In Henne Kirkeby’s huddle of handsome thatched-roof cottages, their small paned windows glowing like flames at night, the chef immediately saw the restaurant he’d create.“I envisioned a place that would feel like I was serving a meal in my own home,” he says, “a place where I could have my books on the shelves.” A place where a sprawling garden bursts with vegetables, herbs, fruit trees, berry bushes, and flowers flanked by beehives.
There will be bread called Keith Moon, for the music that was playing when its starter was conceived; it’s a headily fragrant boule with herbs baked into the bot tom, served with tangy butter churned an hour before service.Just as important, the food is unmistakably not New Nordic.“I’m incredibly proud to be part of the Nordic food movement, but I travel far too much not to be inspired by flavors from other places,” says Cunningham. sex kontaktanzeigen Fürth Even back in Copenhagen, he didn’t fully subscribe to the tenets embraced by Redzepi and his acolytes, which see chefs working solely with ingredients grown and foraged on Scandinavian soil.The walls in the Hunters’ Lodge are hung with ethereal photographs by Copenhagen artist Astrid Kruse Jensen.Throughout the property, the landscaping remains deliberately sparse, mirroring the rugged heath, and the atmosphere is resolutely informal.
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Cunningham, by contrast, is as happy to pair an Indian spice like vadouvan with a Danish crustacean, or miso with crudo, or to serve lobster Thermidor or steak au poivre without a single twist.And on Fridays, the highlight of lunch at Henne Kirkeby is fish-and-chips.“At this point, the only dogma I have is to use what we’ve got,” says Cunningham, who cures his own bacon using pork from Grambogård, a farm on the island of Funen.The slim highway that leads here from Billund, the closest small city with an airport, delivers humdrum rural views at first.But soon it begins to cleave through boundless expanses of shimmering, sand-colored heath, tousled here and there by stiff sea breezes.As we approach the shores of the silvery North Sea, the water remains out of view, but we can sense it; the plush heath gives way to salt-weathered marsh grass and the wind kicks up.
When Henne Kirkeby Kro appears by the side of the road, it does so suddenly and without fanfare, like a roadside motel.He makes his own Cumberland sausage for the breakfast spread because Danish sausage isn’t his favorite.The kitchen bakes eight types of bread every day, using grains ground at a mill just down the road.Take a wander through the Henne Kirkeby garden, poke your head into the greenhouse, and you’ll find ropes of garlic in the midst of a long ferment, bundles of herbs drying, perhaps seedlings incubating beneath bell jars.If you’re studying the controlled chaos of the flower beds, you might meet grandmotherly Helen Momme, who bears the basket of warm breads, yogurt, jams, and cured meats offered to you at breakfast each morning, and later furnishes your dinner table with vases of nasturtiums, cosmos, and the odd leafy beet.