Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.07.2013, Qupperneq 67

Ó Ð I N S T O R G 1 0 1 R E Y K J A V Í K Í S L A N D S N A P S B I S T R O . I S
S n a p s b i s t r o @ s n a p s b i s t r o . i s + 3 5 4 5 1 1 6 6 7 7
Sturlugata 5 · 101 Reykjavík
Tel. +354 552 15 22 · www.dillrestaurant.is
Lífið er saltfiskur
#109 Dill is a Nordic restaurant with its
focus on Iceland, the pure nature and
all the good things coming from it.

It does not matter if it’s the
ingredients or the old traditions, we
try to hold firmly on to both.
There are not many things that make
us happier than giving life to old
traditions and forgotten ingredients
with modern technique and our creative
mind as a weapon.
Best Of Reykjavík
Best Late
Night Bite
Nonnabiti
A Hero that Lives Up
to His Name
The Reykjavík Grapevine
I was sixteen. I sat in the back of a tan Mercury Topaz
with my good friend Orri. In the front: two guys I didn’t
know quite as well. They were Orri’s friends. We had
no class that session and the boys were feeling hungry
so we tore up the streets. “We’re going to Nonnabiti,”
the driver said without even glancing at the rear-view
mirror. I inconspicuously shrugged my shoulders.
These guys had grown up in 101; I had grown up in
108. What did I know?
Before long, I was holding a sub in my hand—a hero
that lived up to his name. The bread was lightly toast-
ed yet soft, not primarily made out of air but grain, it
was bursting with bacon and melted cheese and fried
ham and lettuce and green peppers and onions, slath-
ered with sauce and graciously topped with aromat.
So much aromat!
Not only was this one of the tastiest fast foods to
have graced my oral cavity, it was also served by what
looked like DJ Margeir’s long lost, slightly older, twin.
Cross my heart and swear… to this day, I have never
come upon a handsomer devil professionally flip-
ping burgers. And who was He but Nonni himself, the
charmed prince of hoagies!
Many a day onwards would we trek downtown—in
the tan Topaz, in a 4x4 Fiat Panda, in a sky blue Volvo
station wagon, whatever we could muster. I was young
and adventurous and eager to try other offerings from
the menu. I tried the Chili Sub, the Pepperoni Sub; I
even tried Nonni’s hamburgers. They were all good,
but nothing could match the immaculate perfection of
the Bacon Sub. It didn’t exactly hurt that at this time,
in 2001, Nonnabiti was one of the few places in town
where you could buy a can of Dr. Pepper. Just what the
doctor ordered.
Nonni—who founded the place in 1993—still mans
the pan from time to time. His demeanour towards ex-
tremely drunk people, admittedly a large portion of
his clientele (it’s open until 5:30 AM on the weekends),
is admirable if not outright worthy of Dorrit knighting
him. The soothing sounds of his voice, his shrewd yet
kind smile.
And why shouldn’t he adorn his foxy smile? He has
beheld divine chambers. He has kneeled and accepted
a gift from the gods: the secret recipe of the Nonni
sauce. Many have tried to copy it; they have spent tire-
less months mixing ingredients at home, taking notes,
probing the deep web—but they have all failed miser-
ably. And they will continue to do so as long as there is
order in this world. Atli Bollason
I still remember my first journey to Nonnabiti (“Nonni’s Bite”). ‘Twas a voyage that turned my life
around and upside-down forever.
Magnús Andersen