Stockholm: Love at First Fika

DSCF3726 — Cinnamon Buns at Rosendals Trädgård

It’s late afternoon in Stockholm. We’re holed up in Saturnus Café, sheltering from the afternoon drizzle that has emptied Östermalm’s grand boulevards of people. Around us, the café’s dazzlingly good looking clientele are positioned between an array of ceramic coffee cups, empty cake plates and bowls of frothy cappuccinos. They talk, but in polite, quiet tones and I imagine them on the front cover of an ethical fashion magazine. Beyond the pastries piled on the counter, Saturnus Café is a secluded little utopia. Colourful baroque designs swirl across the tiled floor and decadent gilt frames are dotted across navy and wine-coloured wallpaper.

A barista serves me a velvety smooth latte. He appears so relaxed that I wonder if stress ever features on his emotional register. We tuck into the creamy delights of a wonderfully big slice of banoffee pie – it blows my previous dessert experiences clean out of the water. It is love at first ‘fika.’ I firmly believe it is impossible to harden your heart to a culture who places excellent coffee and spiced cakes at the centre of each day. I resolve to make this a ritual that I will strictly observe during my stay.

Already, the city’s unperturbed, quiet ambiance is a soothing balm after the frenzy of London. Stockholm has about an eighth of London’s population – the difference is incredible. Less cars on the road, less people in the restaurants – just less, full stop. The Swedish capital is as close to a spa break as you can get from a weekend in a city.

Long-limbed residents breeze down its wide streets and waterfront paths. Like the people, the style is relaxed and flattering – knee length pastel coats, suede trainers and slim cut trousers. Except for the postman sprinting along the streets to deliver letters (a neat parcel of fitness and efficiency) not once do we see even a hint of a speed walk. There’s no frogmarching, dashing after buses or pushing on the stairs of the underground. It’s all quiet. But not subdued, nor devoid of feeling. It’s just perfect – wide expanses of pale blue sky above minty green copper rooftops, the light golden walls of ornate 17^th century buildings, the coral red of the church. The wind-rippled surface of the Baltic sea breathes life into the pedestrianised city, keeping the water in perpetual motion.

Ostermalm, Stockholm

A quick comparison of Stockholm’s numerous bikes is revealing. Racing handle bars are few and far between, and wide cushioned seats replace the narrow, rock hard saddles beneath the London’s cycle squad. In Stockholm cyclists are upright; enjoying the view and the breeze on their faces. There’s no ultra-thin tyres manufactured for speed or helmet-clad riders poised on their pedals, eager to shoot off the moment the traffic lights shine green. I have a feeling that the word ‘rush’ for Stockholmers is as foreign as the word ‘fika’ to Londoners.

As we saunter over a zebra crossing, I notice the city has its own funky soundtrack: the syncopated ticking of the road crossings. It’s a groovy little addition that adds a spring to my step. Feeling smug, I spy an immaculate window box full of lipstick-pink tulips – signs of a city emerging from snowy hibernation. But I imagine Stockholm in winter is equally charming. Its many interior design shops feature snuggly beds which have on average, nine pillows and candle hung chandeliers beckon invitingly in restaurant windows.

A trip into Södermalm reveals Stockholm’s fun, unpredictable side. After grabbing a burger and washing it down with some friendly-priced pints, we stumble across Morfar Ginko. Outside there’s a rainbow flag, gatherings of spectacle wearing twenty-somethings and a charming bouncer who opens the door for you, in place of an ID check. Inside, the white washed ceramic walls and industrial vibe is offset by the DJ’s tropical shirt, bouncy dancers and colourful lighting. But it’s downstairs where the bar picks up its brownie points. At the end of a corridor so narrow that two people can barely pass, a shoe-boxed chop shop is busy cutting, shaving and grooming the locks of its male clubbers. And much like London, the beard and ankle-swing jean combo are very much in vogue. Turn the next corner and we enter a dimly lit space hewn out of rocky walls – wooden bar in one nook, pulsating techno in another. Clubbing in a new city can be touch and go but Morfar Ginko is seriously fun: light hearted, not too messy and full of exactly the right crowd.

No weekend in Stockholm is complete without a visit to the Djurgården, an expanse of grassy slopes and bluebell carpeted borders on one of the city’s many islets. Seagulls screech as they swoop over the gardens and from the hill, the views over the city’s watery skyline merit a moment of contemplation. But the café of Rosendals Trädgård is perhaps what I will remember most of my fika-filled weekend. Like icing, boxes of violet and golden pansies decorate the exterior of four greenhouses, whose interiors enclose a garden design-cum-brunch spot that is clearly a favourite with the locals. At midday on a Monday, the place is full of angel-haired children, fluffy puppies, couples and conviviality. An elegant lady sits shelling a plate of fresh prawns while her parents sip glasses of butter-hued wine. Plates coming from the hatch of this farm-to-fork eatery are piled high with whipped goat’s curd, vibrant slabs of beetroot and hunks of Sweden’s malty caramel rye bread. And it’s a waste of time to even try resisting the smorgasbord of delectable sweet offerings: perfectly symmetrical sticky buns oozing caramel and topped with crunchy pecans, fluffy blackcurrant almond cake with lashings of vegan vanilla cream and intricately twirled cardamom cakes.