Words by Shannon Michelle Bouffard
SK12 is a tightly edited expression of the elements that have come to define Christensen’s fifty-year career. Making the cut: an affinity for sensual artworks, Escoffier-esque sensibilities, and, of course, his signature baked turbot.
We joined the chef—endearingly known as Røde Claus, a nod to his fiery presence and appearance—for his midday wine during SK12’s off-hours. While the kitchen prepped for dinner service, he spoke with us about his beginnings, the sources of his enduring inspiration, and what led him to Store Kongensgade. He made sure our glasses were always full.
You began your culinary journey at the age of 16. What first drew you into the world of cooking?
As a young boy, I was a music and art nerd. But I needed something to do, and I thought being a chef might be fun. My dad was a chef, and both my brothers were, too. So I started when I was 16, with no talent to speak of. I didn’t know what was up, down, left, or right in a kitchen.
At that time, the culinary scene wasn’t exactly a playground of inspiration. It was béarnaise, côte de boeuf, and that was about it. No real flair. No fantastic stocks or sauces.
What eventually ignited your passion for cooking?
On October 1st, 1974, I started at Den Gyldne Fortun. After four months in the cold section, peeling potatoes and prepping vegetables, I went to first-year classes at the culinary school on Norgesgade. I felt like the dumbest one there. At the end-of-term exam, I came dangerously close to failing. I hadn’t seen anything, hadn’t learned anything. I had no clue about gastronomy.
Then, in early 1975, I started working with my mentor, Preben Thykjær, a legendary figure in Danish gastronomy—up there with Ejler Jørgensen and Roy Hurtigkarl. He was the shit back then. It took time before he took me under his wing. But, eventually, I worked my way into his universe, and that’s when my real interest in gastronomy took off. Preben taught me so much. He sparked that deep interest.
But I’m not talented; it’s all hard work. It takes time to get anywhere. Sure, once in a while, you get a gift, those revelations where you can taste an idea. But you’re shaped by those around you, by their inspiration—that kind of inspiration where the light must never go out. You can’t get too self-satisfied. You have to keep moving forward, toward something unattainable, because perfection is unattainable.
When did the idea for SK12 first take root?
SK12 came from a vision of a place where I can be who I am.
One day, I was sitting on the veranda at Salon when Torben Olsen (the restaurateur behind Sovino Brands, the managing company of SK12) came by and asked, “What’s up?” I said, “I’m done. I’m not having fun anymore. I want to be happy when I go to work, and I’m not.” So he took me down to the space that would become SK12, which was in ruins. It wasn’t meant for me, but somehow it became mine—my sandbox.
What’s one dish on the menu that best represents SK12's identity?
The baked turbot. I’ve been making that dish since 1979. It’s always been with me. I’m still not tired of it. I could eat it every day. My wife hates it because she can’t stand the smell of lobster bisque. It’s made with salmon mousseline, lobster, herbs, and turbot, wrapped in puff pastry, baked, and served with lobster bisque and spinach. That dish is probably the one most synonymous with me.
How do you decide when a dish is complete?
I never know when a dish is “done.” I feel it out. It’s incredibly sensual. I reach this elevated sense of joy—that feeling where I can smell, feel, and listen to when it’s done. It might sound trippy, but that’s how it is.
“There’s no library silence at SK12. We shout ‘welcome,’ ‘good evening,’ and ‘thank you.’ Everyone is seen and heard.”
How would you define your philosophy when it comes to cooking and hospitality?
Seasonality. Quality. No shortcuts.
The menu at SK12 is handwritten by me. No website. You have to text or call to book a table. It’s the old-school way, and I value that. I only post the menu on my Instagram now and then. Some people hate it. They think I’m an idiot, but I’m totally fine with that. I like it this way.
There’s no library silence at SK12. We shout “welcome,” “good evening,” and “thank you.” Everyone is seen and heard. I’m always loving, cheeky, and direct. I think people come for both me and the food. To them, it feels like coming home.
You’ve been critical of molecular gastronomy. Why do you think it falls short?
I don’t understand molecular gastronomy. I just don’t get it. I’ve eaten at El Bulli, run by Ferran Adrià, the father of molecular gastronomy, and I was blown away, euphoric even. But in my world, that’s still not food.
I think molecular gastronomy trends are wonderful. I’m just not part of them.
Copenhagen is a city known for pushing culinary boundaries. What gap did you see in the scene that SK12 fills?
SK12 doesn’t fill a gap in the culinary scene—it’s a museum.
Where do you find inspiration?
Not from food videos, TV shows, or Instagram. I actually lose my appetite from that stuff. The young art scene inspires me immensely.
Most of my inspiration comes from the wind and weather. I wake up in the morning and think, “That’s what I’m making today”. I often sit on my terrace with a glass of wine, thinking, daydreaming, and letting nature inspire me.
I love spring and autumn the most. Those seasons inspire me more than anything. When something begins, takes over, and then fades—just like us humans. We’re born, we bloom, and we decay.
If you could share one meal at SK12 with anyone, living or dead, who would it be—and what would you serve them?
My late co-author and friend, Søren Wedderkopp. We had a strong friendship and creative partnership, a true symbiosis. I think about him often. Not every day, but often.
We’d have spit-roasted pigeon or woodpecker with whole garlic, morels, foie gras, tart apples, and Calvados. That’s what he deserves.
This interview has been translated from Danish to English
SK12
Store Kongensgade 12
1264 København