Christian Daun: “I Ate Crispbread from the 1960s. It Wasn’t Disgusting”

Christian Daun has eaten crispbread dating from the 1960s. It did not taste good, he says, but “it wasn’t disgusting.”

The journalist has written “Beloved Crispbread,” a book about Sweden’s hard, dry bread. In DN Kultur’s Specialist series, he presents crispbread as a guide to the country’s culinary journey, from poverty and necessity to fine dining and the Nobel banquet.

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It is a mirror of Sweden’s culinary journey, from cottage to castle, from years of hardship to the Nobel Prize.

Crispbread began as food made to keep people from going hungry. For years, hand-baked bread carried associations with an impoverished Sweden, especially after industrially produced loaves appeared. Now, Daun says, worthwhile fine-dining restaurants make sure to include respectable artisan crispbread in their bread baskets. Some specialist bakers devote their lives to producing it.

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It did not taste good, but it wasn’t disgusting.

Purists define crispbread as a mixture of rye, yeast, salt and water. It should not be porous, and with all its moisture removed, it can last almost indefinitely under the right conditions. Its traditional round shape also served a practical purpose: the hole in the middle allowed bread rounds to hang from a pole in the ceiling, away from rats.

The surface comes from a kruskavel, a notched rolling pin that creates a lunar landscape and makes the bread easier to break. It also creates a long-running butter debate. Daun says the butter belongs on the “Sunday side,” the deeper, more uneven surface where it catches in the grooves. A 2025 Nobel crispbread made by baker Bedros Kabranian took the idea further, with porcini flavor and truffle butter. Yet Daun still considers industrial crispbread acceptable because mass production has not erased its character.

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It is tastiest on the Sunday side, unless you hate life or butter.