Swedish Pizza: Boet

I’d never have found the place by myself, but that’s why I had a guide. It was in a row of strip-mall shops surrounded by building sites for new bungalows. The front was wood rather than glass, with a small sign above the door: Boet.

Anders led me inside, to a small entrance hall with a desk, behind which was a man in traditional Swedish costume, a white shirt with detailed blue stitching. He and Anders talked in Swedish, then Anders explained that I would need a temperature check. I shrugged – it was a long time since covid – but their place, their rules. Anders showed me the menu, but the only thing I could read were the prices in two columns, one much lower than the other. I told Anders to order for me, which meant more Swedish that I didn’t understand, then the door was opened, and we could enter.

The main room had that calm Nordic decoration, lots of plants and blonde wood. The dozen-or-so tables were crescent shaped, each with three places, two chairs on the outside edge facing a chair in the centre. We were the only guests, and we were led to the outer chairs at one of the tables. The seats were padded and it was warm, almost uncomfortably so.

“There is a place like this in the north, but that specialises in steak,” Anders told me. “Boet does pizza.”

We had little chance to talk before the first course arrived, two bowls of finely blended soup with handles at the side. They were brought by a young woman, her blonde hair in plaits. She wore a blouse with similar stitching to the man’s one. I took a first swallow: pizzasallad soup.

“Is there any bread?” I asked.

“Not here,” said Anders. “Eat up.”

I commented about the soup’s strong flavour and Anders explained that the restaurant catered to many older people. “As you may know, the sense of smell and taste fade with age. So, here, they overcompensate. I am fine with that.”

I was fine with that too since the soup was tasty. We ate in silence, then the waitress returned to collect the bowls, bringing with her a single knife and fork, which she laid in front of the empty chair. Given what followed, the use of cutlery seemed almost dainty. At first, I thought this would be some sort of Mukbang eating show. The waitress came back with the main course and sat in front of us, her chair slightly taller than ours. The pizza was good – a crunchy base, cheese grilled to dark brown, a scattering of vegetables, including some charred chili peppers. I salivated at the aroma.

The waitress sliced off a section, slightly more than was elegant for a mouthful. She folded it over and pushed the fork through, then lifted it to her mouth. Anders stared at the table, but I watched her chew, because what else should I be doing at this point? She continued eating then stood up and leaned over me. I wasn’t not sure what was happening as she placed one hand below my head, fingers and thumb circling my lower jaw. Her face came close to mine as she tilted my head. I was shocked when her lips touched mine, before realising she was pushing a lump of the pre-chewed pizza into my mouth.

What else could I do but accept it? The sensations were not erotic – but it felt intimate. She fed Anders as I chewed the soft mush, all crunch and resistance ground out. The pizza was hot, just at the edge of comfort, and I’d expected it to be at body temperature. It was spicy too, the kick of the chilli peppers intense. I swallowed the first mouthful as the waitress cut more.

We continued, working our way through the pizza, me then Anders accepting food from her lips. I grew used to the soft texture, everything clumped together with spit. She spoke in Swedish as she cut the portions and, while I couldn’t understand, her voice comforted me. I wanted to curl up and sleep.

At the end, I brushed away tears as she dabbed her mouth with a napkin, placed the cutlery on the plate, and carried it away. I paid little attention as Anders settled the bill. I was thinking about love, thinking about Houdini’s wife Bess, passing him a key in a kiss, thinking about sharing teenaged gum.

We got up from our chairs and I almost staggered. Other patrons were arriving now, much older than us. We stepped outside, the air cold. “It’s an act of love,” said Anders. “Have you never done that for a lover?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

We walked through a park, neither of us speaking, letting the experience settle. It was a long loop and as we headed back to the car, I saw three women in Swedish traditional dress, one of them our waitress with her blonde plaits. She had a bottle of spirits, and I saw the other two women had their own, all three of them taking long pulls from the bottles. I changed direction as if to speak to them, but Anders placed a hand on my arm.

“Come on,” said Anders. “We must keep moving.”

He shushed me as I started to speak and dragged me in the other direction. The car was on the edge of the park, and he opened the passenger door for me to get in. The hotel was in the next village, and it was time for bed.

Background

I spent last week on a trip to Sweden with work, but had very little time free. Which is a shame, as otherwise I could have done more research for my novella, Swedish Pizza.

This started out as a joke with my friend, Swedish poet Lou Ice. Sweden is famous for many things but nothing more so than its very strange taste in pizzas. Check out this 2012 Huffington Post article for the details. I have imagined a long piece of writing about someone exploring strange pizza places.

One inspiration for this idea was Anders Fagers’ 2009 short story collection Svenska kulter. I’d heard about Fagers’ work, but until recently none of it was available in English (Svenska kulter was finally translated as Swedish Cults in 2022). With only a description to go on, I could only imagine the book’s dark horrors. Since I could not read the book, I imagined something truly terrifying. Lou actually bumped into Mr Fagers as a literary event in Sweden and sent me a photo of the two of them.

I’ve written a lot of notes on Swedish Pizza, as well as a couple of chapters. The joke has gone further than I expected, with pizza as a metaphor for the horror genre. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now. Recently I decided I should start finishing work or deleting it, and I will probably take the same approach with Swedish Pizza. There’s no point spending time on an idea if it’s not viable as actual prose, rather than just notes. I hope I can make it work, as there’s something wonderfully deranged about a book of horror stories about pizza.

‘Boet’ is the Swedish word for nest.

Me, about to enjoy a (vegan) Swedish Pizza in May 2023

Recommendations

I saw Lou for thirty minutes on my business trip last week. The time before that, I saw Lou’s one-woman show, Koreograferade Mormordikter. I speak no Swedish, but I still loved watching Lou perform as I could focus on the stagecraft. Most of Lou’s recent work has been in Swedish, and I can’t see myself having time to learn the language before the publication of her next book, an account of her performance art piece where she sat on a bench in Berlin every day for 40 days.

I first knew Lou as a poet, although she first found fame for her novel Punkindustriell hårdrockare med attityd (I own a copy even though I cannot read it). She’s long had a fascination with performance art and for her 30th birthday she stayed with 30 people in Sweden and England, producing a book of her adventures called Swenglish, which exists in both Swedish and English editions.

(I was one of the hosts considered for Swenglish, but Lou decided not to include me, since she couldn’t trust me not to set up something strange rather than the everyday life she wanted to write about. She knows me too well - I’d already been planning a weird set of events for that week).

Recently Lou sent me the sole copy of a booklet she’d written called This is Not a Fanzine - 24 Obsessions or Advice you didn’t ask for (along with two boxes of my favourite Swedish tea). I loved it, and think it’s a shame that there is just this one copy. However, there is an album out called Pink Punk Poetry that you can listen to, produced by A/Z Sounds.