A Night Amongst the Nobels

The Scandinavian Society produces one event each semester – Crayfish Ball in the first and Nobel Ball in the second. Both black tie dinners with members giving speeches, and dancing afterwards. I spoke to the President Ingrid Kagge regarding her perspective of the society and the event. It bears its name from the eminent Swedish chemist Alfred Nobel, known for inventing dynamite and being the namesake of Nobel Prizes. The society aims to share Scandinavian culture with the batch of students they deem worthy; Scandis in St Andrews are a small group with a loud voice, eager to share. They are a fun group. I do love events centered around booze and food. We were kept fed and hydrated. I sat at a table with the Vice President, Alexander Barreng, who ensured my glass never emptied.

If I'm shelling out 80 quid for an event centred around food, I’d like it to be good. We were given the choice of soup or pâté. For the main we had beef and something else which I can’t remember because, as always, I’m easily pleased when handed any sort of beef. Finally, sticky toffee pudding, which I maintain is the UK’s greatest dish, and with that, potentially the only good one on the list. Roasts are good but I can’t really give too much credit for throwing a bird in the oven. I’m not quite sure how any of these options represented Scandinavian culture.

I find the food at most St Andrews events to be offensive – an excuse to drive up the price. This occasion, on the other hand, offered up the most fantastic food I have ever had at any St Andrews ball. The bread: warm, crunchy on the outside, pillowy on the inside; the butter, well salted. When restaurants do these simple things it is a sign to loosen your belt and prepare for a fantastic meal. The pâté was paired with fig jam and more toasted bread. I often find the ratio of pate to bread to be entirely skewed. Far too much pâté and not nearly enough bread, leaving you with unwanted extra pâté which simply does not work without its host. 

The main was comforting. Slowly braised in what I can only assume was a sauce based on red wine and beef stock, the beef was a standout dish. I’m certain that they cooked that thing for three hours or more, just based on how it fell apart once I picked it up. It felt like home, and while it did not transport me to any Scandinavian country, I was far too satiated to notice or care. It was plated with a generous serving of mashed potatoes which were perfectly creamy and buttery. Just when I thought it was the perfect dish, I came across something which caught me off guard: pancetta hidden beneath the beef. Now if there is one thing I love, it’s a salty cube of meat. A welcome surprise. Perfection. Alas, the sticky toffee pudding was botched. It left me disappointed, and to think what could have been. 

As I stuffed my face, unapologetically, with little regard for those sitting around me, I realised that I hadn’t really spoken to anyone. Except to ask if they were going to finish their plate. This particular event was one with an air of exclusivity. A personal invitation was required for attendance. And the dress code — black tie. I always think of friends back home, uncultured yanks. The most expensive event at US University would be a fiver to chip in for the lukewarm light American beer. The dress would be either sports jerseys or any other painfully obvious theme. The floor: dirty, sticky, and the constant stale smell of beer soaked into the framework of the house. I go back and forth. Maybe that’s how it should be. We are growing up too fast. Charity galas are for old people. But there I sat, eighty quid poorer. A double vodka soda was also fifteen quid from the bar, and naturally, I paid for it more than once. I complain but I continue to do it. And I like it. The event was very fun, the food was the best I’ve had, and Scandis are funny and know how to have fun. Am I an expert on their culture now? No. Can I now intricately envision the perfect toasted slice of pâté? Perhaps.

Graphic by The Scandinavian Society St Andrews