Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.01.2005, Side 26

Drowned fish:
A night at THORVALDSEN
by Ölvir Gíslason and Kjartan Gudmundsson
Many things have changed since comedy legend Laddi sang his ode to Austurstræti more than
twenty years ago. The Austurstræti of today is almost an emblem of the schizophrenia and extremes of
Iceland at the dawn of the 21st century. The most unfortunate members of society (ever-increasing in
number) attempt to drown their sorrows in Kaffi Austurstræti, while the new breed of nouveau rich
stock brokers scheme in the KB bank across the street, fuelled by greed and Peruvian marching powder.
Cultural colonisation is represented by a Subway outlet and further down the street is a state alcohol
store and a strip club, an ATM machine located conveniently between them for the benefit of those who
would prefer not to leave a record of their debaucheries on their bank statement.
Beware the jocks and yuppies
None of these Austurstræti landmarks was the
destination of Grapevines´correspondents, as we headed
towards the restaurant/bar Thorvaldsen on a chilly
evening in late December back in ‘04. Outside, we ran
into the guitarist of the Icelandic punk band Tony Blair,
who warned us of the jocks and yuppies that he claimed
frequented the place. But they were nowhere to be seen
when we entered the small and pleasant dining area and
were seated by the window, with a view over Austurvöllur
and the Althing. The atmosphere was relaxed and the
lighting cosy - so cosy that if it hadn’t been for the lights
from the Norwegian Christmas tree on Austurvöllur,
we probably wouldn’t have been able to read the menu
at all. The menu itself is short and to-the-point, as
Thorvaldsen is as much a café and bar as it is a fully
fledged restaurant. This is also reflected in the prices,
which are relatively reasonable.
Like a duel between Cat Stevens and Slash…
First we tasted the coconut curry seafood soup with
vegetables and mixed seafood. The generous serving
of assorted fish, shrimp and shell fish looked fresh
and delicious, but the taste was overpowered by the
excessively robust curry flavour, which was delicious in
itself but completely drowned out the delicate flavour of
the seafood. It was like witnessing a guitar duel between
Cat Stevens and Slash; although you can see Cat, he
doesn’t have a chance of being heard over the powerful
and almighty Slash. However, the Spanish goat cheese
with Jamon Serrano, salad and honey melon sauce was a
deceptively simple but stunningly delicious dish.
The yuppies arrive
For main courses we tried the monkfish on a spit with
mango chili sauce, salad and baked potato and the
lamb fillet on a spit with mango chili sauce, pan-fried
vegetables and baked potato. Monkfish is a particular
favourite of ours and this one was fine, if a little
overcooked. The accompanying salad had obviously
lost most of its crunch by the time it reached us, but the
potatoes, filled with sour cream, were excellent. Despite
our minor culinary misgivings this was all in all a solid
meal in an agreeable environment. As the clock edged
past ten and we were sipping our coffees, the place was
suddenly filled by the kinds of people the Tony Blair
guitarist probably had in mind. The cosy restaurant/café
ambience was gone and the place had suddenly turned
into a noisy and trendy bar. As we edged past a former
Mr. Iceland and the legendarily well-endowed drummer
in one of the country’s biggest pop groups, we agreed
that for a relaxed lunch or a casual dinner, you could do
far worse than to visit Thorvaldsen. Just make sure you’ll
be out of there by 10 o’clock.
PÓSTBARINN and
the great post office
rush
by Valur Gunnarsson
Póstbarinn is Icelandic for “The Mail Bar.” This is not, however,
as one might expect a dive for off duty mailmen, decked out like
Norm in Cheers, in full regalia drinking their pints.
The bars’ name is actually de-
rived from the street it stands on,
Pósthússtræti (Post Office Street).
The first post office in Iceland is
rumoured to have stood on this lot,
although this was more likely located
next door, where Hótel Borg now
stands. The first “postmaster” of
Reykjavik was appointed in 1872,
and a post office was opened on this
street. Mail was not delivered at the
time, so when news of a new batch of
letters arrived, people would crowd
at the office. This even encouraged
curious spectators to come in, which
resulted in even more overcrowding,
and injuries would sometimes result.
By 1898 the overcrowding had be-
come intolerable, and the Post Office
was moved to available space at the
Pósthússtræti elementary school.

The plot of land next to the post
office was given a blacksmith in 1799
who built a grassroof farm known
as Smidshús (the Smith’s House).
It has since changed hands a few
times and has also been known as
the Skómakarahúsid (The Shoe-
makerhouse), when owned by a
shoeamaker, and “Hansenhús,” when
owned by
the merchant brothers Hansen, who
tore down the farm in 1820 and
built a wooden house there instead.
Pósthússtræti 13, where Póstbarinn
now stands, used to be part of the
same plot of land, but a separate
wooden house was built there in
1890.
The bar doubles as a restaurant
which specialises in seafood dishes.
Particularly nice is the salt fish
starter. It is also an art gallery, and
has live music, usually of the jazz
or blues variety, most weekends.
Tom Waits coverband Misery Loves
Company has been known to attend.
The bar caters mostly to the
over 30 group, and is known as a
place where you can actually have a
conversation in the evening without
having to scream into your partners
ear. It is open until 3 at weekends.
FOOD
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