Reykjavík Grapevine - 03.06.2011, Side 16

“We tried this place
purely on the back
of its excellent
review on
Tripadvisor
and weren’t
disappointed. “ CAFE HAITI by the Old Harbour
Geirsgata 7b, 101 Reykjavík
tel: 661 5621 / 588 8484
Opening hours: 8.00 – 23.00
Quality coffee roasted on the premises A genuine Nordic 3 course feast
starting from 4.900,-
Pósthússtræti 11 101 Reykjavík Tel: 578 2008 www.silfur.is
16
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 7 — 2011
Food | Icelandic
How Icelanders Eat
The other day my girlfriend and I had a
craving for sushi. Ok, so this isn’t Tokyo.
You’re not going to get a Ginsu knife-
wielding chef plucking a live salmon
from a tank and segmenting it to death
right in front of you; still, Icelandic fish
is among the best I’ve eaten—raw or
otherwise. Cut that Icelandic salmon
4 mm thin, spice it up with a dab of
wasabi, a slice of pickled ginger, and
you have perfect sashimi. Great Aunt
Freyja winced and sighed. Although I’ll
give this to her: she managed to force
down three pieces plus a California roll.
Possibly it had something to do with
the hot sake. Still, I know Aunt Freyja
would rather have half a sheep’s head
or hangikjöt (smoked lamb) with Ora
peas any day of the week.
A buyer for Bónus once told me that
his bestselling vegetables were canned
peas. And not just any old canned peas.
Ora brand is the leader by a long shot. If
you’ve shopped here, you’ll surely have
noticed that neon yellow label. You can
rest assured that they grace most ta-
bles where a roast lamb is being served
for Sunday lunch. Quite likely you’ll
get a dollop of sweet canned red cab-
bage and if you’re lucky a smattering of
jarred beetroot or maybe a pickle to go
along with it.
Katrín, my friend Siggi’s mother,
has told me the story about her first
apple umpteen times. It was Christmas
1943. A handsome British soldier hailed
her down and handed it to her as he
pinched her rosy cheeks. “Apples and
oranges smell of Christmas”, she sighs
dreamily. And bananas? She was over
thirty (bear in mind she didn’t travel
abroad until ten years later).
Solla (Sólveig) Eiríksdóttir, possibly
Iceland’s best-known health food guru,
explains how Icelandic eating habits
changed quite suddenly in the ‘70s:
“When fast food first reached our
shores—hamburgers, pizzas, fried
chicken in tubs—it was as if the nation,
having been starved of all their trans
fats and carbohydrates, went quite
Kentucky Fried mad. The traditional
diet was fish throughout the week,
rice pudding on Saturdays, roast lamb
on Sundays, and piles of potatoes with
every meal. All this fuelled the hard
working Icelander through his bitter
winters. More comfort meant more ef-
ficient heating, better homes, which
meant you didn’t need all that stodge
and excess fat; so when cheap fast
food reared its head, it went straight to
the waistlines and worsened the gen-
eral health. I’ve been an advocate for
healthy food ever since”.
We all know the dictum, “You are
what you eat”. Solla narrows her eyes
when I ask her if she has ever observed
what your average Icelander stuffs into
his Bónus shopping bag. “Course, it’s
the same all over the world”, she says.
“Make it quick. No time. Many young
families are living on Cheerios and TV
dinners. I understand it though. To eat
healthy in Iceland is not cheap”.
But, then again—and I’m sure Solla
would agree—the body is a temple; so
eat less, but eat well. Easier said than
done, especially if you have a craving
for horsemeat sausage.
“Sixty years ago, there was no se-
lection in the shops at all”, says Mar-
grét Sigfúsdóttir, Head of Hússtjórnar-
skólinn, Reykjavik’s Domestic Studies
College. “You could always get fresh
fish, lamb too—if you had the money;
but when I was a little girl you couldn’t
even get spices: just salt, pepper, bad
curry, bay leaves, old onions, and if you
were lucky, a couple of sticks of cinna-
mon. Back then, people ate simply but
they ate healthy. Fish was boiled, sauce
was a bit of melted lamb fat. Vegetables
were carrots, Swede, turnips, cabbage,
perhaps a little seaweed”.
“When I was an au pair in New York
in the ‘60s I ate my first bell peppers, my
first corn-on-the-cob. The vegetable
selection in Iceland can’t compare with
London or New York, even now; but it’s
come a long way. In the ‘60s and ‘70s,
more and more international influences
arrived. Now, of course, there’s hardly
a town in Iceland that doesn’t boast its
own Thai restaurant”.
“But one thing I can’t understand”, I
ask Margrét. “Why is the fruit and veg
selection in Icelandic supermarkets still
so poor? I mean there are daily flights
to New York, London, Frankfurt. Are
Icelanders not interested in artichokes
and Shiitake mushrooms and nectar-
ines and fresh white asparagus?”.
“No, I think many of us are inter-
ested. Icelanders are well travelled.
Personally, I think it’s the Icelandic su-
permarket chains. They’re thinking of
the bottom line. They don’t want to risk
sitting on vegetables that only sell oc-
casionally. It’s a small market and some
tastes are still rather traditional”.
I think what Margrét says may be
true—to a certain extent. I resolve to
discuss this later with the supermarket
chains themselves; yet, I do know that
many of the older generation balks at
garlic, turn their noses up at rocket, and
grumble at broccoli. An olive isn’t even
in it. But Ora peas? Ora peas seem to
hit the spot every single time. I have
an Icelandic friend who lives in Florida
who flies in cartons of the stuff. Says
he can’t stand those Green Giant peas
they sell in the States.
Margrét tells me that before the ar-
rival of the potato in the mid 1700s, Ice-
landers struggled desperately to feed
themselves. Some infants were weaned
on rich mare’s milk, as their moth-
ers just didn’t have the constitution to
nurse.
“The best place to live back then
was probably Breiðafjörður. You had
fair farming land, good fishing. Sea
birds were abundant, and at some
stage, Icelanders have eaten them
all (and their eggs). In Breiðafjörður
you also had seal and the occasional
whale”.
“What about pork? Beef?”
“There wasn’t the right infrastruc-
ture or buildings for pigs. Pig farming
came much later. Cows were mostly
kept for their milk, which was essential
in the Icelandic diet. The sturdy Viking
sheep could pretty much take care of
itself. That’s why lamb is still a very reg-
ular feature on most Icelandic menus.
In latter years, Danish trading ships
delivered luxuries like flour, coffee, salt,
spices; but of course, it was all so dear.
Icelanders made do with what they
had. They pickled meat in whey. That’s
where the whole Þorramatur tradition
comes from. They had skyr, which is a
fantastic protein source; and, of course,
they smoked fish and meat alike. Much
of these foods are still part of the old
customs. One loves what one grows up
with”.
And then there’s the question of all
that candy and ice cream. Icelanders
just adore it, particularly anything with
liquorice in it. There are those who visit
an ice cream shop every single day of
the week. On a Friday night—even in
winter—they’re lining up outside the
door for a bit of soft, milky delight with
liquorice sprinkles.
During the course of our conver-
sations, I ask both Margrét and Solla,
“What’s this thing about Icelanders and
candy and ice cream?” They shrug,
they roll their eyes—slightly disapprov-
ingly.
“Beats me”, says Margrét.
“Possibly a substitute for something
else”, says Solla.
I don’t dare ask what, but I swear I’ll
get to the bottom of it.
Next time Marc makes Þorramatur with his Great Aunt
Freyja and gets serious blood on his hands.
Part one: Canned peas, liquorice and ice cream
MARC VINCENz
MEGAN HERBERT