Fleming's status as a little-known "insider" joint is, however, probably due more to the fact that Americans know little about Danish cuisine, and most of what we do know is wrong. This country has few restaurants that even claim to be Danish -- for that matter, few countries except Denmark do -- and most that exist here either have about as much connection with Danish food as North Miami's old Tivoli restaurant did (namely, a bunch of posters for Copenhagen's Tivoli amusement park on the walls), or they are smorgasbord restaurants (meaning they are actually Swedish).
Denmark's herring-heavy buffet meals are called koldt bord (cold table) and, unlike Sweden's perennially popular smorgasbords, are almost exclusively a Christmas-season phenomenon ignored the rest of the year. Though the few outstanding traditional food specialties in this culinarily very conservative country have existed for centuries, almost none have made their way overseas intact: The sodden baked goods American delis call "Danishes" are a parody of Denmark's light, buttery 27-layer wienerbrod pastries; Denmark's ribbensteg and flaesksteg pork roasts (every bit as succulent as Cuban roast pig or barbecue) don't exist because American butchers don't cut pork with crackling attached; smorrebrod, open-faced sandwich constructions that look like a cross between lunch and works of art, don't exist here because -- who knows why?
Not to mention that Marcus Samuelsson's Aquavit in Manhattan is the only American restaurant I know whose cutting-edge creations reflect the food revolution that's swept Denmark in just the past fifteen years, with dishes like the "mutant" Mediterranean/Scandinavian smoked laks lasagne of Bo Jacobsen (at Copenhagen's Michelin-starred Restaurationen) or the mushroom "cappuccino" of bad-boy celeb chef Nikolaj Kirk.
Fleming actually serves none of the above traditional specialties, nor anything as trendy as the mother country's most modern creations. The oldtime Danish classics it does have, though, tasted authentic; the rest of the extensive menu, featuring lightened-up versions of the continental fare that characterized Danish "fine dining" restaurants prior to the late 1980s, seemed safe yet tasty, ideal fare for the mostly mixed-generation family groups that filled Fleming on both of my recent visits. Even on a weeknight, many tables were occupied -- perhaps because dinner here is a great deal. At roughly $16 to $22, entrées initially appear upscale, but not when you factor in a huge crudité tray (not just carrot/celery sticks, but seven vegetables plus mustard dip), interesting breads, an inauthentic but doubtless healthy caesar salad dressed with Egg Beater/canola oil vinaigrette, and terrific homemade soup (once a subtle winter squash bisque, once a heartier black-eyed pea).
Starters aren't necessary considering all the freebie food, but meatball lovers mustn't miss Fleming's frikadeller. These onion-spiked flattened pork/veal patties, a Danish favorite since at least the early Sixteenth Century, are normally bathed in brown sauce, but here came covered with a savory white gravy that seemed almost American South. Eat the two rich meatballs with one of the bread basket's biscuits, buttered, for a treat worth every added cholesterol point.
Herring, another traditional love (in fact the Danish word for herring, sild, doubles as slang for "scrumptious-looking female"), comes a couple of ways. Pickled herring, two firm fillets per order, was good, but curry herring was superior, its smooth, lightly curried cream sauce better balancing the fish's vinegar bite than the simple sour cream served with the plainer preparation. Both came accompanied by lettuce, hard-boiled egg, and powerfully tangy pickled onions.
Gravad laks was also excellent, considerably thicker-sliced than typical Jewish deli gravlax but otherwise similar -- like lox but herb/spice-cured rather than smoked, so much milder. Two other fish starters were less successful: a strongly fishy and unpleasantly grainy salmon paté (the eatery's liver paté, similarly served with traditional Danish cucumber salad, had a more smoothly silky texture); and blackened scallops with red pepper aioli, an attempt at trendiness. Unfortunately the herb-crusted scallops tasted more grassy than Cajun-spicy, and the aioli's nonemulsified texture suggested that it had been made with the caesar dressing's same Egg Beaters rather than real eggs.
Among four entrées tried, the best was phyllo-wrapped salmon bathed in beurre blanc, its richness cut by leeks and roasted red peppers. I couldn't help but wish that the same moist fish had been underneath veal Oskar's tasty topping of crab (flaked rather than lump but real, not "sea legs") and béarnaise sauce instead of the extremely chewy veal cutlet that was there. This continental classic was an alleged favorite of Sweden's King Oscar II, but even had the meat not been tough and overcooked, let's face it: Tarragon just doesn't work with veal like it does with salmon. Duck Danoise was good, prepared in the traditional Danish Christmas-season way -- meaning no nouvelleish rare breast slices and no Frenchified leg confit, just a uniformly well-done, crisp-skinned roast duck half, served with roasted new potatoes, apples, and prunes plus sweet/sour red cabbage.
But shrimp Kobenhavn, though not bad, was disappointing in both quantity and quality. The stingy six medium-sized "tender" Gulf shrimp were tough, and the garlic and the Pernod promised in the dish's cream sauce were indiscernible; rather than any hint of onion or anise, there was just a rather cloying sweetness.
To finish with much more pleasant sweetness is a cinch in Denmark, and Fleming's extensive dessert selection reflects that country's national sweet tooth. The bread pudding's legendary, but crème brûlée, almost impossibly silky under a crackling caramelized crust, is even better.
