Iceland Day 7 - Cut From Different Cloth

Between the return of the Icelandic Opera across the street and then just flat out sleeping like shit I dragged myself out of bed and that was about the most active I was all day. Except for walking a handful of blocks for dinner my day was pretty much just drifting from one coffee shop to another to read, drink coffee, and eat croissants (I'm not sure why that was the snack of choice all day, but it was). The coffee shops are great people watching places as they all look out on the main shopping street where the action is. It also doesn't hurt that the winter fashion for women seems to be big jackets and tights or really tight pants. They are quite often just wearing some kind of long shirt or short trouser-shorts over the tights, but the fact is they're still braving the cold ass weather wearing tights. I'm not sure how in the world that's even remotely comfortable, but I don't really care. Most Icelandic women seem to have amazing legs, presumably from all the walking, so it's greatly appreciated.

I briefly considered cake or just a plateful of croissants for lunch, but I was feeling a little guilty for all the buttery, bready goodness I had consumed and decided to set out for something a little healthier and end up eating sushi. The menu was full of the usual suspects, though I suspected a fair bit of it was far fresher than anything I would get back home, but there were two things that popped up I had to try. The first was whale sashimi, which wasn't terribly surprising considering most decent restaurants here have some kind of whale fare. I didn't really care much for it's raw variety, as the slight gaminess I had tasted in the whale steak was more pronounced, and it wasn't the love at second bite kind of thing like with the Guillemot. The other bit of raw adventure on rice was horse. Yes...horse sashimi. Mr. Ed, raw, on a little pillow of rice. I had eaten the whale and the other fishy morsels and worked my way all around the horse and was left with a plate of nothing but two bits of Seabiscuit and just stared at it. The whale wasn't a problem mentally because it's in the ocean with all the other swimmy stuffs I like to eat, but there's absolutely nothing running around a racetrack I've ever thought looked delicious. Finally I just picked it up and tossed it in my mouth and swallowed. I hardly even chewed. I expected an indescribable foulness to be left behind in my mouth, but there was absolutely nothing. I took my time with the other piece of horse chewing and rolling it around in my mouth, but I tasted almost nothing. It was horribly anti-climatic.

After lunch I immediately went back to being absolutely and completely lazy and unmotivated. Before I realized it, hours had gone by and it was time to do that whole pesky eating thing again. I had a reservation at a place called Lækjarbrekka, which I'm sure means something wonderfully complex in Icelandic but I don't know what that is. Whatever it means, it's a relatively high end restaurant that serves up a mix of traditional and continental food with quality Icelandic ingredients. At this time of year the focus is on lamb and langoustine (a small lobster). I went with a 3-course lamb dinner that included and small appetizer of lamb Carpaccio with a little salad of smoked lamb, a main course of roasted lamb that came out as two exquisitely cut and perfectly cooked medium-rare but rather small medallions. Dessert was a hat trick of small chocolate dishes which included a shot glass of white chocolate mousse, a mini hot chocolate brownie, and a tiny scoop a homemade chocolate ice cream. In case you haven't picked up on the theme here, it's small. I realize that this is kind of a “thing” at fancy restaurants. You give people big plates of strategically decorated but semi-servings of high quality food and then charge a shit-ton for it all. Don't get me wrong, every bit of it was fantastic, but considering how much it all cost and the annoying pretension of the whole fine-dining experience I shouldn't be hungry when I leave. In short, I'm not really haute cuisine material. Give me big bowls of stew, slabs of meat, shepherd's pies – peasant foods in other words. Tomorrow I'm looking for a place where at least one item on the menu has the word “taters” in the description.