Reykjavík Grapevine - 03.12.2010, Page 35

F D
For your mind, body and soul
classically accessible food and made it
something dazzling, without a hint of
pretension.
My date and I discussed the food.
We discussed music. We discussed
our respective careers and career
aspirations. We discussed our
childhoods and our adulthoods and
our hopes and dreams and a million
other things as we waited to depart the
United States.
Then we waited some more.
Then we started discussing just how
long we were waiting and dwelled on
this topic for a lengthy amount of time
as we waited longer still.
Maybe the restaurant was
understaffed; it was very busy that
night. Maybe the chef forgot about us.
Maybe we’re just horribly impatient.
No, that can’t be it.
When fresh glasses and a Saint Clair
from New Zealand were poured we saw
an end to our wait was nigh. One sip
later and we were simultaneously back
in Iceland, and in France and Italy.
France offered a large portion of
coconut crème brulée with passion
fruit jelly and chocolate ganache,
which was good (crème brulée) and
offensive (passion fruit jelly). Seriously,
the passion fruit jelly incited pulling
of horrendous faces both from myself
and my date, it was so horrendously
strong and sour that it added a massive
imbalance to the dish and did not at all
meld with the dainty coconut f lavour of
the crème brulée.
Iceland’s hazelnut brownie with
skyr ice cream missed the mark and
Italy’s tiramisu with chocolate chip ice
cream, melon and melon foam led my
date to liken it to “my mum’s dodgy
trif le”. That’s not a good thing. It was
confusing and disjointed and poorly
executed.
Overall dessert was a letdown,
especially after waiting ages for it to
arrive.
After spending in excess of four hours
at our tiny little table my date and I
ventured back out into the cold, with
nothing left to talk about but how long
a night that was.
In The White Room
Vox. I had heard the name as if it were
legend. This mythical place that sends
taste buds to heaven and wallets into
therapy. To say that I was anxious to
discover for myself what all the fuss
was about is an understatement; I was
downright giddy.
Thus, my date and I procured
a taxi to the Hilton Nordica Hotel
(Suðurlandsbraut 2) at the hour of
our reservation and quickly found
ourselves ushered toward a miniscule
table for two, butted up against a wall
at the far end of the pure white space
in which we were the only diners. The
combination of the stark design, the
lack of other patrons and the isolation
of our table made us feel rather isolated.
We whispered across the tiny table to
one another for fear that our voices
would carry all the way out to the
reception desk with a complete lack of
other bodies to absorb the decibels.
Our waiter came to take our order.
We would have the Seasonal Menu with
wines (18.400 ISK, or 9.900 ISK without
wines).
I love a good surprise, so when
the waiter brought out a lopsided set
of bowls containing some homemade
chips and a skyr-based dip I was
thrilled. My date and I happily grazed
upon this upscale snack until the amuse
bouche arrived—Icelandic shrimp with
horseradish granules, apple purée and
sugar. This was an interesting bite,
with the hottest (f lavour wise) item on
the plate being presented in the form of
icy shavings. Points for creativity.
Next up was a small bite of slow-
cooked cod with ceps and cep bullion,
a rich little dish and the moistest, most
tender cod I have ever sunk my teeth
into. This was followed by a selection
of breads to nosh on before the first
course presented itself.
While still devouring the breads
we were presented with a langoustine
doused in too much dill. The miniature
crustacean was further f lavoured by
unique f loral notes. The white wine
that had tasted quite sour ahead of
tasting the langoustine all of a sudden
was light and fresh.
The reindeer tartar that was served
next was the opposite of what I expected.
When I last had reindeer I found it too
gamey, but this was so dainty and light
that it melted in my mouth; doubly so
when followed by a sip of the Spanish
Mas Petit with which it was served.
The sauce aside, the tartar tasted too
much of mayonnaise, however, and did
nothing for the dish but weigh it down.
The waitress poured a glass of
Abednego from Australia and I enjoyed
its smoky f lavour while a duo of duck
was placed before me. The breast was
dry. It just was. It was disappointing.
But the slow-cooked thigh meat was
delightfully tender. The cabbage purée
and beets were a nice combination,
adding acidity and sweetness, but the
chanterelles were unusually salty,
almost offensively so. This would be the
low point of the night.
Pre-dessert presented itself to
be a refreshing pallet cleanser of
bumbleberry and juniper granité atop
herbed skyr with crumbled brown
sugar. It was a lovely and sweet segue
into the real and simple dessert of skyr
with blueberries and crispy oats. The
Italian sweet wine with which dessert
was served was, indeed, very sweet
and didn’t appeal to me, but my date
enjoyed his glass to the last drop.
Dinner at Vox was enjoyable, that
much I expected, but it didn’t blow
my socks off to the extent that I was
lead to believe. There were nearly
as many misses as there were hits,
though to be fair, a miss by Vox
standards is still a grand slam in nearly
any other establishment. But then
again, expectations are high when
dining at what has become known
as one of Reykjavík’s finest dining
establishments, so any misstep is a
glaring disappointment.
CATHARINE FULTON
ALÍSA KALYANOVA
Vox
Suðurlandsbraut 2
What we think: Sufficiently
impressive food
Flavour: Sophisticated and
complex
Ambiance: Stark White
Service: Professional