The dream of the perfect, spontaneous spot to eat, where you can just swing by. A late breakfast, a quick lunch, a couple of small plates and a glass of wine. Thanks for today, take care.
The discreet corner where they serve fresh oysters all day, the perfect omelet, blackboard specials that change with the mood of the day. Exactly the glass of wine you needed. A place with service that’s warm and knowledgeable, but never overbearing. A place that quietly does its utmost so you can drop your shoulders. The attached delicatessen with curated, mostly organic goods.
This place exists. It’s called Omegn & Venner, it’s in Torvehallerne, and since 2017 it has been run by the married couple Sarah Backer Vangsted, a server, and Denny Backer Vangsted, a chef (formerly Kong Hans, Ensemble, The Fat Duck, Gorilla).
Omegn is not a restaurant, not a wine bar, and not a supermarket, they write on their website — and in that way it’s something like a birthplace for the new wave of ambitious delis with names like Auren’s Deli and Goose Deli, places that don’t want to be limited or pinned down.
At Omegn, they’re open every day from 10 a.m. to 6 or 7 p.m. — including Sundays and Mondays, when many of the city’s other places are closed. Maybe that’s why it’s become a darling of the restaurant world: This is where you want to let the hours drift across your day off, slow down, refuel, and let the week settle.
The lack of cozy corners and places to sit has always been one of Torvehallerne’s biggest challenges. Omegn has managed to create 10 to 12 of them. Ten around the bar and two more exposed seats facing the market. You sit close, but oddly enough it’s rarely a problem. Maybe you just feel lucky to have landed a seat.
We stopped by on a rain-soaked, frankly unsexy Monday at lunch and wanted everything on the menu — which, on the one hand, points in lots of different directions, but at the same time speaks directly to the many different needs you have to cover when you’re open all day.
We started with beautiful, large, firm Rømø oysters (35 kroner each), the first plain, the next with house-made chili sauce. We chewed on Omegn’s beef jerky made from game meat from Klosterheden with brown sugar, chili, thyme. Sweet, spicy, chewy, tender. Hello.
How can you lose your mind over eggs?
The omelet has been on a victory lap in recent years; open any social media app and you’ll see someone attempting one.
Omegn’s was perfect. Three eggs, a little water, salt. The butter is heated, the eggs are folded, flipped, taken off the pan in a second, served on rye bread. We gaped at how good that omelet was. I mean, seriously, how can you lose your mind over eggs?! We could. The egg, man! That omelet takes so much skill, practice, feathery precision. It’s nothing, it’s everything! 120 kroner, which is, of course, insane. I mean: three eggs, a little water, salt. And I repeat: so much skill, practice, feathery precision.
Omegn’s choice of producers and partners is exemplary, and the place is a living example that formidable dishes don’t require a big setup — and can even be made in remarkably few square feet — if the ingredients and craftsmanship are right.
Two scoops of labneh made from the excellent yogurt from Søtofte’s farm dairy, smartly spiced, served with grilled baguette from Omegn’s own bakery, Albatross & Venner (also in Torvehallerne). So simple, so good.
Chicken hearts on skewers — what a luxury when they’re meticulously cooked, juicy, sweet, lightly iodized. With good flatbread, more of that same fine labneh, chili, a couple of shiso leaves, and the most delicate salad shoots from Kiselgaarden — spring arriving.
84 kilos
Marie Lesi is head chef at Omegn, while co-owner Philip Hjort handles everything else at the small bar. It feels homey, in that professional way that still feels personal. We’re in it together.
»Can we get tapas?«, asked a woman in a big floral dress in an equally big floral mood. Omegn doesn’t serve tapas, but they put together an option that surely felt like tapas. Good service costs nothing; good service is everything.
The next course was ray. The whip-tailed, almost smiling cartoon fish that glides through the sea with the same ease as a kite in a brisk sky. Odd-looking and hard to cook — at least some of my more regrettable meals have involved badly cooked ray: flabby, sticky, or just bone-dry and impossible to get through.
Omegn’s neighbor, the fish shop Hav, had gotten in a ray weighing 84 kilos. That’s unheard of. A grown man.
How do you approach a fish where everything is oversized? At Omegn, they baked it to the minute, and the flesh came apart in fine layers. Firm, juicy, lightly sweet, almost like a scallop, served with chili-pickled gooseberries, green tomatoes, and elderflower in perfect counterpoint.
The canelé from Albatross, maybe one of the city’s best. Alongside a filter coffee from April. A rock-solid pairing.
Omegn has its own pulse and is its own universe in the middle of the city’s — and Torvehallerne’s — constant motion. We drank the last sip of coffee, stretched, and had to move on, reluctantly. Outside, the rain had stopped; the afternoon had turned mild and sunny, and we had to head home to our separate everyday lives.
Omegn & Venner feels like a chestnut in your pocket. Like a postcard of presence, care, surplus, and being taken care of.
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