Herring.

At the restaurant, she lays a filet of Lykkeberg herring on a piece of coarse bread and takes a bite. ''You can get tired of all kinds of food, but never herring,'' says Folmer. As for chefs such as Bojesen, who insist on hand-marinating their herring in small batches, Folmer has trouble hiding a smirk. ''That's foolish,'' she says. ''People say to me all the time, 'In the old days I wanted to do it myself, from the bottom, but now I realize you do it just as I would.'''

After lunch I visit Bojesen's catering facility on Copenhagen's industrial backside. He emerges from the kitchen with two glistening pieces of herring—one in a marinade of apples and horseradish, the other in tomato and grainy mustard. I try both and experience a culinary epiphany. The flavors are clean, unexpected, perfectly harmonious. I pronounce the herring the best I've had. Then I go to Holland.

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