Atlantica - 01.05.2007, Side 34

You might find the best sandwiches and pastries
in ‘Haga’, the old quarters. The cafés there are
also famous for their huge cinnamon rolls, another
Swedish delicacy. – Ida
Husaren makes enormous cinnamon buns. – Kurt
There is no better way to get to know a new
city in a short time than to try its local culinary
specialties. If readers advised me to try a massive
cinnamon bun in the name of research, so be it.
Haga is another pleasant district of Gothenburg.
Its cobblestone streets, the main one reserved for
pedestrians, are lined with boutiques and shops,
some specializing in children’s wear, others in
olive oils. Quirky clothing store Igor the Dog got
my vote for most intriguing name.
The district, which means “fields”, was
Gothenburg’s first suburb, and is known for its
unique architecture. The three-story homes are
built of bricks or stone on the bottom half and
colorfully painted wood at the top. Nineteenth-
century legislation prohibited building wooden
houses higher than two stories and the brick and
stone on the ground level circumvented this rule.
Haga is one of only a few parts of the city where
these homes were not torn down in the 1960s
and ‘70s.
Perhaps I was imagining it, but the woodsy
scent of cinnamon seemed to be wafting every-
where. The Husaren café sat on the corner of
Haga Nygata and Husargatan. Even at 10 am,
there was a queue of people inside ordering
sweets for their morning break – rhubarb pie with
crumble topping, triangular wedges of sticky bak-
lava, and of course cinnamon rolls. Most people
chose to sit with a newspaper and cup of coffee in
the bohemian interior of the café, but I returned
outside to people-watch, wrapped in one of the
snug red blankets the café provided on all of its
wicker chairs.
I could see why the country is famous for its
buns. This cinnamon roll was all about the spice.
There were no distractions like nuts, raisins or
gooey icing. It was just swirls of soft dough,
curled into a circle large enough to fill my plate,
stuck together with a cinnamon filling and span-
gled with crunchy cubes of white sugar. I could
barely finish half of it.
While I was getting sticky fingers tearing into
pieces of Sweden’s greatest sweet contribution
to the world, Palli, Atlantica’s photographer, was
strolling around Haga. He stopped a man in a
beret, glasses, and striped scarf and asked him if
he could take his picture. The man agreed, and
asked Palli where he was from.
“Iceland,” answered Palli. “I’m here for a
story.”
Above: By the Göta älv river. Below: Universeum museum.