KOKS - Last Last service in Greenland
- Aleksandra
- 7. Feb.
- 6 Min. Lesezeit
Aktualisiert: 9. Feb.
KOKS
Greenland, Faroe Islands
I land in Greenland, specifically Kangerlussuaq, with the determination of someone who has crossed several time zones, endured two flights, and is now desperately hunting down a meal that’s more than just airline pretzels.
My first stop? Air Greenland’s counter, naturally.
With the seriousness of someone trying to save the world (or at least their dinner plans), I ask, “Can I book a private helicopter?” Because yes, the stakes are that high. The counter staff look at me like I’ve just asked for a unicorn rental. Turns out, my grand plan to reach Ilimanaq that evening, for the very last KOKS dinner service in Greenland—a plan meticulously involving a boat from Ilulissat—has been thwarted by Mother Nature. High waves have canceled the boat, and no one else is brave enough to sail. My dream evening, featuring Poul Ziska and his culinary universe, is slipping away faster than a Greenlandic iceberg in July.
Poul, bless him, is out there rallying the locals to see if anyone is daring enough to take me. So far, the response is a collective “LOL, nope.” Air Greenland, ever helpful, hands me an email address for helicopter inquiries, which is about as comforting as being told to “try restarting it” when your computer catches fire.
Resigned, hungry, and maybe a little dramatic, I shuffle to the airport canteen. My feast of the day? Carrot soup and a bun. I sip it slowly, staring at the red Air Greenland planes landing and taking-off outside.
But let’s rewind a bit—like, a year, or maybe even three—to see how I ended up here, airport-style carrot soup in hand, dreaming of what could have been.
Ah, the helicopter instinct—born from experience, forged in the Faroe Islands of 2021.
The Faroe Islands beginning of August 2021 felt like a surreal blend of James Bond intrigue and Nordic myth, where mist-wrapped mountains rose dramatically from the sea. Our group of Epicureans, dressed as if for a red-carpet gala rather than a remote culinary pilgrimage, were whisked from the lawn in front of our hotel in Tórshavn by helicopters—a scene right out of a spy thriller. Women in glamorous furs and precarious high heels teetered across the grassy slopes, the rugged terrain at odds with their polished elegance. The destination? A humble wooden hut perched in the middle of nowhere, a two-star KOKS, where the promise of an unforgettable feast turned the wild, windswept isolation into the most exclusive venue on Earth.
So, three years later, in Greenland, when the boat to KOKS was canceled, my brain went straight to its old playbook: Helicopter it is. After all, when you're chasing an extraordinary meal at the ends of the Earth, thinking outside the box—and above the waves—comes naturally.
Of course, I wasn’t planning to shell out for a helicopter ride myself—after all, no matter how hard I try, I’m still not a tech billionaire on a polar adventure. My plan was far more pragmatic (and slightly sneaky): locate other stranded souls equally desperate to make it to Ilimanaq and cobble together a merry band of co-sufferers to split the cost. Unfortunately - no one was flying. No helicopters. No shared charter boats. Nothing.
The World of Greenland office staff tried their best to be sympathetic, but I could see they’d fielded this exact meltdown a hundred times before. “Would you like to go tomorrow instead?” they suggested, with the calm of someone who knows the weather always wins. “It won’t be the KOKS dining experience, exactly, but there is a three-course meal prepared by KOKS Staff."
That sounded like the kind of consolation prize I could live with. Besides, I suddenly had an unplanned day in Ilulissat, and what better way to spend it than re-visiting the Icefjordcentre and hiking again to Sermermiut to see the icebergs up close?
The next day, when the weather finally relented, I boarded the boat to Ilimanaq with two other women who, like me, had been thwarted by the prior day’s cancellations. One of them, in the throes of culinary desperation, confessed that she had actually considered hiking the entire way from Ilulissat to Ilimanaq. Apparently, someone had gently pointed out to her before she set off on what would have been a truly doomed expedition, that there is a glacier between these two.
We bonded over these shared misadventures, united by our common goal of reaching Ilimanaq no matter how adventurous and eccentric the journey had become. By the time we pulled into the small harbor, we were already laughing about how we had felt that maybe, or very probably, the whole experience would be better this way.
Sometimes, things work out in unexpected ways.
We were ushered into a cozy, weathered hut that served as the welcome lounge and reception area. I remembered it well from the year before. Inside, the atmosphere was a charming mix of rustic and intimate: chairs draped with sheep and reindeer skins, the walls bearing the patina of years spent enduring Arctic weather. We sank into our seats, still laughing about the absurdities of the last two days, when Ida, the manager, a warm and smiling figure, joined us.
She sat down at our table, her half-smile conspiratorial, as if about to share a juicy secret. “I’ve just received word from Poul,” she began, referring to the legendary Chef of KOKS. Her voice dropped slightly, adding a touch of drama. “You’re going to have the full KOKS dining experience after all.“
Sitting there, warmed by the cozy hut and the thrill of the unexpected, it dawned on us: this wasn’t just any dinner. It was going to be the last, last KOKS Greenland service. The culmination of cancelled boats, improvised plans, and perhaps, most of all, persistence and trust, that things work out for the best.
But there was another reason that journey was special for me.
About two months before, in the midst of my usual whirlwind of spontaneous ideas, and anger about Michelin withdrawing their two-star love for KOKS, I thought, "Why not commission a painting as a gift for Poul?" Not just any painting, though—this one had to capture everything. In a fleeting moment of folly and fervent defiance against the judgment of the esteemed Michelin inspectors, I reached out to my dear friend, Berlin-based artist Luise Makarov. In her particular style she brought to life a scene where all three chefs were crafting KOKS masterpieces, surrounded by a flurry of quirky details: the iconic red vessel shuttling guests among icebergs from Ilulissat to Ilimanaq, a sledge dog "helping" out in the kitchen, gleaming knives, fish, icebergs, and, of course, the emblematic black-and-white speck of the restaurant hut itself. To ensure this peculiar masterpiece would survive its journey, I wrapped it lovingly in an old carpet and generous layers of bubble wrap, and off it went with me on a grand adventure. My travels took me by winged vessel from the fair city of Berlin, through the realm of Copenhagen, onward to the distant plains of Kangerlussuaq and the serene shores of Ilulissat, before finally embarking upon a seaworthy craft bound for the quaint village of Ilimanaq. It was all in the name of a very special gift for Poul, to serve as a unique and memorable memento from his incredible KOKS Greenland Universe. Plus, my little rebellion against the almighty Michelin overlords.
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