As a newcomer to the Kräftskiva

It was a balmy August evening in Sweden when I immersed myself in the world of the Swedish Kräftskiva for the first time, once again, at the end of a meeting. I had heard of this traditional crayfish festival, but nothing could have prepared me for what awaited me.

When I arrived at the festival venue in Gothenburg, it seemed as if someone had ransacked a decoration store and hung everything in red and white. There were paper lanterns and little crab figures everywhere. I felt like I had entered a surreal world where crabs were kings and dill was their green of choice.

The guests wore funny cardboard hats resembling a cross between a birthday hat and a Viking helmet. I got one, too, and although I felt silly at first, I soon blended in perfectly with the crowd. Everyone also wore a bib, and I thought, "How bad can it get?" My bib time was a long time ago, when I was a baby. Now, it continued here.

Then came the crabs. By the bucketful. Cooked in a broth that smelled so strongly of dill that I thought I had suddenly developed superhuman olfactory senses. It wasn't pleasant, but the Swedes enjoyed it like little children. I watched as they ate the crayfish with a skill that reminded me of professional surgeons. Together with my non-Swedish colleagues, on the other hand, I felt like a toddler trying to eat with a knife and fork.

I quickly learned that eating crayfish in Sweden is no piece of cake. It requires technique, patience, and a high tolerance for sticky fingers. After squishing my first crab more than eating it, I looked like I had entered a dill and crab juice competition - and lost.

Then came the schnapps. A shot glass would magically rise every time someone sang a drinking song. I learned that "Skål!" was not just a toast but a survival strategy. The schnapps helped soften the crayfish's strong taste and made wearing a ridiculous hat more bearable.

The Kräftskiva was in full swing, and I, still in my ridiculous but somehow charming hat, had just made friends with the crabs when a new challenge came my way: lobster. My Swedish seatmate, a jolly fellow named Fredrik, who had proven to be my unofficial guide to Swedish seafood, proudly presented me with a giant lobster.

"Now it's getting perfect," he said with a mischievous smile.

He took the lobster and demonstrated how to open the head. "The best part is inside," he explained, sucking out something I couldn't quite identify. The smell was intense. I was deciding whether to be impressed or disgusted.

I glanced at the trainee opposite me, a young woman from Germany who had so far tried valiantly to adapt to Swedish traditions. The look on her face as she watched Fredrik was a mixture of fascination and horror. When she saw me pick up the lobster head, she whispered: "I don't know if I'll survive this." She almost threw up at the table, and other colleagues helped her to the toilet.

I bravely lifted the lobster head to my lips. The smell was overwhelming, and I had to seriously concentrate so as not to suffer the same fate as the intern. I sucked carefully and tasted something that I can only describe as "uniquely vile." Fredrik clapped his hands enthusiastically and shouted as loud as a Viking, "You're almost a real Swede now!" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The evening continued with more crab, lobster, and countless schnapps. Drinking songs were sung every time the shot glass was raised. A famous Swedish drinking song often sung at social occasions, such as the Kräftskiva, is "Helan Går," for example. It is typically sung before drinking schnapps. Here are the lyrics of the song:

Helan går
Sjung hopp faderallan lallan lej
Helan går
Sjung hopp faderallan lej
Och den som inte helan tar
Han heller inte halvan
får Helan går
(Drink)
Sjung hopp faderallan lej

Which means as much as:

The whole thing goes
Sing hopp
The whole thing goes
Sing hopp
And if you don't take the whole thing, you won't get half of it
The whole thing goes
(Drinking)
Sing hopp

They could party, the Swedes, extensively and late into the night. When the sun went down, the parties began. They danced through the night with smiles, a song on their lips, and a glass of schnapps while we foreigners enjoyed watching them do it. The fact that a third of the Swedes were missing or late the following day when the party resumed - never mind (I won't even mention the open, gaping, and bloody head wounds).

If you're intrigued by my entertaining account of spending a decade in Sweden and want to delve deeper into my experiences, please click the link to discover more about my book.

Book "Ten Years in Sweden"