it.”
Overall, we highly recommend the Louisiana Museum of Art. It’s unlike any other museum, and well worth the visit if you have time! When we returned to our hotel, we all cherished a few hours of rest before getting ready for the dinner and enjoying a quick stroll through the manicured King’s Garden. Then, we made our way to the famed greenhouse of Noma.
We were greeted outside and ushered into the greenhouse, where we were offered vials of tea. Groups were escorted to the main dining room one at a time, so we sat, giddy with anticipation. My mom and I wandered outside the greenhouse to try and sneak a peek at the understated buildings nearby and were politely asked to wait inside—a deviation from the evening’s choreography, I suppose. At 6:30, it was our turn to walk down that iconic path of wildflowers. One of many experiential details they get right: I appreciate that each party gets to walk up to the entrance without other guests or a staff member hovering nearby.
As you open the door, you’re greeted by a synchronized ‘yes!’ and chorus of hellos from the entire staff. At your table, they show a preview of some of the ingredients that will be featured on the menu for the evening, and drink preferences are confirmed (my parents got the wine pairing, and my sister and I got the juice pairing. Both were excellent, but the wine pairing really complemented the dishes and introduced us to lots of unique white wines). The show begins.
I’ve really struggled with the ‘right’ way to write this review: should I recount every course in detail? How much should I acknowledge existing reviews and perceptions of Noma? When I read reviews of Noma beforehand, part of me wanted to set expectations for the food itself, but the main question on my mind was: what makes Noma the best? What exactly is one supposed to want from Noma? Good food can be found at any price point, in any place. Other fine dining restaurants can deliver memorable, innovative experiences without such inaccessible reservations.
If what you seek from Noma is simply a great meal, you will not be disappointed. From my first bites of the kohlrabi ‘kebab’, any fears I harbored about the menu being more focused on presentation than taste evaporated. The preparation captured the fatty indulgence of meat and the lightness of vegetables; paired with tart berries that popped in our mouths and fermented beans, the first course alone felt like it surpassed a meal’s worth of unexpected and delicious combinations of flavor and texture. This polyphony continued throughout. There was a sorrel soup served in an ice bowl with heart-shaped, gelatinous ‘noodles’. One of my favorite courses, koji wrapped in ransom, included tasty accompaniments including a singular sprig of fried something that somehow tasted exactly like Shanghai scallion oil noodles. We were delighted by a potato soup sucked straight from a potato via veggie straw, paired with a delicate butterfly ‘sandwich’, and a speedily-served frozen cheese dish topped with yuzu that felt like eating a citrusy-yet-umami cloud. Our collective favorite course was the last savory dish: a tomato salad and black oyster mushrooms topping the best rice (the best food?) that I’ve ever eaten. I felt somewhat barbaric desperately scraping the clay pot for every last grain, even settling for a taste of the oil, but I genuinely did not want to leave a single drop untasted. Dessert was also fantastic: a panna cotta topped with woodruff and flowers was vividly flavorful. As with any meal, some dishes were better than others, but across fifteen courses, every dish was tasty, interesting, complex, and beautifully presented. Each beverage pairing (wine and juice) accentuated the flavors, bringing an additional dimension to the course.
Not only that, each course was introduced by a new chef — and, as we chatted, complimented the courses, and compared flavor notes in Mandarin, the waiters took note and some of our later dishes were introduced to us in Mandarin by Shanna Fan, assistant restaurant manager, and Mario Fu, head of research at Noma’s fermentation lab.
At the end of the meal, we were offered a tour of the kitchen. We walked through their cafeteria, where Fu explained that Noma chefs prepare meals based on their hometown cuisines to introduce one another to new flavors. We saw the discarded, imperfect ingredients from the dinner we’d just savored. We walked by their fermentation lab, where people were still hard at work at 11pm, and a hallway adorned with signatures of all the chefs that had visited over the years (oh, and all of their awards). The environment is undoubtedly high-pressure, but I believe they’re sincere when they say they’re not cooking to win stars and plaques. Noma is a vision, which is why their team is able to pioneer breakthroughs that influence other chefs and institutions: they popularized fermentation in fine dining, their renaissance of foraging led restaurants worldwide to curate menus that highlight the local and seasonal, and they’ve modernized classic recipes and preparations that had been overlooked.
If you compare it to other fine dining restaurants—good food, correspondingly impeccable service and atmosphere—I think it does come out on top, but the comparison actually doesn’t do Noma justice. Even though as a customer, you’re paying for your meal served by a restaurant, grading them on a ‘restaurant rubric’ seems to miss out on Noma’s true project. Their website claims a mission of “pursuit of knowledge, devout creativity, relentless teamwork, and surprising our guests”; their transition to Noma Projects and its associated R&D project, cutely named Taste Buds, also reflects their professed “endless fascination with the idea that there is always more deliciousness out there, just waiting to be uncovered.”
Some restaurants strive to be the best restaurant; Noma’s aim goes far further than hospitality or cooking. They seek invention, continually pushing the bounds of their own imaginations, much like a new artistic movement. Each dish is an expression of the spirit of the chefs who came up with it. One review I’d read said that dining at Noma was like if you were to eat a lemon for the first time at 25 years old: it feels like unlocking entirely new flavors and forms of food. If we view Noma as a lab, it’s done astoundingly well at serving over two decades of novelty, and the price tag of the meal feels like a worthy investment into that discovery. If we view the menus as an art (as I’ve opined, meals are yours forever; in my mind, fine dining at its best is a version of art collection where you do not acquire an object that appreciates, but an experience that is permanently enriching), then when comparing to other artists at the top of their field, the price also feels justifiable. Noma was worth it for me, but it may not be for everyone, nor does it try to be.
Day 3: Designmuseum, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, and you guessed it… Nyhavn
The next morning, the rain we’d been expecting arrived with a vengeance. Despite initially believing that any food post-Noma would pale in comparison, our remaining meals of the trip were wonderful. I think it’s important to compare restaurants within their respective categories: it doesn’t make sense to compare comfort street food to haute cuisine because they fulfill different cravings and suit different occasions. Noma is in a league of its own, so its excellence need not diminish our appetites! We enjoyed a tasty lunch of elevated smørrebrød at Meyers i Tårnet, located in the Christiansborg Palace, the seat of the Danish Parliament, Danish Prime Minister’s Office, and the Supreme Court of Denmark. Smørrebrød (“butter and bread”) is a classic Northern European open-faced sandwich, typically topped with cold cuts, pieces of meat or fish, cheese, or spreads and garnishes. I was sad to see that at the time of writing, the restaurant is now permanently closed.
The pouring rain meant that museums became the prime tourist destination of the day. When we arrived at the Designmuseum, we found a line wrapping down the block. I had been expecting a museum oriented around the history of design — the Designmuseum is most known for their permanent exhibition on Danish design from the 1920s to the 1970s, where you can see iconic furniture pieces in their ‘chair tunnel’ — but left most impressed by their thought-provoking exhibition on the future of design. The exhibitions explored the implications of various product concepts (such as a pill that could cover all of your nutritional needs, euthanasia ordered via app, or a live feed of climate change) and raised questions about the future (how to fold sustainability into urban design, the many effects of internet culture, possible uses of artificial intelligence). I was particularly intrigued by existing projects and prototypes, such as a foldable temporary shelter that could float in water as a solution during disaster recoveries. Most museums evoke older glory days, but as educational institutions, it makes sense that they should also attempt to gesture towards some direction for the future.
From there, we made our way to Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek (also known as the Glyptoteket), the private art collection of Carl Jacobsen; primarily a sculpture museum, the collection also features French impressionists, Post-impressionists, and Danish Golden Age paintings. When we arrived, I felt uncharacteristically drained, so I revived myself with a tasty lemon poppyseed cupcake at their cafe while my family zoomed around the exhibitions. In the hour before they closed, I attempted to catch some of the highlights. This was a stunning museum; I wish I had the energy at the time to view its contents more thoroughly.
We were ushered out the doors at closing time, and had an hour to kill before our dinner reservation, so we walked to Ruby, a charming cocktail bar with a sleek front room and a covered patio. Our drinks were all tasty, and more importantly, allowed us to warm up a little. I particularly enjoyed my Strawberries gin cocktail. Only a minute away, our dinner at Marv & Ben awaited, starting off strong with a delicious bread and butter course. The tomato and mackerel appetizer was underwhelming, but the meal quickly redeemed itself in the remaining courses, each featuring a creative, hearty sauce. We’d also recommend their wine pairing. We haven’t historically defaulted to ordering wine pairings, but our experiences at restaurants like Noma (and Sorrel back in San Francisco) have revealed that often, the right wine can balance the flavors of a dish or add a touch of complexity. The star of the night, however, was the dessert: a green strawberry sorbet atop fresh and pureed strawberries. Never have I tasted such fresh fruit! Danish strawberries are the Platonic ideal of a strawberry. They are perfectly sweet, juicy, and the flavor is so concentrated—and it turns out, there’s an explanation. Denmark’s long, cool days mean that strawberries grow more slowly and over a longer period of time, which gives their flavors time to develop.
After dinner, we were delighted to see that the clouds had cleared and the sky was back to its brilliant blue, just in time for golden hour. We skipped around the streets, then decided to make our way (once again!) to Nyhavn to take in the crisp air on our last night in Copenhagen. When we made our way back to the hotel, the evening ended with unexpected fireworks; we’re still not sure what was being celebrated, but it felt like a fitting finale. The next morning, we grabbed some more smørrebrød from Rørt at the Torvehallerne Food Hall nearby before heading to the airport and reluctantly parting ways.
So many things to do and see in just three days! I used to believe the best travel required a hefty time commitment, and the effort to fly across the world and combat jetlag was most meaningful if you could squeeze in as many cities (or countries) as possible. In my previous packed itineraries, inevitably, by the last day, I was ready to go home. I left Copenhagen energized—and longing to stay, or at least to revisit this charming city.
I’m so grateful that I was able to spend some time in a city that had long topped my bucket list, but more importantly, I cherish the time I got to spend with my family. As we all get older, family reunions are harder to come by, making our time together ever more precious. Each place we visit is more special because of the memories we share.
