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Food

Swede Devotion

We may not get an IKEA, but at least we got this killer dinner.

8:47 AM CDT on July 2, 2024

Last week, I rearranged my office alone, thanks to 96 linear inches of IKEA desk that amount to featherweight. This movability is the attractiveness of the flat-pack-yet-stylish sensibilities of IKEA, of which I am a target demographic. I don’t need my LINNMON to last forever, though we’re now in our third office since purchasing it. I need it to look good and be lightweight and affordable, and I need to be able to eat meatballs immediately before I buy it. It’s a short list of asks, and IKEA answers the call.

Accordingly, “You’re invited to the ultimate ask,” announced the menu card at the four-night, sold-out Tulsmå dinner series helmed by chef collective Et Al. in collaboration with the mysterious Tulsa Loves IKEA campaign, a partnership between several city organizations, announced in mid-May. 

The premise of the campaign is that—if Tulsa asks in the most creative way possible—will IKEA build a store here? The answer? TBD. But if you’re going to, as chef Chloe Butler put it in her dinner toast, “show IKEA what Tulsa can do,” Et Al., a masterclass in dynamism, is who you need to recruit for help. The handful of chefs who put together the menu have tackled Japanese, Eastern Mediterranean, French, and Southern American cuisines, among others, and for Sweden, they stepped up as well.

Tulsmå was as much immersive performance art as dinner, with the Gathering Place’s ONEOK Vista at the Boathouse fully transformed by custom restaurant branding (with food illustrations for each course in the menu) and furnished with decor and dishware by IKEA. An elegant dinner inspired by a furniture store cafeteria? Formidable, but steeped in mischief. The Christopher Walken of pop-up restaurants.

photo by Becky Carman

It was a joyful evening, with long, banquet tables of communal dishes, the room made warm through the implicit buy-in to the concept by everyone in attendance, everyone being a little serious about being silly. Every of-age diner was poured a shot of Aquavit—a Scandinavian spirit with a very pronounced caraway flavor—in a tiny red Solo cup, a fine introduction to the aggressive whimsy of the six courses to follow.