Dave Wood

Recently the Kinnikinnick Society of Tasty Hamburger Questers met at the 66^th restaurant we have evaluated in the past, this one called Muddy Waters in Prescott, and found one of the tastiest yet, cooked to order! The meal finished, member Bill Smith showed us a photo of wife Susie’s recent catch of a FORTY-inch Northern, after which the fish stories began to fly. I’m just a word dink, with little experience in piscatorial activity so all I can muster is my story about a pallid white fish not available in local waters, called “Torsk.”  

This passion of mine began years ago when I was invited to a meeting of the oldest fish-eating organization in the Twin Cities, Torske Klubben, held once a month at the Edina Country Club.  Longtime club “Boss” architect Roy Thorshov explained how the club worked. Black cod (which is white inside) is shipped fresh from Newfoundland, then chefs poach big hunks of it with huge white potatoes, and big silver bowls of melted 92 score AA melted butter. This pale trio is preceded by hors d’oeuvres of cold butter perched on razor-thin slabs of flat bread, along with cunning little glasses of imported Løiten’s Aquavit, to some a “Water of Life,” to teetotalers “sudden death.”

About 100 people were gathered, a fairly elderly crowd of Lutheran preachers (ELCA), Lutheran Brotherhood insurance agents and execs, politicians (Walter Mondale was there) and journalists with proven Norwegian credentials, like my Tribune colleague, “Frosty” Jenstad, who have a taste for fiery potion from the old country. Before we dug in, “Boss” Thorshov asked us to bow our heads and  “honor Our Dead Members” (some snickers from the younger folk in attendance), and then we all sang ”Ja Vi Elsker!”

 I complimented Thorshov on this wonderful meal. Thorshov smiled and recalled that such an event wasn’t always so easy.  “In 1940, when I heard on ’CCO that the Germans had occupied Norway, I got on the phone and called all the liquor stores in town and bought all the Løiten’s Aquavit they had in stock and stored it in my basement, but by 1944-45, we were getting so short we had to ration it!

After dining, Mondale told us that when he was nominated in New York, the Italian delegation cheered, because his name suggested he was Italian.

“I even lose votes that way in Minnesota. I sure wish back in the 19h century, those immigration officials would have spelled grandpa’s name correctly!” (It’s MUNDAHL!) When more stories were over, I raced to the paper and wrote MY fish story, most of which you have just read.

After it appeared in the Tribune, I began getting calls and letters from readers. Were the congratulations on my excellent reportage? 

NOSIREE. Instead, they were inviting me to come to OTHER torsk clubs, to eat and write about the ones that they belonged to. As you might expect, after that wonderful feast, I accepted and made my way to several of those younger others. Here’s a sample:

There was SAGA KLUBBEN, bossed by Bud Ingebretsen, owner of Ingebretsen’s store on Lake Street.  Saga dined at the Yacht Club in Lilydale and had a population slightly younger, including several immigrants from Norway, like my poli-sci teacher Karl Andreson, who led us in HIP-HIP-HOORAY chants, a replacement for Thorshov’s “dead member” event. Bud was less authoritative than Thorshov, but did scold his fellow members about the Aquavit policy, in which members helped themselves to the water of life and were supposed to throw a buck in a bowl for every shot they quaffed. “I’ve done some quick calculation and discovered our liquor fund is about $170 short!”

A year later my wife and I attended NORSKE TORSKE in Woodbury, a club which anyone could attend.  Everything about it was loose as a goose, the alcohol flowed mightily, and the huge audience was entertained in a remake of St. Paul’s Prom Ballroom by a hired pop star, Minnesota’s Icelandic-warbler and ivory-tickler, Bill Holm.

My last stop was RICHFIELD AMERICAN LEGION POST which regularly hosted a group of fish-eaters whose name eludes me. Too much of what I’ve come to call “The Silvery Loudmouth Potion,” I guess. This outfit differs from previous Klubbens. For one thing, the delicious meal was not all WHITE, nor were its members, most of whom were black. This crowd insisted on at least something green. No, not collards, just a tossed salad, which, in a nod to Norway’s most famous Erik, was topped with a red cherry. The meal eaten, most of the jokes that followed were aimed at the club’s white members of this rainbow cast. The food was delicious as usual, just good old black cod, which was white inside, a culinary monument to diversity and camaraderie—Proof, I would argue, that my fondness for this fish has nothing to do with my Norwegian background, and everything to do with good company, good eats, and a crowd devoted to good food, bad jokes, and a drop or two of the spirits.