A Smørrebrød Feast at Restaurant Schønnemann, Copenhagen

Welcome to Consumed, in which Matt Duckor devours the food world, documenting the people, places, and plates that keep him hungry.

I'd come to Copenhagen for the third annual MAD Symposium, the premiere gathering of famous chefs, journalists, and hangers-on founded and hosted by René Redzepi, the chef-owner of Noma. (These gatherings have become all too familiar in the food world, but to be fair, MAD was the first of its kind.) It was my first time in Copenhagen, that magical Danish city filled with twisting canals, countless signs leading you to the grave site of Hans Christian Andersen, and many, many Michelin stars.

The dining docket had been set by my colleague Andrew Knowlton, a man who is seemingly unafraid of any eating agenda no matter how ambitious: Over the course of four days we'd do the Copenhagen circuit: Noma, Ralae, Amass, Restaurant Geist—and others. Minds were blown; I think I lost mine somewhere between my fourth visit to Ved Stranden—which might be the world's most perfect place to drink wine—and the second of two courses at Noma involving ant paste. But it was a plate of scrambled eggs, eel, and perfect caraway bread that made us head to the same restaurant twice for lunch. That place is Restaurant Schønnemann, open since 1877.

First and foremost, lunch at Schønnemann is about smørrebrød, the open-faced sandwich that usually consists of a dense rye bread topped with everything from mayo shrimp to, you know, scrambled eggs with eel. The menu has dozens of options: smoked halibut with cucumber crème, fried filet of plaice with mayonnaise and boiled shrimp. All the ones I sampled will redefine the way you think about rye bread: Hearty and flavorful, with the versatility to stand up to just about any topping. But that doesn't mean you should skip the many marinated herrings (go curry if you're looking for the 101 experience) and tartares (opt for the beef with trout roe).

Then there's the service. Step down the short flight of stairs and into the bar before your reservation time (required), and you'll be asked to wait outside. (As we were.) Danes are friendly, but the staff at Schønnemann are, well, "efficient." They were quick to dispatch cold glasses of Carlsberg beer for us to drink while we waited, and I found myself two deep in perfect 70-degree Copenhagen weather by the time we sat down. (This may be a less attractive proposition during a Nordic winter.)

But that eel. Something about the interplay between the dense bread studded with caraway seeds, the airy eggs, and the richly tender eel made for an ethereal "I GET IT!" moment that I think everyone at our table experienced. This is why Schønnemann has been around for over 125 years. And while all of the food here is meticulously prepared, and presented on China that would make décor nerds and history buffs alike drool, it's damn simple. They're not serving a clever play on a national dish dreamed up by a young chef looking to make a name for himself. The shrimp salad, doused in mayo and served with a shot of dill aquavit, isn't drastically different from what you'd find real live Danish people eating anywhere else—it's just the best version of the stuff.