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INTRODUCTION

THE BEST WORST SMELL IN THE WORLD

In Västerbotten, a northern province of Sweden, there is a special light in the late summer evenings. The sun is setting, but the sky is still bright with this cool light that reflects the deep blue hues of the waters of the Gulf of Bothnia and a rain cloud coming in from the east. In the west, the shimmering sunset glows in pink and orange tones. Added to this are the saturated greens and browns of the birch, pine and spruce trees around us. The light and colors are not only a backdrop, but for me they are also necessary ingredients for a traditional Västerbotten surströmming feast. Tonight is the premiere. The tin can of herring is placed on a platter with juniper rice on the veranda table. The can bulges out in all directions, bursting with perhaps the world's most controversial smell. The brand is Oskars, the preferred brand here in the region, which has been sold out in all stores in recent weeks. Oskars herring is distinguished, its supporters say, by its firm shape; it does not fall apart despite the intense fermentation process to which it has been subjected. This facilitates the gutting and filleting of the fish, which is complicated and inevitably leaves your hands smelling for days, no matter how well you wash them. Today's jar, purchased several weeks ago, has had plenty of time to ferment. This is not a product that decays immediately. On the contrary, it is as if the ravages of time do not affect the herring at all. Like a character in a Torgny Lindgren novel, the herring has reversed the aging process. It does not get worse with time, but better. For the truly inveterate sour-herring lover, only last year's herring can provide total satisfaction.

Sour herring is a fragrant delicacy for many of us from Norrland. But its distinctive smell and taste are not fully appreciated even in my own family. Sour herring divides our table. I, my mother and my sister sit on the herring side of the table. Our respective partners and children, who come from Stockholm and the United States, sit on the other side, where an alder-chip-smoked side of salmon is the main course. Two related yet completely different smells mingle at the table.

What makes the smell of herring so polarizing? As a professor and researcher on the sense of smell, I can't help but conduct little experiments at the dinner table. My son Henry, two months old, doesn't seem to mind the smell of herring at all, even though I hold a piece directly under his nose. We humans are born with a fully developed sense of smell, and scientists have discovered that babies can learn to like smells in the womb, so they are attracted to what their mothers ate during pregnancy. This is Henry's first exposure to surströmming—his American mother would never willingly eat it—but perhaps tonight's strong smells will influence his sense of smell for the rest of his life.

Someone who is not so neutral is my niece Ellen, who declares with five-year-old assertiveness that first, she doesn't want to eat herring, and second, she doesn't want to smell it! Then she storms into the cottage with her blond curls following close behind. She is excused. At the age of five, children have already learned what smells are considered pleasant and unpleasant, and sour herring is not on offer at her preschool in a Stockholm suburb. As all parents of young children know, five-year-olds often have strong preferences. So strong that it takes scientific methods and a lot of patience to get them to like new tastes and smells. I take this defeat in stride, and hope that over the years she may change her mind.

Tonight's third subject is not as articulate as Ellen, but has the best nose in the family. Nelson the miniature poodle is magnetically attracted to strong smells and is known to eat anything that comes his way. His favorite game is sniffing for dog treats hidden around the apartment. I ask him to sit nicely and hold out two small pieces of fish, salmon in my left hand and sour herring in my right. It's a simple test to see which smell he prefers. He sniffs a few times before making his choice: the salmon. But then he also eats the surströmming. With some goodwill, I can call it a draw.

Surströmming's global reputation has probably been shaped by the many YouTube videos of people trying it for the first time. The results are predictable: terrified faces and wrinkled noses when the can is opened, hesitation and fear of the fish itself, and gagging when eating it. The creators of such content have rarely taken the trouble to prepare the fish in a traditional way, with the right accessories. Not to mention the light—it is far from that of Västerbotten. No wonder the herring is a flop in such circumstances.

Surströmming is not one of Sweden's major export products, and is likely to remain obscure. My own attempts to spread its gospel to the US have failed. Fermented herring is strictly forbidden for air travel—the jar is classified as an explosive material. The thought of being labeled a terrorist is a deterrent. Ordering from Europe to the US is a safer option, but the prices are outrageous. So I have not yet had the pleasure of treating my American friends and family to this northern gold. However, when we have invited friends and acquaintances to a surströmming party in Stockholm, the interest has been great. They come from all corners of the world, and have only heard about the mythical fish. But interest usually fades the moment the jar is opened, and only the bravest take a bite. Most of the herring ends up in my own stomach. That is fine by me.