My fingertips were oily and smelled of smoke. Leaving my hands near my nose and inhaling deeply, I luxuriated in this private reminiscence of my day, as the nearly empty, late afternoon train to London’s Paddington Station gained speed. Whizzing past ancient stone houses abutting bran colored fields and forests, and walled pastures containing wooly sheep and prized equines, the occasional church steeple punctured the whitish gray clouds hanging low in the winter sky. Fancy British cars impatiently idled behind the blinking lights and barriers to the rail tracks while awaiting our passing through their tiny town in the Cotswolds region of England. Thin blonde women drummed the wheels of their Range Rovers with long, manicured fingers while men swathed in Burberry and Barbour announced the area’s affluence. It’s rumored the aristocracy, landed gentry and politicians boasting homes here had the air traffic diverted from over the expanse of this magnificent countryside so as not to disturb their idyllic peace.
Tucked into this quintessential British scenery resides a highly opinionated, tall and bearded Norwegian artisan producing sublime smoked salmon. After pulling on an unfortunately fully legal rolled cigarette, he toured me through the smokehouse, an airy wood and glass barn constructed to his detailed specification; the entire operation nestled onto a corner of a larger farm devoted to artisan food producers. Ole had agreed to spend time with me, helping me to better understand the art of smoking fish, utilizing the same techniques and recipe his great-grandfather devised in 1923 in Kirkenes, a small town in Norway.
The glistening salmon arrives fresh, within two days of being harvested from one of the last family-run, sustainable farms in the Norwegian Arctic Ocean. The fish are immediately scaled and hand-fileted, with pockmarks made on the skin, which allows the salt cure to better penetrate the flesh. Hand-coated with both fleur de sel and regular salt, the filets are left to cure for twelve hours. They’re then washed thoroughly of the salts, threaded with cord, and hung in a cavernous, specially designed kiln to slowly cold smoke for another twelve hours in a smoldering mix of pristine juniper and beech woods, sourced from a special farm in Norway.
Inside the smoking chamber, Ole recreates Norway’s temperature, air movement, and humidity, all controlled by computer and pumped into the ornately tiled smoking room. He subjects the salmon to a strong ‘wind’, believing that keeping the fish moving throughout the smoking process helps the enzymes, and thus the taste, to migrate through the fish’s pink flesh.
The finished salmon is cut vertically into forefinger sized pieces, akin to sashimi rather than the paper-thin slices of salmon to which we’re more accustomed, allowing the earthy, smoky flavors on the fish’s surface to be enjoyed, but also to better experience the complex flavors of fish and ocean, which reside deeper within the flesh. The sliced fish is then wrapped in Japanese paper and delivered to markets and restaurants.
Grabbing my hand in his massive paw, Ole and I made a date to fish for salmon off the California coast during the summer season, with plenty of time spent hunched over my old smoker.
Returning to London, I walked through an outdoor market where Ole’s fish is hawked, spread out like piles of precious pink petals displayed on a rough-hewn wooden board bigger than a Spanish church door. The chunky slices of salmon rested atop thin wedges of dark Norwegian bread, and were finished with fronds of fresh dill. Leaning against an unclaimed sliver of brick wall in the pulsing market, I savored Ole’s craftsmanship; the balanced mosaic of flavors from the brininess of salt, fish, and ocean; the buttery, rich textures; the notes of earth, wood and smoke, which lingered on my tongue. Returning for a second piece, I realized my fingertips bore the scent, yet again, of a Norwegian artist’s homage to earth, sky, ocean, and the ancient wonders of smoke.