My Royal Wedding Feast
14 Hours, $1,000, and a Questionable Amount of Pinsa Romana
By Brady Jonas
When I stumbled upon the menu for Princess Märtha Louise of Norway's wedding, I knew I had to recreate it. I mean, who doesn't want to know what it feels like to dine like royalty for a day? Armed with an ingredient list that resembled an ancient scroll, I set out on a culinary adventure that lasted 14 hours, cost over $1,000 in ingredients, and probably aged me five years. Join me as I recount the hilariously exhausting journey of preparing a seven-course Scandinavian feast fit for a princess.
Monkfish Brushed with Rosemary and Garlic, and Lamb Kofta
Oh, monkfish. The ugliest fish in the sea and, as it turns out, the slipperiest. After a brief wrestling match on my kitchen counter that left me smelling like Poseidon's lair, I managed to brush the beast with rosemary and garlic. It smelled divine, like a fragrant love letter to the gods of land and sea. The lamb kofta, on the other hand, was a walk in the park compared to the monkfish's aquatic acrobatics. Simple meatballs seasoned with spices and herbs, they fried up beautifully. Together, these dishes were like an odd couple that somehow worked—one refined and subtle, the other robust and earthy.
Norwegian Crayfish with Lemon
Let me start by saying that tracking down Norwegian crayfish in my landlocked city was an adventure in itself. After several hours and a few questionable internet searches, I managed to procure a handful of these freshwater critters from a boutique seafood market that charged by the ounce—as if they were tiny crustacean Fabergé eggs. Figuring crayfish themselves don’t make for a composed dish, I boiled and peeled new potatoes, tossed with a light grated tomato and finally delicately drizzled with lemon juice. As I stood back to admire the result, I realized that I had effectively spent $100 on glorified mini lobsters. But hey, at least they looked fancy.
Garganelli with Piquillos, Eggplant, and Pine Nuts
Ah, pasta. A dish I thought I could count on to be straightforward. But making garganelli from scratch is like playing a game of edible Tetris. Rolling the dough into perfect little tubes took the dexterity of a surgeon and the patience of a saint—neither of which I possess. Then came the sauce. Piquillo peppers, eggplant, and pine nuts sizzled together in a medley that was both smoky and rich. When I finally tossed the pasta with the sauce, I almost cried. It was beautiful, like a sunset in a bowl. I was starting to understand why this meal was fit for a royal wedding.
Carrot Salad with Cilantro and Yellow Raisins
Carrot salad. How hard could that be? You'd think it was a quick, breezy task—like the palate cleanser of meal prep. Well, you'd be wrong. Shredding carrots for an hour straight gives you a newfound respect for rabbits and those who feed them. The addition of cilantro and yellow raisins brought the whole dish together with a surprising burst of sweetness and tang. A simple dish, yes, but after the crayfish debacle, it felt like a triumph. By this point, my counters were covered in a rainbow of ingredients, and my hands smelled of everything under the sun.
Pinsa Romana
Pizza’s bougie cousin. I had to make this Roman flatbread dough from scratch, which required a special double-zero flour that costs more per pound than a good bottle of wine. The toppings were simple enough—tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and basil—but the real trick was getting the crust just right: crisp on the outside, airy on the inside. By now, I was covered in flour and mildly hallucinating from exhaustion, but the pinsa turned out to be a showstopper.
Soup of Ceep Mushroom Cappuccino with Roasted Corn
Now, this dish—this dish sounded like something out of a Michelin-starred fever dream. A mushroom soup...but make it cappuccino. I roasted the ceep mushrooms and blended them into a silky purée before steaming milk to create a foamy topping. I added roasted corn kernels for texture and visual appeal. The result was a soup that looked as impressive as it tasted, with a hint of smoky depth and a sweet pop of corn. I felt like a wizard stirring a potion, albeit a very tired wizard with an inexplicably sticky kitchen floor.
Sunmørsk Kakebord (The Cake Table)
And then, there were cakes. Plural. The sunmørsk kakebord is a Norwegian tradition—a veritable smorgasbord of confections that could make a dentist weep. I opted for three: a bløtkake (cream cake), a kransekake (almond ring cake), and a fyrstekake (Norwegian pie). This is where the wheels began to fall off. The bløtkake collapsed like a deflated soufflé, the kransekake rings stuck to the pans like stubborn barnacles, and the fyrstekake, well, let’s just say I now know why the Norwegians like their pastries with a strong cup of coffee.
The Feast
After 14 hours of non-stop cooking, my kitchen looked like the aftermath of a food fight at the United Nations. I sat down to eat, exhausted but triumphant. The crayfish were bright and refreshing, the monkfish and lamb kofta a perfect yin-yang of flavors. The carrot salad was a zesty respite, while the garganelli was a comforting, carb-laden hug. The soup was silky with a satisfying crunch, the pinsa romana was worth every ounce of overpriced flour, and the cakes—well, two out of three ain’t bad.
As I took my last bite, I couldn’t help but feel a strange camaraderie with Princess Märtha Louise. Sure, she probably didn’t have to cook her own wedding feast, but after this culinary odyssey, I felt closer to royalty than I ever had before—albeit a very tired, flour-dusted version of it.