Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.02.2016, Blaðsíða 41

Sushi Samba
Þingholtsstræti 5 • 101 Reykjavík
Tel 568 6600 • sushisamba.is
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Our kitchen is open
17.00–23.00 sun.–thu.
17.00–24.00 fri.–sat.
Amazing
7 course menu
A unique Icelandic Feast
Starts with a shot of the Icelandic
national spirit “Brennivín“
Puffin
Smoked puffin with blueberries,
croutons, goats cheese, beetroot
Minke whale
Date purée, wakame, teriaky
Arctic charr
“Torched“ arctic charr with parsnip
purée, fennel, dill mayo
Lobster
Lobster cigar with chorizo, dates, chili jam
Reindeer
Reindeer slider with blue cheese,
portobello, steamed bun
Free range icelandic lamb
Lamb with coriander, pickled red cabbage,
fennel, butternut squash purée, chimichurri
And to end on a high note ...
Icelandic Skyr
Skyr infused with birch,
berries, white chocolate
crumble, and sorrel granite
7.590 kr.
FOOD
INSIDER TRADING
SUSHI SAMBA
I ❤ U
BÓNUS AVOCADOS
by Eli Petzold
If you've ever found yourself pushing your cart
through the bright reds and yellows of generic
brands at your neighborhood Bónus, thinking
to yourself that nothing is real—not this store,
not this food, not your life—don't worry. Even
though you're born to die, even though
you'll only have a few moments in
life where you really, truly are
"feeling" something, even
though you live on this is-
land of overpriced, under-
ripe exports, there's some
good news yet, and it's hid-
ing in the warmer of the two
Bónus walk-in refrigerators:
those avocados, man. Ice-
land's best-kept secret isn't
some puddle of warm water
in the mountains—no, it's a
sack of green-black ovoid
fruits imported from Chile
and waiting—just for you—
under the fluorescent lights
in the temple of the lazy-eyed
pig. Don't believe me? Suit yourself;
more guac for me. If you're willing to invest
six lumpfish coins and a little patience, however,
you're halfway to rich, creamy, green heaven.
The Bónus avocados are rock-solid on the
shelves, a far cry from the mushy ones Hagkaup
peddles for a considerable markup (practically
unseasoned guacamole in a shell). Make sure you
grab the mesh sack; the shrink-wrapped avoca-
dos in styrofoam might be good for your com-
post, but not much else. Weirdly cheap, a Bónus
mesh-sack of avocados costs less than you’d
find them for in California.
If you crave instant gratification, give up now.
Once bought, it can take anywhere from a cou-
ple days to a week for these beauts to reach
perfection. If you're not patient enough,
stick them in a paper bag with bananas,
sit in samadhi for a day or so, then check
on them. When they're supple enough
to squish when you squeeze
them, stick them in the
fridge and they'll keep
for longer than you'd
expect. Congratula-
tions, you've made it.
If you're a fancy jet
setter on one of those
cute #MyStopover
things in Iceland for three
days, you're out of luck
and you'll never get to try
these elf-touched, traditional
Icelandic Chilean avocados.
Sucks for you! For us here, it's
these little victories that allow us to get by in a
country that has no satisfactory salsa offerings.
Clever things you can make with avocados in-
clude, but are not limited to: guacamole, face cream,
salads, and avocado toast. Here's a great recipe for
avocado toast: make toast, put avocados on it. Salt
optional. Wow! You saw it here first!
21
The Truth About
Fermented Shark
By Andri Gunnar Hauksson - Photo by Ragnar Egilsson
I remember the first time I had fer-
mented shark. Actually, I don’t. I have a
confession to make: I’ve never tried it. In
case you were wondering, no, this is not
cause for having my citizenship revoked.
In fact, it’s not uncommon. Like most
Icelanders, I grew up on a steady diet of
hot dogs, meatballs, hamburgers, spa-
ghetti (with ketchup) and the occasional
fish. The only time I ever really encoun-
tered hákarl was once a year at family
dinner parties during the Þorri fes-
tival, a time of year when Iceland's
history is celebrated by feasting
on various traditional foods
that were commonly
eaten in the past. I
would watch my
uncles dare my
older broth-
e r s to eat
sheep’s testicles, in a strange rite of pas-
sage that required no skill except folding
under peer pressure. Icelandic tradi-
tional cuisine, in all its fermented and
pickled glory, was developed under the
constraints of long dark winters and the
necessity to make food last over a long
period of time while nothing could grow.
It's not really something to enjoy. People
had two options: Eat smelly things or die.
As soon as Iceland became industri-
alised in the 20th century, that urgency
to make food last by any means neces-
sary subsided. I didn’t really see hákarl
in supermarkets when I was growing
up. No one wanted it. When Þorri sea-
son was gone, so was the hákarl. But
with Iceland's growing popularity as a
destination, so grew hákarl's infamy.
It has arguably surpassed surström-
ming as the ulti- mate putrid
Nordic deli- cacy (suck it,
Sweden!). People stay-
i n g in Iceland
can't wait
to try it and
the rising
d e m a n d
has far ex-
ceeded the
short season
of Þorri. Now
you can get it
all year round,
something un-
heard of twenty
years ago. It's
even available in
24/7 convenience
stores, if the sudden urge
for shark that was buried in the ground
for three months hits you at four in the
morning. The old tradition of eating
hákarl once a year to celebrate Iceland's
history is all but gone now. The new tra-
dition has become sadistically convinc-
ing visitors that they must eat it or else
commit a faux pas, and then laugh at the
inevitable writhing, groaning or possibly
barfing that comes with it.
So when you go to a supermarket and
think to yourself, “Wow, those Icelanders
sure eat some weird things. We gotta try
it!”, know that those things are actually
there for you. Meanwhile, I will be by the
condiments section, filling my cart with
oyster sauce and yellow mustard.