ON THE AVENUES: Breakfast is better with those gorgeous little herrings.

"A kind word is no substitute for a piece of herring or a bag of oats."
-- Sholom Aleichem

Other people go berserk about social media postings on politics and religion, but the ones that really annoy me go something like this:

Q: Hey guys, what’s the weirdest restaurant experience you ever had in a foreign country?

A: Well, one time we were in a McDonald’s in Beijing, and …

STOP. RIGHT. THERE.

You what?

You went all the way to effing China and ate in a McDonald’s?

Why on earth would you do something like that?

I mean, it’s bad enough to stuff Chick Fil A down your unresponsive pie holes here in clueless L’America, but why waste your time patronizing wretched genero-chains when you’re enjoying the good fortune to be able to travel overseas in the first place?

(gurgling sounds are emitted)

Wait -- what was that?

You’re asking me if I think the Chick Fil A in Beijing serves Peking Duck Bites?

We can only hope, seeing as folks like you apparently need Peking Duck Bites to populate your nauseating “gotta try” Instagram moments, and so if I’m lucky enough to last another two decades before cashing out, you can rest assured I won’t be spending a solitary dime at Chick Fil-WTF, anywhere in the world.

Now if you’ll kindly excuse me while I take great pleasure in BLOCKING you from my life … on social media, at least.

Enjoy your flavorless reeking muck.

---

What do these beige people have against basic human decency, anyway?

It reminded me of my 1985 stay in Salzburg, chatting with a forlorn and utterly terrified Texan who surely has since devolved into a staunch backer of Donald Trump -- or Ted Cruz. The Texan was depressed to the point of a nervous breakdown because he couldn’t find any beer to drink in the lovely mountain city.

Pitying this disoriented Lone Star fool, I tried to talk him off the ledge: cheer up, mate, because it’s your lucky day as a beer lover. You’re in Salzburg, and Germany’s just over those mountains; meanwhile the brilliant Augustiner beer garden lies a few blocks away, they have sausages, and the beer there is just glorious.

He looked at me like I was a mutant space alien.

“But there’s no Miller Lite. It’s my favorite beer. These beers are awful. It just isn’t the same.”

That’s true, friend. It isn’t the same.

IT’S BETTER, YOU ABYSMAL COWARDLY FOOL. WHO IS DUMB ENOUGH TO COME TO EUROPE TO DRINK AMERICAN LIGHT BEER?

Well then, I suppose there’s only one recourse.

Maybe it would be better if tucked tail and fled back to Dallas, renting an efficiency apartment upstairs at Hooters and taking your meals at Arby’s before repairing to Applebee’s for a night cap.

You know, a dullard’s paradise by the gnash-bored Lite.

---

Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, is it time for breakfast?

You may recall that I prefer fish for breakfast -- but not just any fish. Among the rotating selections from the pantry at dawn’s early light are pungent smoked kippers with crackers; piquant pickled herring on buttered rye bread; and on special occasions, lox with the requisite bagel, cream cheese and just a light sprinkling of capers.

On special occasions, just for garnish, there’ll be a garlic-stuffed olive.

Happily there are repercussions to such culinary preferences. From nowhere, impatient cats find me as I’m walking down alleyways, and they make an eager, impromptu parade.

Even better, some mornings I get in a hurry, forget to brush my teeth, and inadvertently breathe on a prim, proper, crisply suited banker -- and he promptly wilts, as though beaned on the noggin by a stray aesthetic revelation. If it doesn’t render the banker entirely unconscious, I’ll breathe on him a second time.

That usually does it.

Let’s be clear. I like deceased marine life in the morning. Captain Crunch isn’t even close. Pop Tarts need not apply. Eggs will do, generally when pickled.

Breakfast fish is real food for real people.

Obviously, these dining strategies are best complemented by stiff, aromatic black coffee, such as that produced through the saving grace of our home Saeco espresso maker. As for side orders and balance amid the oil, vinegar and brine, there’s properly bitter orange marmalade on toast and the occasional serving of Greek-style yogurt with fruit. Both work quite well.

Indeed, pungency settles the humors. Until the pallid likes of Bob Evans and Cracker Barrel grasp the eternal wisdom of treats like these, it’s hard for me to take them seriously as contenders for my early morning dollars.

May these franchised monuments to white bread, Velveeta and decaf never, ever besmirch the shining shores of Scandinavia, where so many years ago I learned to eat breakfast the right way.

---

It was July, 1985 in Oslo, Norway. Thanks to an exchange rate highly favorable to Americans, Scandinavia briefly became almost affordable, and when I stepped off the overnight train from Copenhagen to explore Oslo’s main station in search of a bite to eat, the handy restaurant with its all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet actually was reasonably priced.

(As a side note that for budget travelers, buffets meant two or perhaps even three meals, not just one. A clean freezer bag could be stuffed full of meat and cheese when no one was looking and reserved for duty later in the day.)

While industriously filling my plate (and bag) I saw three ceramic pots positioned on a narrow shelf. Innocently imagining they were filled with jams or jellies, I scooped out a spoonful of … rectangular silvery-gray piquant vinegary fish parts.

Inadvertently, I had been introduced to pickled herring, a delicacy that hitherto had eluded me. Quickly I realized it was time to put up or shut up, because what possible goal would have been served by traveling all the way from Hoosierland to Norway and then being too timid to taste the damn difference between the two?

Right there in Oslo, with every corn-fed Indiana olfactory receptor sounding a red alert -- “BEWARE, Midwesterner: Ocean products not fully processed into paste to make Filet O’Fish sandwiches … do not compute … WARNING!” -- I piled the pickled herring onto a flat, dense and nutty slice of rye bread.

The funky aroma tickled my proboscis. I hadn’t eaten pickled herring before, not even once, but it was love at first chew.

Later that week in Bergen, Norway, I treated myself to a culinary splurge. For three hours at lunchtime, a renowned local eatery ran an all-you-can eat seafood buffet for the equivalent of $15. Bearing in mind that my daily budget for lodging, meals and alcohol was $25, this was a budget-buster.

The fact that it has lingered in my memory three decades later attests to the correctness of the decision to abandon fiscal rectitude.

The buffet served as a Nawbany rube’s introduction to smoked salmon, something quite rare in the rural, corn-fed Indiana of my youth. In 1985, I had no way of knowing the same-but-different confluences between Norwegian smoked salmon and Jewish lox (the latter cultural norms being as uncommon as Vikings in Baptist-laced Hoosierland), or the meticulous strategies for preparing such treats, which are every bit as traditional, proud and locally varied as American barbecue methodology.

I could say only that I liked it, a lot, along with mussels, oysters, flounder and all the rest of the bounty.

The summer of 1985 was an introduction to all things European. I became enamored of the continent, and always will be. Food in general captivated me, especially those items and recipes we didn’t commonly experience at home at the time, like moussaka (from Greece), North African cuisine (in Paris) and even Nutella (rare in Louisville back then).

Specifically, engaging in strange, subversive encounters with un-American fish became a thread running through most subsequent journeys, from pie, mash, eel and liquor (gravy) in London in 2013, to the snack tray at Suzanne’s wedding on the Baltic in 1996, which also included eel, this time smoked, or black scabbard fish with bananas at the island of Madeira last year.

But my single proudest moment of all came when I enjoyed the distinction of being the oddball foreigner who introduced my Danish pals to the grandeur of the Faergekro restaurant at Nyhavn (“new” harbor) in their own city of Copenhagen.

The daily herring buffet was and remains a highlight of western civilization. At least ten varieties of pickled herring (with sour cream, curry and Madeira sauce, among others) are offered, along with dense dark bread, butter, and garnishes like raw egg, onion and caper berry. Whole smoked herrings are carved from the bone and replenished.

Beer is available, as well as Akvavit (Scandinavian schnapps), along with the wonderful northern custom of providing house-made infusions of herbs and spices for flavoring the firewater and washing down the tasty pickled and smoked morsels.

You can spend whole days in a joint like this, and one time in 1989, I did just that, starting a tab at Faergekro for lunch, and finally arriving back at my temporary Danish doorstep in a taxi well past midnight, pea soup fog choking the street as well as the inner recesses of my cranium, fully tempted to join WC Fields in returning to the eatery the next day and asking:

“Was I here last night, and did I spend $300?”

(Insert whatever the words are for “yes, you did” are in Denmark.)

"That's fine. I was afraid I lost it."

Fishies and Akvavit were far better than losing the money, and it may have been a wonderful evening.

---

Recent columns:

August 8: ON THE AVENUES: Unless you open your eyes, “resistance” is an empty gesture.

August 1: ON THE AVENUES: The whys and wherefores can drive a man to drink; our lives just ARE, and that's that.

July 25: ON THE AVENUES: Until philosophers become kings, beer and food work just fine.

July 18: ON THE AVENUES: I'm a citizen of the universe, but I can't take a photo to save my life.

LIVE TO EAT: The Golden Key Market in Buechel.

If there's no Cyrillic, can it even hope to approach authenticity?

When the herring is finished, onto the black bread it goes.

I'd have sworn this paean to Golden Key Market was posted previously, but evidently it appeared only at Instagram. At any rate, just after our return from Sicily last year I received a message from my friend Burkhard, who has served as my personal German cultural attache since we met at least 25 years ago.

Burkhard's plan was to give me a tour of international community in Buechel.

It is named after John Buechel, a Swiss carpenter and tavern owner who established a post office at his White Cottage tavern in 1883.

There's a big Eastern European and Russian presence in Buechel, manifested by eateries and shops, and after visiting a couple of Bosnian-American establishments for food and drink, Burkhard led me to the intended high water mark of my visit.

The loaf of delicious black rye (above) is the weight of a brick, and the matjes herring from Norway delightful in vinegar and oil with chopped onions, dill weed, salt and pepper. All of it was purchased at the Golden Key Market in Buechel.

My memory was jogged upon running across the informative article linked here. Unfortunately, Buechel's not on my usual route to anywhere, so I've only been back only twice since.

However, by sheer serendipity in August while overnighting in Indianapolis, we found ourselves dining at Gregory's, a Russian restaurant located in a strip mall on 82nd Street. Gregory's is quite near to the site of the late, lamented Chalkie's, and it's great.

When I think about how wonderful the herring tasted last December, it's obvious that a return to Golden Key is in the offing.

EXPLORING THE AISLES: Golden Key Market, by Lindsey McClave (Louisville Distilled)

Buechel’s Golden Key Market offers a treasure trove of goods from Russia, Eastern Europe.

The door had barely closed behind me when I received Oleg Gold’s warm welcome. “Would you like tea or coffee?” he asked, smiling as he ushered me into his compact and vibrant market.

Two glass cases flank the left side of the shop, filled generously with cured meats, cheeses, whole smoked fish, and golden tins of caviar. Four short aisles stretch along the right side of the store, an enticing array of packaged goods decorating the shelves. Any spare space is filled with an assortment of everyday sundries, from newspapers and greeting cards written in Russian, to first aid items in Russian language packaging. There is much to take in, and I am instantly eager to be spirited away by this treasure trove of goods from across the globe.

Specializing in food from Russia and Eastern Europe, Golden Key Market sits somewhat conspicuously at the corner of Bradford Drive and Bardstown Road in Louisville’s Buechel neighborhood.

Gold sets me up with a drink the shade of a brilliant green, an all-natural soda direct from Russia infused with an herb that he isn’t even sure has an English name. I sip and nibble on Turkish tea crackers as Gold shares the story of how he came to own this shop with Arina Safarova, whom he met a few years after arriving in Louisville.

Shopping, strolling, beaches, herring, bock and madras. Just a second day's reintroduction to Haarlem.

Previously: Renewing friendships in Haarlem. Being thankful. Promising to be back soon.

Our second day in Haarlem was Thursday, September 21.

Marilyn was in school, so Inge met us at the Grote Markt and we went off on a proper walk in search of a thrift store, passing from the center of the city through through a slice of Haarlem's neighborhoods north of the train station.

But first, there was "second breakfast" herring to eat, as previously documented here: LIVE TO EAT: In Haarlem, the delicious "Hollandse Nieuwe" herring experience.

Originally the "Hollandse Nieuwe" haring being recounted here was intended for consumption on Wednesday, the day of our arrival. However, by the time we finished an opening round of drinks and got organized, the proprietor was depleted for the day.

Hence, the saddest sight in all of the Netherlands.

Hollandse nieuwe haring is a delicious memory I'll continue reliving in my mind and taste buds -- until whenever we return to Haarlem.

Inge opted to have hers sliced. It tastes just as good, albeit slightly less theatrical.

Haarlem's town hall was the backdrop.

We'd actually strolled a bit before Inge arrived. Alas, the friet (fries) stand wasn't open yet.

With the herring consumed, we set off for the thrift store. Consider the space it takes to park bicycles as opposed to cars.

However, if even more bicycle parking is needed, there's always the underground, bikes-only garage by the train station.

It was a delightful walk.

The thrift store had an eclectic selection of glassware and music.

At the adjacent supermarket was evidence that in the Netherlands, bock/bok beers are an autumn phenomenon, not late winter/spring as in Germany.

There was a huge display given over to local beers.

Later in the afternoon, Diana and I walked back to the station and hopped a train to the beach resort at Zandvoort, only a six-mile ride through the relatively truncated Haarlem suburbs and the barrier terrain of the National Park Zuid-Kennemerland.

The National Park is composed of young calcerous dunes, wide beaches and lush coastel forests as well as remnants of cultural history like farms/estates, seaside villages and bunkers. Differences in soil, elevation, climate and groundwater levels in dunes provide diverse living conditions for both flora and fauna alike. While the elements, sand, rain and wind only serve to reinforce the biological dynamics of the area.

It was a temperate autumn day by the ocean, and we restricted our activities to observing the scene from the safety of a seaside restaurant.

A quick selfie as the train pulled into Zandvoort station.

Back in Haarlem from the beach, Diana took a break and I went to Jopenkerk to meet Dewi and Boris. We subsequently decamped for Lokaal, Rob's signature Dutch beer bar. It is located just a couple minutes by foot from our hotel, and since the closing of Cafe Briljant, it's his sole pub business.

On the topic of food, it was revealed that seeing as Lokaal has no kitchen, we'd be ordering dinner delivery from Taste of India. This afforded a second happy opportunity for madras and curry. Diana joined us for the feast.

That's half a profile of Rob in the rear. Weirdly, it occurred to no one to photograph the reunion, and so having finally made it back to Haarlem after nine years, the faces of Rob, Boris and Dewi were not captured on film.

(exasperation)

Two full days remained.

LIVE TO EAT: In Haarlem, the delicious "Hollandse Nieuwe" herring experience.

The approach was carefully rehearsed. Hell, I'd been thinking about it for nine years.

We were at the Grote Markt, Haarlem's main square. Inge's daughter was in school, and the three of us were planning on a 20-minute walk to a recycling/thrift store, but first ... heavenly street food sustenance.

There was a preview of "Hollandse Nieuwe" haring (herring) in this space last Friday, including comments by travel impresario Rick Steves:

TRAVEL PRELUDES: Herring, preferably by the tail.

 ... I’m under the towering church spire in the tidy Dutch market town of Haarlem, tempted to eat a pickled herring. The sign atop the mobile van reads: “Jos Haring — Gezond en Lekkerrr” (healthy and deeeeeelicious).

It appears that Mr. Steves and I dined at the very same mobile herring delivery vehicle.

First the chopped onion dredge.

Then, the hoist and descent.

My, my; how very fishy and satisfying.

As you can see, they're sizable edibles; the haring had been deboned and sliced mere seconds before ingestion.

By the way, Haarlem's town hall is in the background.

The second and final bite was about to land.

Two delicious tastes, and the haring was finished. Seconds? Don't worry, because plenty of quality time remained.

Now we were ready to walk.

Originally the "Hollandse Nieuwe" haring being recounted here was intended for consumption on Wednesday, the day of our arrival. However, by the time we finished an opening round of drinks and got organized, the proprietor was depleted for the day.

Hence, the saddest sight in all of the Netherlands.

Luckily, these haring-and-fish vending stands are all over Haarlem. This one's a classy joint ...

 ... and yet another was busy on the Grote Markt on Saturday, market day.

Nine years between fresh Dutch new herrings?

It just isn't right, and you can bet your bottom Euro that it won't happen again.

TRAVEL PRELUDES: Herring, preferably by the tail.

That's what I'm saying: Rotterdam style.

Dredge the filet in chopped onion, grasp the tail, and down the hatch it goes. Rick Steves displays proper form in this video.

In the winter of 1992, nearing the end of my post-communist teaching assignment in Kosice (now independent Slovakia), I took an overnight train to Brno (these days, in the Czech Republic), then an all-night bus to Rotterdam. I proceeded to spend a week in the nearby satellite town of Spijkenisse with Bram and Rie, elderly parents of Nelly, my former neighbor out in Georgetown.

Those wonderful days are a story of their own. Bram took great delight in showing me the sights, and one day we turned up at Scheveningen (a neighborhood in The Hague) for a sunny but frigid afternoon at the beach.

Bram wanted to know if I liked herring, and I answered affirmatively, imagining he meant pickled herring like I'd often had in Copenhagen. We found a fish vendor, and I was handed a cardboard vessel with what I assumed was raw herring (it's actually frozen, then salted for preservation).

Following my leader, I tipped my head and took a big bite.

Then smiled, broadly.

Back to Rick Steves ... who needs to understand that it isn't really pickled, you know.

Haarlem with Raw-Herring Breath, by Rick Steves

I’m under the towering church spire in the tidy Dutch market town of Haarlem, tempted to eat a pickled herring. The sign atop the mobile van reads: “Jos Haring — Gezond en Lekkerrr” (healthy and deeeeeelicious).

I order by pointing and ask, “Gezond?”

Jos hands me what looks more like bait than lunch, and says, “En lekkerrr.”

I stand there — not sure what to do with my bait — apparently looking lost.

In other Haarlem food notes, I see the De Ark restaurant has closed. That's shame. It was an old school slabs of meat and baskets of potatoes kind of place, stacked amid venerable wooden ambiance. It will be missed.

Herrings, those silver darlings.

I try never to miss a chance to tout the culinary and personal health benefits of herring.

ON THE AVENUES: Breakfast is better with kippers (April 17, 2014)

But seriously: Silla Bjerrum’s herring soba noodles!

Here be herrings: the return of the silver darlings, by Alex Renton (Guardian)

Herring once provided millions of Britons with their main source of protein, but overfishing caused stocks to collapse. Now sustainable fisheries are reappearing – and one Danish-born chef is putting the fish on the menu in her UK sushi restaurants.

 ... From the middle ages on, herring and cod provided Atlantic Europe with most of its protein. But now, herrings are one of Britain’s lost foods. We used to call them the silver darlings. They were small and tasty, whether fried, smoked or cured, and full of the healthy oils we now buy in expensive food supplements. They are indeed silver, as slick and bright as mercury. They once existed in unbelievable abundance – the word herring comes from the Old German for “multitude”. In 1913, it was estimated that 10,000 boats from all over Europe fished herring in Scottish waters. At the peak of the herring boom, Britain exported a quarter of a million tonnes a year.

ON THE AVENUES: Breakfast is better with kippers.

ON THE AVENUES: Breakfast is better with kippers.

A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor.

Scoff if you wish, but I like to eat fish for breakfast.

Among the rotating selections from the cupboard at dawn’s early light are pungent smoked kippers and crackers; piquant pickled herring on buttered rye bread; and on special occasions, lox with the requisite bagel, cream cheese and just a light sprinkling of capers. On special occasions, just for garnish, there’ll be a garlic-stuffed olive.

Yes, there are repercussions to such preferences. From nowhere, impatient cats find me as I’m walking down alleyways, and they make an eager, impromptu parade. Some mornings I get in a hurry, forget to brush my teeth, and inadvertently breathe on a prim, proper, crisply suited banker – and he wilts, as though beaned on the noggin by a stray aesthetic revelation.

If it doesn’t render the banker entirely unconscious, I’ll breathe on him a second time. That usually does it.

It’s clear: I like deceased marine life in the morning. Captain Crunch isn’t even close. Pop Tarts need not apply. Eggs will do, when pickled. Breakfast fish is real food for real people.

Obviously, these dining strategies are best complemented by stiff, aromatic black coffee, such as that produced through the saving grace of our home Saeco espresso maker. As side orders, just for balance amid the oil, vinegar and brine, properly bitter orange marmalade on toast and the occasional serving of Greek-style yogurt with fruit work quite well. Indeed, pungency settles the humors.

Until the pallid likes of Bob Evans and Cracker Barrel grasp the eternal wisdom of gustatory treats like these, it’s hard for me to take them seriously as contenders for my early morning dollars. May these franchised monuments to white bread, Velveeta and decaf never, ever besmirch the shining shores of Scandinavia, where so many years ago I learned to eat breakfast right.

---

It was in Oslo, Norway, that I experienced pickled herring for the very first time, almost 30 years ago. Thanks to a tremendous, short-lived exchange rate in 1985, Scandinavia briefly became almost affordable, and when I stepped off the overnight train from Copenhagen to explore Oslo’s main station in search of a bite to eat, a handy restaurant with an all-you-can-eat buffet actually was reasonably priced.

For the budget traveler, buffets meant two or maybe even three meals, not just one. A clean freezer bag could be stuffed full of meat and cheese when no one was looking. I went for it, and during the course of gorging on the goodies, noticed three ceramic pots positioned behind the rest of the food.

My guess was jam, and with curiosity aroused, I removed the lid and reached for the spoon … which was a fork. It didn’t smell anything like fruit, and the funky aroma tickled my proboscis. I hadn’t ever eaten pickled herring, not once, but I knew what it was when the filet was impaled on the fork. It was love at first chew.

Later that week in Bergen, Norway, I treated myself to a culinary splurge. For three hours at lunchtime, a renowned local eatery ran an all-you-can eat seafood buffet for the equivalent of $15. Bearing in mind that my daily budget for lodging, meals and alcohol was $25, this was a budget-buster, but the fact that it has lingered in my memory three decades later attests to the correctness of the decision to abandon fiscal rectitude.

The buffet served as a rube’s introduction to smoked salmon, something quite rare in the rural, corn-fed Indiana of my youth. In 1985, I had no way of knowing the same-but-different confluences between Norwegian smoked salmon and Jewish lox (the latter cultural norms just as uncommon as Vikings in Baptist-laced Hoosierland), or the meticulous strategies for preparing such treats, which are every bit as traditional, proud and locally varied as American barbecue methodology.

I just liked it. A lot.

The summer of 1985 was a veritable appetizer, and an introduction to all things European. I was enamored of the continent, and have remained so these many years hence. Specifically, engaging in strange, subversive encounters with un-American methods of consuming fish became a thread running through subsequent journeys, from pie, mash eel and liquor (gravy) in London just last summer, ranging back to the snack tray at Suzanne’s wedding on the Baltic in 1996, which included a different species of eel, this time smoked.

But my single proudest moment came when I enjoyed the distinction of being the oddball foreigner who introduced my pals, the Copenhagen residents, to the grandeur of the Faergekro restaurant at Nyhavn (“new” harbor) in their own city.

The daily herring buffet is a highlight of western civilization. At least ten varieties of pickled herring (with sour cream, curry and Madeira sauce, among others) are offered, along with dense dark bread, butter, and garnishes like raw egg, onion and caper berry. Whole smoked herrings are carved from the bone and replenished.

Beer is available, as well as Akvavit (Scandinavian schnapps), with the wonderful northern custom of providing house-made infusions of herbs and spices for flavoring the firewater and washing down the tasty pickled and smoked morsels.

You can spend whole days in a joint like this, and one time in 1989, I did just that, starting a tab at Faergekro for lunch, and finally arriving back at my temporary Danish doorstep in a taxi, pea soup fog choking the street as well as the inner recesses of my cranium, fully tempted to join WC Fields in asking: “Was I here last night, and did I spend $300?”

(Whatever the words for “yes you did” are in Denmark)

That’s good. I thought I lost it!