Why Are the Danes So Happy? It's the Simple Things

"The only time my family ever sat together was for a Sunday meal. In Denmark, it's every day," he told me. I listened as Cunningham gave me the social democracy elevator pitch, nodded as he spoke of "this secure society" and how "everything is built for the middle class, not the upper class" and "the health system is great" and "90 percent of the places serve non-chain coffee," all of which no doubt make their contributions to Danish well-being. But it was the image of the families sitting together every day that stuck with me, families where everyone knows each other's stories and kids fall easily into their parents' arms at midnight in the Tivoli.

And then there were the brief glimpses of joy I caught each time a fireworks shell burst or a fountain danced to life. It is probably unwise to judge a country's happiness by the faces of its children as lit by fireworks, but the quiet awe of Danish children at such moments was priceless.

On the other side of the park stands Restaurant Herman, which is new and does not yet have a Michelin star but is nevertheless the province of another hot chef, Thomas Herman. He is young, Danish and fiercely committed to keeping the country's dinner table interesting. This he does by taking Denmark's many comfort foods and moving them out of their comfort zones, which can be something of a dangerous game. Strawberries are still served with cream, for instance, but now the cream is infused with foie gras.

"I'm also playing with Burning Love," whispered Herman with some gravity, speaking of a dish of mashed potatoes and bacon that has been a Danish staple for generations. He is "reinventing my grandmother's kitchen," "getting people to recognize the memories with the taste" and serving tiny oysters on the half-shell dressed with cabbage and smoked meat, as well as tiny squirts of green ice cream bursting with the flavor of garden-fresh peas. In short, he's an innovator, though one whose views on the Big Question echoed those of the sausage lady:

"I think we are happy because we have the best beer in the world, Carlsberg."

Herman's restaurant belongs to a complex called Nimb, which reopened in May after a multimillion-dollar restoration. It boasts several eateries, a 13-room hotel with sumptuous suites overlooking Tivoli, an upscale delicatessen, a wine bar, a chocolate factory and an on-site dairy.

"We have a total lack of respect for authority," said Nimb's resident manager, Mogens Norgaard, offering his own theory on the source of Danish happiness. But such irreverence cuts both ways. For instance, "we don't listen to our doctors," he continued, which is why a disturbing percentage of Copenhageners still smoke cigarettes. Then again, is it this impiety that allows them to view anew what others have long since learned to ignore?

"See these?" said Norgaard as he ushered me through a hotel door. "They're Arne Jacobsen. You have to touch them."

I thought he was talking about someone in the next room, but no, it was the doorknobs themselves that he didn't want me to miss. Jacobsen, the famed 20th-century Danish designer, came up with these sleek silvery handles with the sensuous curves whose uniqueness, um, completely eluded me.

"They're amazing," I said, playing along. But then Norgaard smiled, which somehow pushed me over the top.

"When you grab them, it's almost like they grab you back!"

It was the sort of performance that didn't even fool the doorknobs, much less Norgaard, who gave a worried glance before hurrying me down the corridor.