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.

Two Minute Interview: Jessica Sligter

I fell for Nordic music long before setting foot in Scandinavia. Visits to Norway helped me keep up with new artists for a while, but my most recent find wasn't mine at all. Friends happened to hear an album while hanging out at Oslo's Sound of Mu and, thinking of me, tracked down a copy before heading back to the States. I was flattered and impressed. In my second Two Minute Interview for Where and Back, I asked Jessica Sligter, the young singer and songwriter who performs under the pseudonym Jæ, about the journeys music has taken her on. 

1. As someone who spends her time in Oslo, Amsterdam, and (occasionally) New York, how has travel influenced your music? There is a magic to things that are new to you. I'm addicted to that magic. The past four years I've been dividing my time between Oslo and Amsterdam, and then I've been a month here, a month there in Reykjavik or the US. Otherwise there was of course also touring in Western Europe and Scandinavia. When you travel you are on a constant high that influences what you do and how you do it. All my life I have been fascinated with the different worlds that people live in. The little cells that can differ so very much from each other. Each have their own character, their rules, their patterns. I like to move around in that landscape, and learn about people, learn about the diversity and the possibilities that life holds. So when I travel, I am in a constant state of receptiveness. On the other hand, that state can exhaust you, and you start to miss what you know well and feels safe: your house, your city, a language you understand without effort, your friends. Sometimes you get lonely and vulnerable.
2. Have you experienced something marvelous, funny, or tragic in your travels? Oh, many things! For me it's mostly the people and their characters. And local foods. I continue to be amazed by the wonders of food.
3. What are some of the most memorable places you've performed, and why?  Badgerhaus in Raleigh, North Carolina. The house of a drone-musician—I forget his name—that looked like Halloween; there were huge spiders and skeletons everywhere, an audience of underground music nerds and computer programmer nerds. A trip I made with The Story of Modern Farming in Florida, where my friend Ross Brand took us under his wing. We played weird experimental improv to 50 ecstatic youngsters in a Tibetan diner in Tallahassee. We drove around a strange area and stayed at the beach house of Ross's step dad, a right-wing rich guy who liked guns. The whole area just fascinated me, it was very strange and ominous. I took a lot of inspiration from it writing for the Sacred Harp (a band I'm in, we're releasing an album in February). Many more, actually, but that's what came to mind right now.
4. As a fan, what's your favorite concert-going memory? That's a difficult one. The last years I couldn't really afford to go to concerts. The ones that I did see, I really enjoyed, but the ones that stick out in my mind right now are a noise+video+art performance by Brian McKenna and a concert by Serena Maneesh, the Norwegian shoegazing band, that blew me away with their amazing sound and light show; the whole package just excited me massively. You know, my memory is not that good. So I am very sure that I'm forgetting stuff here.
5. Who or what about the current music scene in Scandinavia excites you? In Norway there is a large scene for free improvisation, and amongst musicians a very contemporary mindset that goes beyond genre. I notice it more when I am spending time in other countries again, that it is really something special. It made me feel like I could breathe again, like I was unbound, free. This is a piece of Norway that I cherish and carry with me always.
6. Many groups compose songs on the road—during sound checks, in the van, etc. Did anything on Balls and Kittens come to life that way? In fact, the EP I self-released in 2009 was very much influenced by how I made it. I wrote and recorded in bedrooms, practice spaces, and coffeehouses in Amsterdam, Oslo, and Reykjavik. There are sounds on it of a music student fastening a bicycle-chain outside the Conservatory (currently I live right across the street), Tram number 12, the daughter of one of the members of Kaffi Hljomalind, a co-op coffeehouse in Reykjavik, and more. Now, thinking over the songs on that EP, I remember the intense feeling of those experiences, each with their own kind of beauty. The record, Balls and Kittens, Draught and Strangling Rain, also bears traces of travel. I guess it's inevitable. I've been touring and traveling quite a bit the last years. "Jim's Place" and "Adam's Place" were written in New York, when I was staying with each of them. And the latter tells about cultural confusion. "Shots Being Fired" is about when I came home from that trip, tired, and fell from one unpleasant situation into the next: "I came home from a burning fire, but here there's also shots being fired," and the loneliness of being away from your family and friends. "I Still Owe the Morning" tells about Amsterdam in the summer and a vacation I went on with my aunt, in Normandy.
7. Have you discovered anything remarkable on your various trips in Europe? Europe is so dense. The cultural differences relative to distance are much bigger than say, in the USA. 

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).

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.