Sometimes life gets tough as a gristly wartime sausage. As hairy as a bearded lady from a Victorian sideshow. As desperate as a band of despairing desperadoes desperately making one last desperate stand from behind a scrutty desert cactus. As perilous as a periwinkle sipping Perrier... ok, enough! When the cards are on the table, the writing is on the wall and the clock-hand is pointing to squeaky-bums-time, it can only mean one thing. The Spy is holed up in another hotel room (enemies doubtless patrolling in the street below) on another windswept Scandinavian mountainside, with his stomach growling and grumbling like a caged beast. His workload is now so mighty that he forgot to pick up food before everywhere closed, and now he is faced with a terrible, life-or-death decision. Does he eat the other half of the jar of pickled gherkins he has sitting on his desk, thereby risking corroding his stomach with its acidic contents? The room is already awash with the stench of vinegar; the desperate Spy was forced to break into the jar by piercing the lid with a fork, as it was too tight to open (O noble, piteous Spy, made weak as a lamb through lack of sustenance!). The only other hope of nourishment was a fruit salad that had lain forgotten for several days, but when the Spy discovered it and eagerly tucked in, he found that something horribly ... fermenty ... had occurred... And so with that lesson in mind, when the chips are down and you find yourself down on your luck and eyeballing a jar of elderly gherkins, you've gotta ask yourself, do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?
A Spy's gotta do what a Spy's gotta do...
Enough of this melodrama. Breakfast is a mere night away, and the Spy is in Bergen, which he loves with a passion as strong and hearty as the hardy mountain folk that this fine city breeds. He has trod these streets many times, frequently gumbooted, for last time he was here it rained Every Single Day for a month straight. (Being nestled between seven mountains on a fjord coastline that backs directly onto the North Sea will do that for you.) Yet as a happy result, the Spy now knows every lovely cafe and bakery in the area like the back of his soggy, wrinkling hand, for he took to diving into the nearest one whenever the heavens reopened and he became too sodden to go on. The Spy has precisely ten minutes before his work jumps on him again. Just enough time to post some pictures, but if you ever find yourself in Bergen and need recommendations, contact the Spy. Hell, he'll even fly out to give you a guided tour if you settle the small matter of his airfare...
Best for traditional Norwegian (soups representing):
Best for Bergen's legendary fish soup and delicious homemade bread, mighty Pingvinen (The Penguin). On Thursdays, try their local speciality of pinnekjøtt and raspbeballer (the Spy beheld the dumplings and quaked). Try also Cafe Opera, same kind of atmosphere, fish soup nearly as good...
Best for the ancient dried salt cod dish of bacalao, Byggeloftet & Stuene is down on Bergen's picturesque wooden sea front and always worth a visit.
Best (and cheapest) for Italian / Noodles:
Zupperia (although this mighty fish dish was absent from the menu last time the Spy went to guzzle: curses!)
Pasta Sentral: and two half portions of pasta for a tenner! Unheard of in Norway - the Spy nearly swooned! And yes those are prawns on that pizza. This is Norway.
The Spy's time is up, and he must flee. Be warned, go nowhere near the fish and chips in the fish market: the Spy was nearly poisoned, and wept many tears for the far-off Petrou Brothers of Ely and Chatteris:
Despite those fish tails curled up like the toes of the Wicked Witch of the East, post-farmhouse, the Spy is so hungry right now he would happily guzzle them...
The Spy's time has definitely elapsed. He hasn't even started on the best hot chocolate, the best waffles, the best cinnamon buns, the pros and cons of the fish market (where you can sample raw whale meat if you've a mind to)... However, if he doesn't get back to work right now, something grisly will happen. Don't ask him what, but it will be bad; he might even be forced to drink all that pickle juice and turns into a dessicated Egyptian mummy. One final picture, lest you are left with that horrible image in your head: Bergen at 4am on a beautiful clear morning, just to prove it doesn't rain all the time.
Loverly.
As a Norwegian in Cambridge I find this post most amusing, particularly the fish and chip misadventure. Our deep-frying skills are alas not as top-notch as the Brits', but at least we know how to bake nice bread :)
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