#34 of The worlds 50 best

We arrive at the welcoming fires of the Faviken estate, with the warning that the doors are locked to latecomers fresh in our mind. It’s been a fraught drive around the mountain from Are, the last part completed on tiny icy roads and without the benefit of a GPS signal. No matter. The door is still open and we are warmly greeted by Magnus Nilsson, who helps take our coats to hang alongside the far more famous fur on a hook behind him

Into the next room and we join the other ten diners, all of whom are staying the night in Faviken’s rooms and are already nibbling and making polite conversation together by the fire. The room is unashamedly folksy, as is the plinky plonky Swedish soundtrack. We’re served a homemade rhubarb aperitif and then a glassy flaxseed (linseed) wafer is up first. The super-healthy little germs are baked in a potato starch batter and served with a blue mussel dip. The emulsion is unctuous and glossy: echoing the texture of plump, barely cooked mussels. The whole is wholesome and tasty. Next is a broth of Jamtland leaves enriched with dried reindeer. Boiling water is poured over the dry ingredients in a little glass pot to produce a dashi-like tea. Intensely savoury, slightly rank and gamey, the brew is drunk from little cups with a few forest berries and a little dried mushroom powder. The food tonight will always be fascinating, sometimes genuinely delicious. This is definitely the former and undeniably toothsome but a bit too weird to be more than interesting.

Not so the next. A signature Faviken dish that uses pigs blood as the main ingredient of a batter that is cooked on a croustade iron. The hot croustade is dipped in three more rounds of pure blood to form a rich, glossy shell. Fill this with a blood custard and top with wild trout roe and Nilsson has come up with a playful little canape that looks like sushi, sounds like hell, but tastes superb. The fresh creamy little caviar pearls are a revelation. Gently popping bubbles of ultra-clean flavour over the robust piggy tartlet.

Now the bites come thick and fast. A sourdoughnut of pigs head with a slice of dried gooseberry sprinkled with bright green spruce salt is skewered on birch twigs. Vaguely oriental and very yummy.

The final pre dinner treats are provided by the slightly macabre hanging cures that we are soon to be sitting under in the dining room upstairs. Little slices of cured ham from a sow hand-picked for her plumpness. Locally reared pork plays a big part in the menu at Faviken. The meat has a pure porky flavour with none of the fish notes found in industrially farmed pigs. Next, is a little sliver of 3 year aged herring -salty and slightly cheesy- served on rusk with sour cream. The herrings are salted (I think) and then air dried hanging from the ceiling. The controlled lacto-bacillic fermentation process imparting a far less aggressive flavour than the great age of the fish would suggest. Preliminaries done, we’re invited upstairs. With just five limed wood tables lit by candlelight, the whole focus of dining room is on the central island, to which trays of food are brought by the chefs and dispensed with an explanation (in Swedish of course) by Magnus or his second. The folksy theme continues, and we start to relax into the cool but friendly Nordic hospitality. Plump cold water scallops come first. Still cooking over smouldering juniper branches and birch charcoal, the hefty shells are brought to the table. The meat is simply moistened in a little broth made from the cleaned offal: mild sea flavours and a little smokiness.

Next a section of roasted King crab claw. The moist flesh of this voracious Arctic predator is clean tasting enough, but a spray of white vinegar takes it to another level. The sweet, rich nuttiness of ‘almost burnt’ cream makes a rich foil. Nielsson usually makes a point of not cooking milk products as he believes it brings out too much sweetness, but here he aims for that with delicious effect.

The marriage of land and sea flavours in the crab dish makes perfect sense, but the next dish is harder to fathom. A two-course affair, this begins with poached turbot, sunflower seeds rolled in herb salt, vinegar jelly and chlorophyll oil: a mixture of the marine and agricultural that refuses to gel. The follow up of turbot stock frothed with buttermilk rounds off the lingering flavours but it’s too late by then: the first bit just didn’t work.

You could come up with a less mouthwatering concept than a plate of singed raw Brussels sprouts and lupins (I know this because one of Scandinavia’s least appealing dishes features further down the menu), but not many that prove to be so tasty in the flesh. The crunchy leaves sit on a buttery mousseline of mustard-flavoured lupin and sprinkled with flakes of lupin crisp. Surprising and delightfully fresh flavours and textures with every forkful.

Barley pancakes with sour onions were a little oily looking but tasty enough.

Cockles injected with beer: exactly how that sounds.

Little boiled potatoes are served in a pile of Autumn leaves to be picked out and smeared in ‘the good butter’ before wolfing down whole.

Our server was delighted to present us with the this dish: the Icelandic classic that is quail’s eggs rolled in an ash of sheep shit (a title that sounds only slightly more attractive when delivered in a Swedish accent). Thankfully possessing more of a burnt grassy- than a faecal flavour this comes with a mousse of dried trout for dipping sprinkled with chopped trout and pickled marigold petals.

Grains, barley and seeds from Jamtland make a porridge that is sprinkled with pickled carrot and a dollop of butter. Beef stock poured on through moss to form a rich, hearty broth.

A slice of rich and fatty pork chop is daringly rare -like a chunk of foie gras- accompanied by a puree of burnt bird cherry stones and a nutty vinaigrette of cherry juice and cherry stone oil. This was a satisfyingly meaty conclusion to the savoury section of our meal.

As I’m driving, we opt for the alcohol-free option of the juice of Ingrid-Marie and aroma apples that have been frozen through the winter. Spoiler alert: this solves the mystery of what has been athletically squeezed in the press at the side of the room throughout the meal.

Very fresh cottage cheese topped with carrot chippings and parsley bridges the gap between sweet and savoury. The carrots a flavoursome but quite dry: presumably from the months stored under the snow.

A surprise extra course of meringue egg shells filled with thick colostrum (the milk of cows in late pregnancy) and blueberries. Fragile.

Spoonfuls of sweetened blueberry ice alternate with a little hit of heavy cream and fermented blueberries.

Chilled curdled woodruff ‘milk’ sits on a warm curd pudding. Bracingly bitter and slightly medicinal tasting.

An egg yolk preserved in sugar is mashed into crumbs of pine bark cake, as richly vegetal and luxuriously flavoured as any single-estate dark chocolate. With a dollop of wicked ice cream on the side and a drizzle of meadowsweet syrup this seemingly bizarre combination of ingredients is handled so deftly that it has the comforting effect of eating a really classic pudding.

The last course is a classic. A fantastic sabayon of farmyardy duck eggs blankets iced raspberries and hand-churned milk sorbet. A few beautiful ingredients, some time-honoured technique and a perfect balance of flavours. Faviken at it’s best.

Invited back downstairs, we finish with an outrageously vast selection of petits fours, some local infusions and a few words from the chef (Note: this a unexpectedly pricey add on. Anyone on a budget could do worse than skip this section of the meal). Snus -home made chewing tobacco- we decline.

A totally unique experience, Faviken welcomes, challenges and ultimately satisfies the diner. The food is at it’s best when revelling in the austerity imposed by it’s location. Definitely worth the pilgrimage to the frozen North.