If you know me well enough, you’ll also be cognizant that there are few Swedish eats I love more than an open-faced shrimp sandwich – a räkmacka.

It’s simple in theory, almost absurdly so: a proud little mountain of shrimp, perched on bread, dressed up just enough to feel celebratory, but never so much that it forgets its humble beginnings.

The one above wasn’t just good. It felt like a benchmark.

The first of what will likely become a small procession – maybe even a string – of shrimp sandwiches over the next twelve months. It was also one of the most delicious I’ve had in a long time.

Let’s talk design, because this matters. A thick slice of toasted sourdough, the kind with a proper crust and that faint tang that makes everything above it taste better. This dish has to be made to order – à la minute – to avoid the toasted bread becoming soggy and swampy.

Herbal mayo. Dill. Onions. A boiled egg. And then the shrimp – sweet, cold, briny, piled high with the kind of confidence that suggests the kitchen knows exactly what it’s doing and sees no reason for modesty.

It’s the Swedish version of restraint and indulgence sharing the same plate. Minimal ingredients, maximal intent.

And yes, this may very well have been one of the most expensive räkmackor I’ve ever eaten. But it still seemed reasonably priced – which probably says more about my fascination with this Swedish dish than it does about my ability to objectively discern its true value. Being enchanted often means your internal calculator becomes more of a poet than an accountant.

So yes – this was most likely the first of many. A year of shrimp sandwiches lies ahead.