Stanley Abbott: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 30, No. 13, Mid-December, 1985

“I would have thought you’d have gotten rid of Mr. Fields by now,” said Draxten, as they sat down.

“Tillman, what a rude thing to say!” said Mrs. Draxten. “I think it was very kind of Sergeant Nygaard to bring him along for a taste of old-country cooking.”

“Hamburgers would’ve been fine,” muttered Fields, not quietly enough. A massive elbow nudged his ribs and he added hastily, “But I’m looking forward to an interesting meal.”

There was an electronic shriek, and all eyes turned to the front of the room, where a podium stood in a spotlight under the American flag. A tall man with golden hair was adjusting the microphone. Beside him stood a tiny girl in a pink dress.

“Hello!” he said, and his voice was broadcast with ear-shattering faithfulness to the farthest reaches of the room. Hands flew to ears. He frowned, and when he spoke again, his voice had been reduced to a scant whisper. His lips moved, and they heard, at a near-proper volume, “... two, three, testing, one, two. There, that’s better. Welcome to the Tofte Lodge Lutefisk Dinner. The cooks inform me all is in readiness, so without further ado, I will present little Astrid, who will recite for us.” He bent and lifted the child, whose hair was so fair it glowed almost white under the spotlight. She clutched the microphone, pulling herself horizontal, then saw how many eyes were on her and lost her nerve.

“Go on, honey,” called someone from a table near her, and she rewarded him with a shy smile.

“Okay,” she said, took a deep breath, and recited all in a rush, “I Jesus’ Navn gar gi til bords, Spider, drikker pa dit ord, Dig til aere, od til gavn, Sa far vi mat i Jesus’ Navn.”

Fields suddenly saw that he was the only one in the room whose head was not bowed. They were saying grace, he realized, and when Nygaard nudged him, he said “Amen,” loudly.

Their waiter came by and put two platters on the table, one stacked with whitish squares, thin and limp; the other piled with pale freckled rectangles the size of graham crackers.

“Flatbread,” said Nygaard, picking up one of the crackerlike rectangles. “Made of oatmeal. Try one.”

Fields tasted a piece. Its texture was rather like cardboard found under a bush after a long winter, but it didn’t taste bad.

The limp things didn’t taste bad either, nor good; they had virtually no taste at all. “Lefse, potato bread,” Mrs. Draxten said as she showed him how to fold it into a triangle and spread butter on it. “A little sugar is good, too,” she counseled, sprinkling some on hers.

Fields copied her, and agreed it improved the flavor. His spirits rose a little. This might not be such a bad meal after all.

“Obviously your mother didn’t do much Norwegian cooking at your house,” Mrs. Draxten said.

“No, ma’am.”

“Too bad,” said Nygaard. “No one prepares fish like the Scandinavians do.”

“Which is probably why bur ancestors went a-viking,” said a voice behind them.

“Jack!” said Nygaard, turning in his chair.

Hafner, a trimly built man with dark hair and gray eyes, stood smiling down at them. “May I have this empty chair, or are you saving it for someone?” he asked.

“Sit, sit down!” said Nygaard.

Hafner sat and grinned. “And you would be Mr. Fields? I thought Thor would have sent you on your way by now.”

“No, I haven’t,” said Nygaard. “Not yet. Maybe I should take him to a tattoo parlor to get a shark tattooed on to the back of each of his hands. Or would that be leaving a mark?”

Hafner laughed and Mrs. Draxten asked, “Why a shark?”

Judge Draxten said, “He’s a cardshark; we caught him cheating at poker this afternoon.”

Mrs. Draxten fixed Fields with an eye turned the color of a winter sea. “I hope you are ashamed of yourself, sir.”

“Well, I suppose I am,” said Fields, glancing in Nygaard’s direction.

A waiter in a dark suit carefully lowered an enormous platter piled high with slabs of something that smelled of old fishing nets onto the place of honor at the center of the table. The lutefisk had arrived. Nygaard deftly captured the biggest piece for himself, and courteously insisted that Fields take the second biggest.

Hafner asked, “What do you know about lutefisk, Mr. Fields?”

Fields, frowning at the quivering whiteness on his plate, replied, “Not a thing.”

“It’s an interesting food, made from ocean cod. Goes back at least to medieval times, before refrigeration. After the fish is caught, it’s salted down, then dried. It can last for months that way. When you get a yen for fish and it’s too cold to go fishing, you bring out the lutefisk. But it’s stiff as a board, so you soak it in a lye bath to soften it up. That breaks down the tissue and melts the bones right into jelly. When you can feel your fingers with your thumb right through a slab of fish, it’s almost ready. Then put it in fresh water for a day or two to get rid of the lye, boil it a few hours just to make sure it’s really soft, and serve it up just like you see it here. Nice, huh? That piece of fish on your plate there was caught last summer and never saw a refrigerator in its life.”

“No kidding,” said Fields, looking at the very large chunk of lutefisk Nygaard had given him. Beside him, Nygaard was pouring melted butter over his portion. Nygaard was not denying the description, not breaking into his big haw, haw, haw to show this was a joke.

“Delicious!” said Thor, forking away a huge mouthful. “Eat up, Larry!” Fields felt a big elbow land in his ribs.

He took a small bite and discovered the questionable pleasures of fish-flavored jelly. “Pass the butter, please,” he said miserably.

“Here come the potatoes!” said Nygaard. Norwegian-style potatoes are boiled until they begin to break apart, then shaken in a colander until they are dry and mealy. But they are not treated with lye and don’t taste of fish. Fields took two, anxious to clear his palate.

Another bowl arrived. “Ah, the mashed rutabagas,” said Hafner, “cooked in pork-flavored milk.”

Before Fields could say, “None for me, please,” Nygaard had put a large dollop on his plate.

“You get your money’s worth at Tofte Lodge!” Nygaard said cheerfully, taking an enormous serving for himself. “Eat, Larry; you may never get a meal like this again.”

Fields, with a staggering effort, ate most of his fish and half his rutabagas. “I–I guess I’m not very hungry,” he said when he saw Nygaard’s censuring eye.

“I’m not surprised,” said Mrs. Draxten. “Sitting here among all these nice people. You belong in jail.”

“Sergeant Nygaard suggested that, but I’m afraid I talked him out of it,” sighed Fields.

Nygaard glanced over and said, “I knew you’d like it once you tried it; here, have some more lutefisk.” He put another piece on Fields’s plate with the careless largess of a man who has already paid for all he can get. He added a slab to his own plate and reached for the little pitcher of melted butter. It was a fresh pitcher, and hot, and he dropped it hard enough to spill a molten puddle onto the paper tablecloth. “Uff da!” he said.

“Uff da?” said Fields.

Hafner explained, “If a Norwegian were taking out the garbage and the bottom fell out of the bag onto his good shoes, he’d say ‘uff da.’ If he came home to find his wife had run off with the milkman, he’d say ‘uff da.’ If he heard on the radio that an armed nuclear warhead had been accidentally launched and would land in his back yard in thirty seconds, he’d say ‘uff da.’ ”

Everyone laughed, and Nygaard said, “I’d run for the hills, but you’re right; I’d mutter ‘uff da’ all the way. C’mon, Larry, you’re falling behind! Eat, eat!”