What I wouldn’t do for a good Danish — an incredible marriage of butter, sugar, yeast, eggs and cheese. These days, many would consider an amoeba with a neon cherry center a Danish. That is not a Danish. That is an insult to generations of bakers and homemakers who slaved to make the perfect cheese Danish. There has not been a proper cheese Danish made in the last 15 years.
The closing of New York City’s Royale Pastry Shop on 72nd street marked the end of an era. The lighting there was offensively fluorescent — so bright a surgeon could have worked on the bakery floor, were it not for the scattering of poppy seeds. The air was always heavy with the sweet smells of cheese Danish, babkas and fresh rye bread. Despite its bounties, no employee ever smiled — they didn’t have to. Nor was there charming service or adorable decor. The Danish spoke for itself.
The heinous service and distinctive decor were even immortalized in a “Seinfeld” episode called “The Dinner Party.” While at the bakery, Jerry examines the racial implications of the black and white cookie and breaks his 13-year vomit-free streak. For lesser bakeries, this might have been a crippling portrayal, but for the Royale, it was a coup.
Ironically, the space that once fattened so many is now a Jenny Craig weight loss center. As I walk by, I often wonder if those anxious women starting Jenny Craig might not be better off eating a danish. My great-grandmother, who had a figure not unlike a danish, subsisted almost entirely on the pastry and lived for 97 years.
My earliest memories include eating Danish while walking to kindergarten, leaving a flaky trail in my wake. I long for the Danish of my childhood. I have such a yen for it that I have even befriended — otherwise unpleasant — people from Copenhagen on the off chance they know a place. Instead, I have been relegated to eating lesser pastries like the croissant, the tartlet and even the horrifically dense blueberry muffin. The beauty of the cheese Danish is its versatility. It is easily light enough for a breakfast item, yet the integrity of its protein-rich filling makes it heavy enough for lunch, especially when paired with a rich cup of Wiener melange. It is the perfect pre-dinner snack when you can only get a 9:30 p.m. reservation because the Times review just came out.
The history of the Danish, unfortunately, reveals it is a fraud. The humble Danish is really a Viennese pastry, thereby explaining its excellent pairing with Wiener melange, or Viennese mix coffee. The Danish we all know and love was popularized by Mr. Lauritz C. Klitteng, a Dane who immigrated to America during the turn of the 20th century, though the story is apocryphal. Klitteng claimed to have introduced the previously Viennese pastry at the wedding of President Woodrow Wilson, thereby cornering the market and changing my life forever. Killteng’s passion for the Danish perhaps even exceeds my own, as he toured the country promoting his humble pastry and even opened the Danish Culinary Studio in my beloved city.
Perhaps more important than its luscious texture or delicious flavor is what a Danish makes us do. A Danish is not a pastry that can be casually consumed. Rather, its profoundly sticky outside forces us to stop and savor our hand-held treat. It must be slowly and carefully enjoyed. If you eat a cheese Danish too quickly, your dry cleaner will prosper. This brief contemplative moment in our ever chaotic lives can not be under appreciated.
My enduring, and potentially quixotic, quest for the perfect cheese Danish has led me to nearly every corner of my city — but it has also brought me together with my friends as we tromp from subway to subway, searching for that sublime pastry we experienced oh so long ago. I can also be certain that waiting for me every trip home will be my mother, apologetically yet earnestly placing another inferior Danish on our dining room table. Though it looks bleak, I have not lost hope that one day I might find that perfect Danish.
Abraham’s column runs biweekly Fridays. He can be reached at a.axler@cavalierdaily.com.
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