Calling a sardine ‘brisling’ is hardly a stroke of marketing genius by the 12th century Norwegian costal fishermen who likely came to name the fish this way. It brings to mind for me (as I’m sure it does for you as well), a harsh hog-haired bristle brush as it scrapes the mud off the backs of medieval peasants just returned from the fields while they down pints of ale at the local suffocating tavern. Fortunately, the truth couldn’t be further from this blatant and inexcusable stereotyping of the middle-ages.

This dream of a Danish fish swam straight from the hallowed halls of the Nordic Gods yearning to find its rightful place in your stomach and transport you to Valhalla itself. It holds solid in the tin, yet melts satisfyingly upon your blessed palate in a burst of satisfying flavour that not even the harshest critic could dismiss as ‘fishy’.  Divine in every sense of the word, it is a wonder the Vikings ever raided the poor preists of England for they had this aquatic gold swimming in their seas. Indeed, had Æthelred and his English subjects known of the brisling wealth of the Danes, they would no doubt have found it within themselves to turn the tables on Sweyn Forkbeard to fork a sardine of their own.