Surstromming: The Can That Opens Like A Crime Scene
Category: Culinary Chaos 1st July 2026
Unwrap a tin of surstromming and the room will decide it has better things to do. This is not a strong smell; it is a diplomatic incident in a small metal cylinder. The stuff is Baltic herring, lightly salted and left to ferment until it develops a fermenty, barnyard personality that assaults your nostrils with hydrogen sulfide, butyric and propionic acids, and a generous portion of unapologetic fishiness.
Sweden has a tradition: the surstromming 'premiere' arrives on a Thursday in August and citizens peel the lids outdoors like modern-day pyromaniacs with picnic blankets. The cans sometimes bulge from ongoing fermentation; there are stories of lids popping and juices spraying like tiny, aromatic geysers. Airlines and a few very polite hotels prefer you keep it off their premises, which is fair - you do not want to be remembered as the person who detonated dinner.
Taste-wise, it is less 'throw the plate away' and more 'how dare it taste this good despite itself'. True fans roll it into tunnbrod (a thin flatbread), add boiled new potatoes, raw onion and a smear of sour cream. The cream calms the brassy acidity and somehow civilisation is restored. Eat it properly and it is salty, tangy, strangely sweet and utterly committed to being fish.
The original reason anyone invented this was sensible: preservation. Before refrigerators, fermenting in brine kept protein edible for months. That historic cleverness now enjoys being theatrical. I once let a can sit in the boot of my car (do not do this) and returned to find a kitchen-sounding noise from inside and a boot that smelled like a harbour shoved into a gym sock.
Love it or loathe it, surstromming earns its place in Culinary Chaos: food that insists on being an experience rather than a condiment. If you try it, do so outdoors, warn the neighbours, and remove any candles. Also, open it away from any relatives you intend to speak to again.