Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Something Fishy & Beyond
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
I am worn out from dogsledding, lava bed hikes and wearing snowshoes. My body parts are cold or stiff—actually, both. After a sightseeing excursion in northern Iceland, I arrive in Reykjavik fatigued.
2:46 am. After unwinding my twisted sheets, unable to sleep, I stare out my hotel window. The view, if it can be called that, is across the hotel skylight. No one else appears awake or, if awake, they are doing what they are doing in the dark. The room smells of hotel cleanser, vacuumed air and my wet clothes.
Peaked rooflines heaped with snow warn me to stay indoors. I take my own advice to heart and, in search of some warmth, shift my sightseeing to food tourism. Never has the idea of comfort food been so comforting.
At a local bistro, for an appetizer I order Minke whale blubber. Whale meat is subtle, sublime, smooth. Savory dipping sauces make the meal. I expect to blubber when the check arrives, but the price is a whale of a deal. I have to remember to tell my kids that joke.
Flakes of artic char at Snaps fall lightly onto my fork. The taste is like salmon, but sweeter—a flavor that floats agreeably across my palate. A crisp, clean sea air smell rises off my plate.
Þrír frakkar is a cloth-napkin restaurant with a nautical décor. The fish entrees are tasty enough to keep in my mouth and savor. Guests speak in low, mind-your-own-business voices. Sardine-packed dining rooms with noisy diners or blaring TV sports annoy me, so Þrír frakkar suits me just fine.
Thunder Bread—a dark-black, deliciously dense, sweet rye bread baked underground with thermal heat—is another local specialty. I butter a slice, top it with smoked trout and make a meal of it. I want breakfast to last forever, the day to never begin.
Near the old Reykjavík harbor, Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur is considered the best hot dog stand in all of Europe. Sitting on a frosted bench, a lightly falling snow slowly covering me, I wolf down my three-meat hot dog. A pork, lamb and beef hot dog is boiled in a beer broth, then served with crispy-fried or raw onions, ketchup sweetened with apples and a mayonnaise-based sauce mixed with pickles and vinegar. Bright yellow mustard dribbling down the front of my black parka proves my devotion to this fast-food icon.
A shopping trip converts my suitcase into a shipping crate for souvenirs. I load up on flavored salt—black lava, arctic thyme, seaweed. And bags of licorice—a cult candy for Icelanders. Licorice roots are as much as 50 times sweeter than sucrose. Licorice, I’m assured, unclogs stuffy noses and loosens bowels. Drano for my plumbing.
Two other Icelandic favorites are sour ram’s testicles and fermented shark. With what I hope is an innocent smile, I ask my waiter whose job it is to get the sharks inebriated. And even though I don’t have the balls to order any, I also ask if there is a sweet version of ram’s testicles on the menu. He gives me the fisheye.
I’ll leave a good tip. Nothing fishy about that.
