The Winter Blues

We're one month into the new year already and so far the Northeast hasn't felt particularly wintry. Lately I've even found myself half wishing to be somewhere colder, or at least a little snowier. I didn't have this problem two years ago when I went to Iceland to research a story for Wend magazine. It was appropriately frigid during my time in the capital city. But before returning to Keflavik International Airport on my last day there, I made a short detour to a much warmer place that's practically become an obligatory stop for every visitor to Reykjavik: The Blue Lagoon.

Although the word lagoon is usually used in a tropical context, I suppose this popular geothermal spa, being a relatively shallow pool of water, technically isn't misnamed. What struck me about this quintessentially Icelandic attraction though, as much as the heat and the sense of calm that pervaded the whole complex, was the color. Even on an overcast day in February, the water seemed to glow, appearing a bright cyan or aqua against the drab surrounding landscape. Walking around after a dip in the famously therapeutic geothermal seawater, I snapped a handful of photographs that take me back to that day every time I look at them. Here's the set on Flickr.

The Blue Lagoon's 30 Euro entrance fee (about $39.40) isn't exactly inexpensive—especially when you add on another €5 for towel rental—but cheap holidays to Iceland do exist. Plan to travel in February or March and you'll get better fares and packages on Icelandair as well as lower hotel rates in Reykjavik. Sure, it'll be cold and dark, but spend enough time at a neighborhood bar, or better yet, a burger joint, and you're bound to meet a friendly Icelander or two.

An Icelandic Feast

Last February I spent six days in Iceland. Unlike most visitors to Europe's westernmost country, I had chosen to travel to Reykjavik during the low season. In other words, the coldest, darkest month of the year. My seemingly strange timing wasn't an accident though—I had no illusions of galloping across a winter landscape to soak in a series of hot springs.

Instead, I would spend my Icelandic days and nights indoors. Eating. Here and there I had opportunities to taste-test one of my favorite foods. But the real reason for making the trip was to try putrefied shark, an infamous delicacy that has turned the stomach of Mr. No Reservations himself. Kaestur hákarl, as the dish is known locally, didn't exactly win me over either, but it taught me something about the mid-winter feast of Thorrablót. For more on my culinary saga, pick up the current issue of Wend magazine or read it online.

Burger Excellence in Smoky Bay

One year ago this month, McDonald's went out of business. Well, the franchise in Reykjavík did at least. Citing rising costs, the global restaurant giant pulled out of Iceland, leaving hungry residents without a place to go to satisfy their hamburger cravings. Or did they? In fact, as I discovered during my visit to the capital earlier this year, several other burger joints still lie scattered around the city, offering filling, affordable creations to rival the sandwiches sold by one of the world's biggest brands. Over the course of five days in Reykjavík, I tried three different spots and have ranked them here in my preferred order, from third to first. 

American Style

This place was recommended to me by a graduate student I met during my stay and it looked very much like an upscale fast food restaurant you might find in the States: dim lighting, real silverware, wood tables at the booths, and large framed photos of musicians such as Eminem, Jim Morrison, Alanis, and Justin Timberlake. Overall, I was struck by its similarity to the Hard Rock Cafe chain. Most of the other patrons appeared to be in their teens and twenties. 

The hamburger I got was large and fairly juicy, but the flavor of the beef was lost under a heap of pickles, shredded lettuce, red pepper, raw onion, and a house sauce that tasted like a blend of ketchup and mayonnaise. Although I appreciated the sesame seed bun, the fries the accompanied my order were somewhat limp, lukewarm, and essentially unseasoned. In the end my bill came to 1,415 ISK—about $12.72 at the current exchange rate.

Hamborgarbúllan 

I sought out Hamborgarbúllan soon after arriving in the capital, having learned of the waterside establishment from a piece in the Washington Post and another published by Serious Eats in 2009. Unable to resist the bacon burger, I added a coffee shake to my order and grabbed one of the three small tables placed around the restaurant. Natural light and several strings of Christmas bulbs lit the room, and rumbling truck engines and the occasional car horn interrupted the jazz playing over the ceiling-mounted speakers. 

Compared to those I'm accustomed to eating in New York, my burger was on the thin side again, but it was char-grilled and enhanced with fatty strips of chewy bacon. A little lettuce, a slice of tomato, and a splash of tangy Heinz chili sauce made it a meal while the thick shake found the perfect balance between bitter coffee and creamy sweetness. The price I paid for a view of the harbor and a savory patty of meat? Roughly $14.11, or 1,570 Iceland Kronur. 

Vitabar  

My pick for the best burger in town. And at 1,500 ISK ($13.49) for thick-cut fries, an ample burger cooked medium-rare and topped with tomato, raw onion, blue cheese, and garlic sauce, along with what the bartender told me was "the only dark beer we have," it was probably the best deal, too. Messier than the other sandwiches, the Forget-Me-Not burger and the bar that serves it might just be the ideal remedy for the Arctic chill of Iceland's winter. Try it with a bottle of the molasses-thick Islenskur Urvals Stout (5.8% ABV).

Salty Food and the Strangeness of Songwriting

Although her second and newest LP has only been out in the U.S. for a few weeks now, I sat down with Ólöf Arnalds back in March to discuss her native country, the strangeness of songwriting, and the loneliness of touring. We met at Veselka in the East Village on a cold afternoon and talked for about an hour; she ordered a Brooklyn Lager, I went with coffee. The caffeine helped to keep me alert as I scribbled frantically, anxious to capture her answers to my long-winded questions. 

Leaning in frequently and speaking candidly, she  struck me as a thoughtful, opinionated, and ambitious musician—six months before the release of Innundir Skinni, she was already excitedly describing her ideas for a third album. eMusic has the full Q&A online now. This Saturday she begins a tour that will take her to Pittsburgh, Louisville, Dallas, and Denver.

My Voyage to Smoky Bay

I'm no Punxsutawney Phil, but it sure felt like winter when I arrived in Iceland on Groundhog Day this year. No snow on the ground, but plenty of frozen surfaces.

Lured to the city of Reykjavík by a smörgåsbord of smoked, pickled, and fermented foods to try, I nonetheless ventured into the cold to document my visit. The lack of daylight made shooting outdoors more challenging, but at least the weather decided to cooperate. Travel with me in this set of photographs.

To come: my thoughts on putrefied shark.

Don't Look A Gift Sheep in the Mouth

I enjoy eating meat. Many of my favorite and most memorable meals have centered around a substantial helping of animal protein. But something about sawing into the face of another mammal with a dull knife takes a tiny bit of the pleasure out of being a carnivore for me. Knowing that the preparation of the entrée in front of me involved singeing, boiling in salty water, and then sitting, cold, for an undetermined number of hours removes much of what remains.

And while I hate to complain about what was, quite literally, a free lunch, these were the thoughts that crossed my mind as I tried my first bite of Svið. Apparently, if you're an Icelander, a grayish sheep head, skin intact, lips parted just slightly to reveal long, narrow incisors, isn't grotesque, it's gourmet. To quote the author of a cookbook I picked up at the National Museum of Iceland last week, "singeing gives [the meat] a pleasing, mellow tinge which reaches through the skin and lingers caressingly on the palate." To my taste buds, this lingering caress more closely resembled the flavor of liver.

Served with a salty yellow bean soup, a scoop of pale orange turnip and another scoop of mashed potatoes, my meal seemed like it would be filling, even if I wasn't likely to go back for seconds. As expected, the soup, which also contained a large, fatty shoulder of lamb, was an ideal dish for a cold February afternoon. The Svið however, left something to be desired—namely, meat. Even a fleshy sheep face wouldn't satiate a big appetite and luckily I was only feeling somewhat hungry the day I visited Fljótt og Gott. Nevertheless, I munched on crunchy pieces of neck, ate the chewy tongue, and managed to swallow a few tougher lumps of meat from around the eye socket. In the end though, I couldn't help but wish I'd ordered a big green salad instead.

Lunching on Lundi

According to Andrew Zimmern, co-creator and host of the Travel Channel's Bizarre Foods, the taste of lundi most resembles a "delicately mild, finely grained piece of elk (or ostrich even) that had been waved over a pot of clam juice." Sound appetizing? Well, I suppose that all depends on your willingness to eat lundi, or puffin, as well as your opinion of clam juice.

I'll have the chance to come to my own conclusions about puffin meat—along with quite a few other smoked, salted, and pickled "delicacies"—when I make my first trip to Iceland in February. The main purpose of this short visit is to collect some firsthand information on traditional Icelandic foods and to interview a few people about Viking customs, but I also hope to see some of the country's famously alien landscapes while I'm there. Of course, I wouldn't mind learning more about the music from the moon either.

Photo by the Icelandic Tourist Board

Words and Guitar

"How's the sauna?" the tall, bearded man asked the crowd that had squeezed into a Brooklyn basement on a rainy night in early May. He smiled, maneuvering his lanky frame around the microphones and vases of cut flowers assembled on stage to sit at a toy piano. To his left, a small woman in bright red dress put down a glass of wine and positioned herself on another stool.

And then Ólöf Arnalds began to sing. The forty or so listeners fell silent at once, leaning forward on their wooden benches so as not to miss a single lyric or a passing note struck by her nimble fingers as they moved across the fretboard of her acoustic guitar. She sang in Icelandic, she sang in English, and during the second song, she sang in unison with the audience, heightening the intimacy of the candlelit performance space beneath Sycamore.

I wasn't entirely sure that I'd like Ólöf when I boarded a Q train bound for Ditmas Park, but her delicate folk music and friendly banter won me over. "I don't want to talk about politics and all that boring stuff," she promised at one point during her set. Keeping true to her word, she introduced a new song entitled "Surrender," by explaining that it was about women. While I found the vocal melody memorable and especially plaintive, my favorite numbers were actually another original called "Crazy Car," and a somewhat rough but still charming cover of Caetano Veloso's "Maria Bethania." Oh, and speaking of Scandinavian songwriters, my review of Theresa Andersson's television debut appears in the current issue of Nordic Reach.
Photo by Brittney Bush Bollay for KEXP