
Chef Freja
Butterdejs-Tarteletskaller
Danish puff pastry tartelet shells folded and chilled in patient layers, baked tall and golden until they shatter at the first bite. The architecture that holds a hundred different fillings.
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Created by Chef Freja
Danish breaded button mushrooms fried golden in butter and oil, served warm with cold remoulade. The pub snack that belongs to dark afternoons, cold beer, and the company of friends.
There's a particular kind of Danish afternoon that belongs to this dish. The light has gone by four. Someone has suggested a beer. You end up at a wooden table in a værtshus, the small neighborhood pub that has stood on the same corner for a hundred years, and within five minutes a small plate of panerede champignoner appears between you. Hot, golden, crisp, with a little bowl of cold remoulade beside them. Nobody ordered them. They simply belong to the moment.
You can make them at home, and you should. They are one of the simplest things in the Danish snack repertoire, and they are also one of the easiest to do badly. The whole dish lives or dies on three things: small mushrooms, a proper three-stage breading, and the right temperature in the pan. Get those right and you have something hyggelig enough to turn an ordinary evening into an occasion. Get them wrong and you have soggy mushrooms in pale crumbs, which is not what anyone wants.
What I want you to pay attention to is the contrast. The mushrooms come out of the pan hot enough to burn your fingers. The remoulade comes out of the fridge cold. That gap is the dish. Don't warm the remoulade. Don't let the mushrooms cool. Serve them in the same minute and you'll understand why the Danes have been pairing them this way for generations. Tak for mad.
Panerede champignoner belong to the værtshus tradition, the small Danish neighborhood pubs that flourished in Copenhagen and the larger provincial towns from the late 1800s onward. They sat alongside other simple breaded snacks designed to be eaten with cold beer, and they owe their technique to the wider European panering tradition that arrived in Denmark through German and Austrian cooks in the 19th century. Danish remoulade, the gently sweet yellow sauce flecked with finely chopped vegetables and tinted with curry powder, was popularized in the 1920s by the Beauvais cannery in Copenhagen, and it has been the standard partner to anything breaded and fried in Denmark ever since.
Quantity
500g
wiped clean, stems trimmed
Quantity
100g
Quantity
2 large
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
150g
panko or homemade from day-old white bread
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
freshly ground, to taste
Quantity
60g
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
150ml
cold from the fridge
Quantity
small bunch
roughly chopped
Quantity
1
cut into wedges
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| small white button mushroomswiped clean, stems trimmed | 500g |
| plain flour | 100g |
| eggs | 2 large |
| whole milk | 1 tablespoon |
| fine dry breadcrumbspanko or homemade from day-old white bread | 150g |
| fine sea salt | 1 teaspoon |
| black pepper | freshly ground, to taste |
| unsalted butter | 60g |
| neutral oil | 3 tablespoons |
| Danish remouladecold from the fridge | 150ml |
| flat-leaf parsleyroughly chopped | small bunch |
| lemoncut into wedges | 1 |
Wipe the mushrooms clean with a damp cloth. Don't rinse them under the tap. Mushrooms are sponges, and water soaked into the flesh will steam its way out in the pan and ruin the crust. Trim the stems flush with the cap so each one sits flat. Choose mushrooms roughly the same size so they cook in the same time.
Line up three shallow bowls. The first holds the flour seasoned with half the salt and a good grind of pepper. The second holds the eggs beaten with the milk until smooth. The third holds the breadcrumbs. The order matters and the order is the dish: flour grips the mushroom, egg grips the flour, breadcrumb grips the egg. Skip a step and the coating slides off in the pan.
Roll a mushroom in the flour and shake off the excess. You want a thin coat, not a thick one. Drop it into the egg, turning to cover every surface, then lift it out and let the excess drip back into the bowl. Finally, lay it in the breadcrumbs and press gently so the crumbs cling to every curve. Set each finished mushroom on a tray. Work through them all before you start frying.
Heat the butter and oil together in a heavy frying pan over medium heat. Butter alone burns before the crust takes color. Oil alone gives the crumbs no flavor. Together they give you the deep golden brown and the nutty richness that makes these taste right. Wait until the butter has stopped foaming and the surface shimmers. That's when the pan is ready.
Lay the mushrooms in the pan in a single layer with space between each one. Crowding drops the temperature and the crumbs go pale and soft instead of crisp. Fry for two minutes on the first side without moving them. Listen for a steady, gentle sizzle. If the pan goes silent, the heat is too low. If it starts to spit, turn it down. Turn the mushrooms with tongs and cook the other side for another two minutes, then roll them once more so the curved sides take color too. Total time in the pan is around five or six minutes per batch.
Lift the mushrooms onto a plate lined with kitchen paper. Sprinkle with the rest of the salt while they're still hot. Salt clings to hot fat. On cold mushrooms it slides off and falls to the bottom of the bowl. Wipe the pan if the butter has darkened too far, add a fresh knob and a splash of oil, and fry the next batch the same way.
Pile the hot mushrooms onto a serving plate or board. Scatter the chopped parsley over the top. Spoon the cold remoulade into a small bowl alongside, and tuck the lemon wedges in beside it. The contrast is the whole point: hot, crisp, golden mushrooms on one side, and cool, tangy, gently sweet remoulade on the other. Eat them with your fingers or a small fork, and don't wait. They are at their best in the first ten minutes out of the pan.
1 serving (about 200g)
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