Taking the Lutefisk Risk in Minneapolis

When the server said, “You’re the youngest person to order this in a month,” I had a feeling I was in trouble. Then I knew for sure I was taking a gastro-intestinal gamble when the dish I ordered actually arrived: staring at me from a plus-sized plate was a variation on the theme of pale: golf-ball-sized pearl onions, diced boiled potatoes, thin lefse flatbread, a thimble of hard butter, and the plate’s tour de force, a three-inch quivering gelatinous beast—otherwise known as lutefisk.

This is what happens when you’re in Minneapolis during the holidays and you ask a local what you can eat here that’s “different.” Or maybe I just asked the wrong local.

Lutefisk—pronounced “loot-a-fisk”—is not a Norwegian death metal band (but it should be—written, of course, in that classic ‘80s heavy metal font), but a fish brought to the upper Midwest by Scandinavian immigrants in the 19th century. It starts out as a rather typical northern European whitefish. Minnesotans take a fish like cod and put it through a severe drying technique, which involves reconstituting the poor thing by rehydrating it with lye (commonly found in drain cleaners, by the way) then resurrecting this “fish,” for lack of a better word, as something ghoulish and slimy.

I’d been to Minneapolis about two dozen times and often I opt for some of the city’s diverse fare, such as east and west African, Vietnamese, or Thai. Some other highlights include having to review the bizarrely fun Travail Kitchen & Amusements and spending afternoons eating everything at the rambling HmongTown Marketplace, which feels like you’re strolling through a market somewhere in Southeast Asia.

This time, though, smack in the middle of lutefisk season (October to March), I felt like playing Scandinavian roulette with my digestive system. Oh yeah, you betcha!

Lutefisk lovers will tell you the putrid-smelling fish squirms down the throat so quickly that you can’t really taste it. That’s a good thing, I guess? Throughout the season, lutefisk is served at church suppers and at various Scandinavian cultural institutions where brave, fair-haired geriatrics celebrate their Viking heritage by slurping up the fetid fishy goodness.

Not even the pandemic can stop Minnesotans from getting their dried, reconstituted, chemically altered fish. This year the Swedish Institute in Minneapolis held drive-thru lutefisk dinner. And it sold out! They should also hand out bumper stickers that say, “I brake for slimy translucent, gelatinous, quivering fish!”

I did some research and found a nearby restaurant that had it on the menu. And so, there I was staring down this stinky Franken-fish. The server didn’t ask to see my AARP card before putting the dish in front of me, so I picked up my fork and let it glide through a clump of fish.

I wish I could conclude here that lutefisk wasn’t so bad after all. That it has received a bad rap and that a new, younger generation of misplaced Vikings have embraced it and made it better. Nope. I can’t say that. I won’t say that. Valhalla, this was not. It was like having a forkful of fish-flavored phlegm in my mouth that quickly disintegrated when it hit my tastebuds; eventually a milder fishy aftertaste emerged on my palate once the slime slithered down my throat. It gives new meaning to the term “Uptown funk.”

In a 1999 episode of King of the Hill, titled “Revenge of the Lutefisk,” Bobby eats an entire tray of lutefisk. He makes a b-line for the bathroom and lit some matches to eclipse the lutefisk-inspired smells he was creating. He later confesses: “I ate the lutefisk. I got sick in the bathroom. I lit the matches. I burned down the church.”

I didn’t burn anything down. I didn’t even get sick. The main offense was having to pay the bill for this eating experience afterward. And that I wasn’t exactly full. Far from it. Plus, I still had the lingering taste of rancid fish in my mouth. I hopped in my car and headed for a much more normal, bearable, and palatable Minneapolis eating institution: the nearest Ethiopian restaurant.