By Fiona Ferguson
Ervin of Durum Bar was as proud of his establishment as the Chef de Cuisine of a Michelin-star restaurant. Every table in the restaurant was spotless, the glass windows and door free of smudges, and he paused our interview every time the doorbell twinkled, announcing a customer, to greet them personally with a warm smile. In truth, the storefront of Durum Bar differed very little from the multitude of shawarma shops lining Nørrebrogade—but the pride of the man inside made all the difference.
Denmark and spicy food don’t exactly go together. The country’s historical culinary reputation is notoriously bland, which makes the presence of nearly 1,200 shawarma shops even more remarkable. Nørrebrogade buzzes with life, the air thick with the aroma of chili, cumin, and rotating roasting meat—a sensory excitement compared to the beiges and browns of typical Danish cuisine.
“Nørrebro is Denmark’s heart, with the food,” Ervin declared with enthusiasm. “Why? Because there is so much variety. You can find a meal for 20 kroner, 60 kroner—whatever you like.” He spoke of customers who travel extraordinary distances just to taste these flavors. One customer from Odense bought 600 kroner worth of food, enough to feed 4-5 people, and carried it 18 kilometers home—a testament to the pull of these humble restaurants.
The store directly across the street is a Turkish kebab restaurant named Kösem. Printed on the storefront window is the picture of a golden trophy—the words “Dobbelt vinder af Shawarma Mesterskaberne” printed above, which translates to “Double winner of the Shawarma Championships.” The words nearly outsize the name of the restaurant itself. Durum Bar’s own awards from the same competition—third place in 2015 and second in 2016—exist only in two small frames sitting humbly on the shelf by the cash register. The echoes of the championship do not exist in large fonts and bold images of golden trophies for Ervin’s Durum Bar.
Caroline, an event coordinator at Nørrebro Lokaludvalg (Nørrebro’s Neighborhood Council) who witnessed the competition’s birth and eventual demise, explained its origins. Her colleague Mette envisioned something deeper than food: “We wanted to show shawarma and how different it can be, to give it more credit.” On the day of the competition, Danes lined up and down the blocks to receive voting sheets and sample foods from 15-18 different shops on Nørrebro’s main street, creating a neighborhood-wide festival of flavor.
But pride ran deep. As I asked Ervin about the results of the 2016 Nørrebro Shawarma Competition, he plucked a napkin from the dispenser sitting on the table and held it close to his chest, miming that the organizer secretly and arbitrarily picked the winners themselves, disregarding vote counts. The competition’s final year became fraught with tension. Ervin’s frustration boiled over, culminating in a passionate Facebook announcement that would signal the championships’ end:
“Nørrebro Local Council, we cannot understand why the figures will not be published. We are not asking for all the intermediate calculations, only the decisive results that you use to determine the top positions... It arouses distrust when you deny such a simple thing and especially when the end result is so unexpected…we as Durum Bar will not participate in any more of your events.”
Caroline expressed how much she loved the competition, but how much annoyance it caused her and her colleagues. “The last year I was just so tired of those shawarma guys because they were kind of drama queens, and some of them were mad at me after…They really took it serious and were really bad at losing. They thought they made the best.”
Behind the vibrant facade of spices and trophies lies a complex struggle for survival. Labor shortages plague these restaurants, with Ervin explaining that Danish workers are nonexistent in the industry. “You cannot find work power,” he says. “Danish people, they are not in this work—Bulgarian, Turk, Bangladeshi in this work.” Changing immigration policies in Denmark have made recruiting workers increasingly difficult, while inflation and rising costs threaten these small businesses.
Caroline offers a more nuanced perspective, acknowledging both the cultural richness and potential challenges between this subculture and greater Denmark. She speaks of long working hours and poor conditions, potential tax compliance issues, and unconfirmed reports of criminal affiliations within the sphere of shawarma culture. Yet, her fundamental message remains one of appreciation: these restaurants are a crucial part of Nørrebrogade’s DNA.
In a past Copenhagen that was virtually a food desert—a near-unimaginable reality nowadays—shawarma shone through as a spotlight of flavor and unique gastronomic culture. Now, the street is transforming. Where once stood traditional vegetable bazaars and multicultural restaurants, new “gentrified” establishments are emerging. “Sourdough pizza is coming,” Caroline says wistfully, “and that’s kind of sad.” The shawarma shops stand as resilient markers of a previous era, fighting to maintain their cultural foothold. “There is a kind of fight going on. Nørrebro is changing,” Caroline said.
Struggling through the midst of it all, Ervin predicts a challenging future. “Soon, you will see so many shawarma restaurants close. It’s getting hard in Copenhagen for food.” Yet, there’s an underlying hope—a belief in the power of community and flavor to transcend economic challenges. Despite their spirited disagreements regarding the championships, Ervin and Caroline agreed on one principle; shawarma lies at the heart of Nørrebrogade, Nørrebro, and perhaps even the food culture of Denmark as a whole.
More than just restaurants, these shawarma shops are living narratives of immigrant entrepreneurship, cultural exchange, and resilience. They represent a Denmark that is complex, flavorful, and constantly evolving. The golden trophies pasted on windows are more than competition awards—they are symbols of a community that has transformed not just a street, but a city and neighborhood’s understanding of itself. In Nørrebrogade, every shawarma tells a story. And it’s a story far richer and more nuanced than any competition could ever capture.
About Fiona Ferguson
Fiona Ferguson is studying literature and journalism at Emory University. She blogs about food and travel, including topics from her recent semester abroad in Copenhagen, Denmark.
Comentarios