The menu on Icelandair wasn’t exactly what I think of when I dream of Scandinavia. I ordered a chicken tikka masala wrap and some wine from Sonoma Valley. But perhaps, I thought, this is what Iceland is like, sort of like the USA ‘-‘- a melting crockpot of different cultures and the most popular (and usually least inspiring) dishes come to the forefront of the culinary realm.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Iceland is a locale where the best meats and fish are proudly produced and consumed. One would think that the latitude of the northern country would prevent any produce from being cultivated, but there were numerous greenhouses right outside of Reykjavik that spawned vegetables and even roses.
My boyfriend, John, and I used Iceland as a culinary journey, and the locals as tour guides, asking shuttle drivers and boutique owners their favorite gems. After a spooky elf tour, we were starving. It was late, and neither of us was in a state of mind or dress to sit at a restaurant that would garner a ‘$$$$’ rating in my LonelyPlanet travel book. So we opted for hot dogs. B’aelig;jarins Bestu Pylsur is a tiny red hut with a smiling man inside. There are only four toppings available: fried or fresh onions, remoulade, mustard or ketchup. Get the fried onions.
We ended up at Frir Frakkar the next night, a more formal atmosphere, where I ordered the peppered whale steak. It was the color of pinot noir and the inside had a red-black shine. It was delectable, tasting more like a perfect beef cut than expected. My counterpart opted for Icelandic-raised lamb. Although it looked more well-done than I would prefer, it completely melted in my mouth. It’s no wonder that the waitress didn’t ask how one would like it cooked because they know how it’s supposed to be and don’t want any abroad allegiance to clot-red meat to ruin their perfect platter. We also ordered a smoked puffin side. It came in beet-red strips, having the texture of raw fowl and a strong smoked flavor.
The next night’s meal was the consensual favorite. One of the most upscale restaurants in the city, Laekabraekka delivers as both an intoxicating atmosphere and a picture-perfect destination for hedonists. An old black house at the end of a shopping street, it is definitely a romantic restaurant, and it only makes sense to share everything. John ordered cognac-spiked lobster bisque and a medley of different preparations of lobster for an entr’eacute;e ‘-‘- tempura, grilled and in hollandaise sauce. I opted for a fish stew and a roasted reindeer entr’eacute;e. The Bordeaux might have tainted my pairing senses, but the meal was inexplicably delicious. Our desserts were many and miniature: a chocolate souffl’eacute;, gelatos and a delicate molten brownie.
Our final night in Iceland culminated at Perlan ‘-‘- the world-renowned restaurant overlooking the entire Reykjavik skyline, slowly rotating to catch one last glimpse of the unforgettable city. Lobster souffl’eacute; swimming in bisque was our starter on the prix fixe menu we both ordered, mine with duck and John’s with veal, each averaging about $55. The entrees were decent, but the duck needed more fat and moisture. The veal was mediocre, something a trattoria in Boston could have conjured.
As we ended our travels, we were sure to cram as much Brennivin (anise-tinged Viking schnapps affectionately known to locals as ‘Black Death’), Scandinavian milk chocolate and smoked pita into our luggage that Customs would allow. It was an unforgettable trip dotted with delicious new experiences, yet I found myself with a chicken tikka masala wrap sitting in window seat 22F, planning my next trip to Iceland.
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