Reykjavík Grapevine - 11.03.2011, Qupperneq 24

F D
For your mind, body and soul
only imagine the presentation had we
dined at the restaurant. I unleash the
restraints to discover half of a chicken
wading in a pomegranate sauce. Wow.
Chicken is usually the last thing I
would order at a restaurant, but when
given the choice of chicken or chicken,
I will consume whatever Andhrímnir
prepares in his magical cauldron. The
Æsir never became bored with boar!
If consuming this meal in one
sitting is the litmus test of godliness
or manhood, then I obviously fail. The
pomegranate sauce compliments the
succulence of the bird to perfection.
The tart marinade alone has me licking
my lips, still. The guilty pleasure of
eating this as take away is that I can
savagely eat this bird by bare hand
without a queer eye, plus there was no
need to leave the house all weekend
with so much left over. For three days
we feasted, laughing at the snow while
hand feeding each other fresh Persian
dates in bed.
Cheers to revolutions and pluralistic
futures. We eagerly await dining in
your halls at our first opportune.
Take A Long Look In The Mirror, Saffran
Speaking of revolt...
Dear Saffran,
To vomit is to make less the depth of
grief. Still ill from our evening last,
I have but little ink I will to spill over
this matter, for time is too precious to
squander over a love unrequited. It is
over. Sod off. I thought I should wait
until after the two-year anniversary, but
this needs to stop before it goes too far.
Plus, what is there to celebrate? Your
corporate growth? Your bottom line?
Your multiple convenient to reach by
car locations?
You started off as such a good thing.
I was quick to introduce you to all of
my friends and family. And almost
overnight, you lost the plot. Yet, your
belly grows still larger the more you
aspire to be the Colonel Sanders of
budget health food, complete with the
branding of some sage Sikh mascot
chanting slogans of health ironically
printed on your plethora of post-
consumer waste. I liked you better as a
simple man, plus the beard and turban
do not make you look any younger and
suggest ignorance rather than wisdom.
If you are going to capitalise on the
Sikh faith, then perhaps you should
first learn its guiding principles before
burning karma you do not have.
We began with two starters and should
have stopped there. The only taste to
the barley otto was fermentation, as if
sat around in bucket for a few weeks.
Next up, the Colonel’s six piece chicken
box that contained the hummus. Quite
a disappointment to find such a small
portion in such a large package. Not a
first. More paper waste than food. Two
ramekins: one filled with hummus, the
other a few canned olives. You were
more generous with your sauce. The
hummus too was off, bland at best. For
future reference, vegetable oil is NOT
an ingredient of hummus unless Bónus
brand is your benchmark. Regular olive
oil is only used a preservative top layer
when large batches are stored over
night or when being sold at open-air
markets.
On to the main event, my Persian
Naan-wich. I removed the soggy
bandage to reveal a sweaty, beat up wrap
that looks like it struggled to stand up
through nine rounds. Like clutching at
sand, the tortilla dissolves in my hands
spilling its contents though my fingers.
What a mess. The guts are revealed.
Does paring cucumber with tomato
really qualify this as Persian? And the
meat: it looks and tastes like saltkjöt. I
thought Tuesday was saltkjöt and bean
day. All of your extra sauces could not
mask this taste.
Then my date shows me the cold, soggy
Kebab Naan-wich and its sad little
shrivelled up limp twig of a reheated
sausage drowned in sour cream. All of
this food seemed like it was left over
from the weekend, maybe longer. What
happened to the Saffran I fell in love
with? Where is all of this wholesome
goodness that the mascot proclaims?
And fresh? Fresh compared to what, the
pig grade produce of Bónus?
Despite my hunger, I cannot bear
another bite. This is not fit for man
nor beast, to the bin it all goes. Luckily
there is some three-day-old Persian
kebab left over from Eldhrímnir in the
refrigerator. Plain, cold, and three days
old still knocks out anything I tasted all
day.
Is it me? Is it the size and taste of the
kebab on that tall dark Persian stranger
at Borgartún that drove me away? No. It
is you. You changed. Take a long look in
the mirror. Better yet, maybe that wise
Sikh can offer you some advice. See you
later.
Saffran
Glæsibær / Dalvegur 4, Kópavogur
MADELEInE T
MADELEInE T
MADELEInE T
HVALREKI
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
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