There are two types of Ikea people: Those who go for the assemble-yourself bed frames and bookcases, and those who go for the Swedish meatballs, smooth as Ping-Pong balls, doused in cream sauce and flanked by fluorescent green peas, mashed potatoes, and tangy lingonberry sauce. For $4.99, they are the centerpiece for an iconic Ikea cafeteria feast.
And now, only in San Francisco, there’s a third type of Ikea person. The type who goes there to make meatballs — at a class offered by Cookery Skola, the Ikea cooking school. I had to wonder: Who are these Ikea-meatball-making people? So I signed up.
It’s been almost two years since Ingka Centres — the Stockholm-based group that develops and operates Ikea stores — opened an outlet on mid-Market. In the spring of 2024, it opened the adjacent Saluhall, a supposedly sophisticated “Nordic spin” on the American food court. This ambitious project aimed to become an anchor not just for struggling mid-Market but for San Francisco itself. Saluhall has two floors, three cocktail bars, and vegan-centric vendors. A year in, it also has ongoing vacancies, a lot of bad press, and one new arrival — the decidedly non-vegan Smish Smash burgers.
Tucked on the second floor, there is also a cooking school. It’s squeaky-clean, with stainless steel and induction stoves — theoretically perfect for the 300 million annual Ikea customers who the chain says go to the store strictly for the food. (This includes my middle aged-mom friend Samantha, who went the other day for meatballs while high on gummies — apparently an annual tradition with a pal.)
In total, Ikea customers devour one billion meatballs a year: veggie balls, chicken balls, plant-based balls, and even, in the Swedish motherland, moose balls. So Ingka Centres wagered that if people go to Ikea to eat, why wouldn’t they go to Ikea to cook?
But on a recent Sunday afternoon in San Francisco, it wasn’t clear people wanted to go to Ikea at all.
Whereas Emeryville’s location feels crowded and chaotic, especially on weekends, wandering the San Francisco location’s 87,000 square feet of potted plants, brightly patterned bedspreads, and feldspar porcelain plates feels like the time I flew out of SFO after 9/11. Relatively empty. Almost eerie.
Despite a robust calendar of events, from happy hours and drag brunches to trivia nights and day raves, Saluhall is empty, too. There is one couple sipping beers at Lagom Bar. A security guard tells me to get the Cheeseboiga at Smish Smash. I’d love to, but I have meatballs to make.
As I walk upstairs, past Punsch Bar’s empty stools, it appears that I might be taking this class by myself. However, once I’m through the glass doors and into Cookery Skola, Kirsten Goldberg, the head of culinary instruction, appears. She is a local chef and the former culinary director of the defunct San Francisco Cooking School, where she taught mostly professional-level cooks. Now, she teaches food lovers looking to have a good time.
She offers me an apron, a glass of pink cassis lemonade, and an apology for the small turnout. “No one knows we’re here,” she says a little wistfully.
A few more students trickle in. Now we are seven. But only one cute couple is here organically. The rest of the students are made up of Ingka corporate-types, who joined after learning a photographer from The Standard would be there, plus two of Goldberg’s friends, whom she invited for the same reason. And me.
“I have to say,” Goldberg says sheepishly, “I’ve done three Swedish meatball classes so far. I thought they’d be way more popular.” Surprisingly for the location, “Getting Started with Burmese Food” and “Spanish Date Night” are her biggest sellers, along with “Cardamom Swirl,” an ode to Ikea’s other signature item. The latter is a two-hour baking class, and you leave with a box of warm buns, for $75. “Honestly, it’s a really good deal!” she says.
Goldberg has prepped everything, with the help of Chazz Medeiros, a former cheer coach from Santa Rosa, who spent a decade doing backflips before becoming Goldberg’s assistant. The meatball ingredients are ground pork and beef, butter, breadcrumbs, flour, milk, and eggs; a mashed potato as binder; and salt, white pepper, allspice, and a bit of nutmeg.
All I have to do is order a spicy margarita from one of Saluhall bars, chop an onion, saute, and mix.
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The cute 20-something couple are having a great time. “The last meatballs we made were from Trader Joe’s!” says the guy, a software developer. He and his girlfriend, a physics teacher, never shop at Ikea, but lately they’ve been on a cooking-class bender. Their previous stop: Story of Ramen, where they made noodles from scratch. Next up: 18 Reasons’ Korean Vegetarian Street Food.
Goldberg’s Swedish meatballs aren’t the same as Ikea’s, per se. Rather, they’re an elevated spin on the company’s 1985 classic. We hand-mold the meat, pan-fry, and slowly stir the sauce, a simmering mix of cream, stock, soy sauce, and Dijon.
These meatballs are lumpier than Ikea’s, which are almost disconcertingly uniform. I prefer ours, homemade and imperfect. My cooking partner, who’s on her second cocktail from Punsch bar, plucks a ball from our pan brimming with two dozen and pops one in her mouth: “Oh, my fucking god, that’s good!” An apt review.
Meanwhile, Goldberg whips up a couple of simple sides: mashed potatoes made with a ricer; a gorgeous green salad flecked with watermelon radishes that is so much prettier than cafeteria peas. Cocktails in hand, we adjourn to the long, blond-wood dining table — Ikea’s finest — for our feast. An evening that had started out kind of lonely turns out to be lovely.
The next meatball class is April 13. It’s $95. You won’t save mid-Market by attending. But you will definitely have a ball.