Reykjavík Grapevine - 04.02.2011, Side 21

F D
For your mind, body and soul
lines on our mirrored table, as it was
fitting to the music.
I stuck to a water, and the simplest
of burgers, the ‘Morthens’. All of the
other burgers are complicated melodies
of toppings that seem like they are
either arranged to disguise a mediocre
burger, or frustrate the chef with
endless customizations. There should
just be an option to design your own
burger, like a pizza pie, right? I choose
the self described, most honest and
straightforward of all of the burgers,
named after legendary pop star Bubbi
Morthens. With 39 solo records credited
to his name, one might expect as many
toppings, but this burger seemed the
most basic of the bunch.
It arrives, looking like a Whitecastle
in Chernobyl, novelly square in shape,
but twenty times the size. I double
fist it, an overdue anticipation draws
it towards my salivating mouth, and
juices run down my arms before I can
even tear the f lesh, close my mouth,
and fully swallow. Steamy. Charred
to perfection. Well worth every second
of the wait. I retreat into a gluttonous
ecstasy where time slows and all
sounds disappear like a winter’s night.
My date mouths something inaudible.
I am oblivious to all surroundings.
The sensory deprivation is short lived,
derailed by a bingo call announcing yet
another birthday. I knew this sensation
would not last forever.
This is a great place for an awkward
date where conversation is un-obligatory
or your romance has not quite reached
that intimate level of talking yet. The
table doubles as a mirror to check for
gristle in your teeth, sauce on the beard,
or smudged lipstick. For a good honest
burger in an equally humble setting, I
will stick to my neighbourhood bodega.
For the best burger west of Vatnajökull,
I know where to return. And like the
savvy traveller, I will come prepared for
delays, armed with good headphones to
cancel the cacophony of noise, perhaps
a good book, and an inf latable neck
pillow for the wait.
“It would be a pity for anyone to miss this”
I must have walked by this place a
hundred times since it opened on
Lækjargata in September, learning
of its existence only through word of
mouth. I usually cringe at the mention
of Chinese takeaway because it always
tends to be a desperate last resort at
some obscene hour when you are either
not ready to put your clothes back on,
or it is the only menu that has not
found its way into the recycle bin. But
this is Reykjavík and not Manhattan.
This is the first time I have even seen
Chinese takeaway in Iceland. Is this
really a first? Or, did the previous wave
come and go overnight, washing over
Reykjavík like the great bagel craze
of 2002? Regardless, there are more
choices in an American election than
options for Icelandic carry out, so I
welcome everything new: rollerblades,
stone washed jeans, Chinese takeaway.
A fantasy of Szechuan Hotpot
and hundred year old eggs danced
through my head before entering this
basement hideaway, but the modest,
familiar decor kept my expectations at
a pedestrian canter. I glanced at the
bleak, laminated menu before asking
the proprietor to just surprise me. I
like surprises. I actually like when a
chef prepares whatever they feel like
cooking, as if the meal is for the family.
You either taste the love, or you taste the
leftovers that the restaurant is about to
toss. My request was a gamble anyway
since I usually order the wrong thing
when it comes to Chinese takeaway. I
eat half, and then live with the guilt of
tossing the rest while there are starving
children in China.
Proprietor Ying Li, wife, and young
son disappeared into the kitchen. I
sat alone in the restaurant, watching
footwear pass-by, guessing the sounds
of what vegetables were being chopped.
Something crisp, something fresh.
Woks sizzled, and smells emanated.
If only this aroma could reach the
streets there would be queues. All
three emerged with enough boxes to
feed us all, yet packed them away for
their lone customer of the evening and
her unseen companion. Details were
given about each container, and which
sauce is to accompany each dish, with
the reassurance of no MSG. But, was
this really just for two people at hotdog
prices? I was eager to get home with
my bounties.
We began with homemade
dumplings of fresh pork seasoned to
perfection, tucked inside a fresh rolled
pasta pouch, and lightly sautéed. There
was no need for the sauce. I could have
made a meal out of the dumplings
alone. The other dishes were cooked
as if we were foreign dignitaries at a
Chinese Trade Summit. A lamb dish
with hints of Szechuan pepper and a
variety of fresh seasonal vegetables, a
dish of twice cooked pork, and another
of fried shrimp. Each dish carried an
authentic, homemade signature. This
was not garden-variety bottled china
sauce found at a grocery store, but a
family recipe. We spent the weekend
eating this, and look forward to plenty
more.
It would be a pity for anyone to
miss this, and without a proper sign
or cooking with the door open to lure
in the passer-by, this gem may just
go unnoticed. Hopefully, word will
carry, and Kína Flavour will become a
permanent option when one considers
takeaway in Reykjavik.
Kína Flavour
Lækjargata 10
MADELEINE T
HVALREKI
MADELEINE T
HVALREKI
RESTAURANT
VIÐ SMÁBÁTAHÖFINA
OPIÐ TIL 22:00
sushismiðjan
FYRIR2 1AF MATSEÐLI
Í HÁDEGINU ALLA DAGA
Eyrarbraut 3, 825 Stokkseyri, Iceland · Tel. +354 483 1550
Fax. +354 483 1545 · info@fjorubordid.is · www.fjorubordid.is
At the Restaurant Fjöruborðið in Stokkseyri
By the
sea and
lobster
a delicios
< Only 45 minutes drive from Reykjavík