Hoze

You’re standing in the Gothenburg dusk on Stigbergsliden, thinking that life is too grey. At the tram stop, a rain-soaked pensioner with a shopping bag full of tins huddles over a hot-smoked cigarette. Then you step in through the door at Hoze, leaving bad weather and traffic noise behind. The quotidian is not a concept in this small, dimly-lit basement temple. A mysterious ingredient fetishist named José Cerda has been serving exceptional sushi here for almost a decade. His father, Gabriel, welcomes you. A kindly man, he takes your coat, pulls out your chair and pours you a glass of water. No strong alcoholic beverages are served here, you see. Gabriel says that’s how they want it: the focus should be on the food, and since they only serve six guests in an evening they don’t want foodies who have travelled from afar getting bothered by tipsy neighbours. Unless you’re a teetotaller, this circumstance may cause you stress. For the atmosphere in here does tend to get a little tense. The setting – with guests seated in a row at the counter, facing the lit-up kitchen – is not at all unlike an intimate theatre. José, however, is no natural verbal entertainer, preferring instead to let the craftsmanship speak. On the other hand, his father is possessed of an unselfconscious charm capable of softening the starchiest atmosphere. It should also be mentioned that José’s cooking really is of the sort that deserves reverence. Nothing is left to chance here. A horse mussel from the Faroe Islands, steamed on the half-shell for twenty minutes and divided lengthwise, tastes like a cross between brown crab meat and sea urchin. A fillet from the fattiest part of a bluefin tuna has been tenderised for three weeks and tastes like an entire universe. Fresh sea urchin is mixed with cuttlefish in a nigiri with a few drops of sudachi and salt. A handful of aged crimson glass shrimps from Smögen are grilled just briefly enough to still feel raw, but have gained a rich fire flavour. We could go on, because each and every one of the twenty-odd dishes served straight out of José’s hand are miniature wonders. After two hours you’re suddenly back in the rain on Stigbergsliden. You’re stone cold sober, but elated and confused: did that just happen? Am I running a fever? Does this really exist in Gothenburg? Local politicians should immediately name a tram after José Cerda. Considerably more illustrious culinary destinations would be proud to have a food artist of his calibre in their midst.

Published december 2019