At Lake M´yvatn, in northeast Iceland, the land is so extreme that it was used as a training ground for U.S. astronauts preparing for moon walks. Hot springs burst from underground in boiling mud pots and steam vents, and their warmth allows potatoes to be planted as early as April.
For Gudn´y Halldórsdóttir and her husband, Snaebjörn Pétursson, the earth itself becomes an oven for the local specialty called hverabraud, a moist, sweet rye bread that is steamed in the ground. Each morning they drive out to a steam vent in the desertlike terrain where they’ve dug a shallow hole and lined it with bricks. They bury a lidded metal box filled with stiff dough, cover the hole, and leave the bread to steam for 24 hours. Next morning they unearth a rich, brown, aromatic loaf, perfectly cooked thanks to the steam hole’s steady temperature.
Perhaps the most unexpected use of geothermal energy occurs at Fljot, on Iceland’s northern coast, where for the past two and a half years Gudmundur (“Gundi”) Örn Ingólfsson has been raising Mediterranean sea bass. He produces 50 tons of fish a year, mainly for export. Geothermal heat keeps the water in the tanks at 23 degrees Celsius (73 degrees Fahrenheit). Few harmful organisms can survive in Iceland’s arctic climate, so the farm can support fish in a disease-free environment (unlike its sister farm in Perpignan, France, which must constantly deal with the myriad pathogens that thrive in the Mediterranean). For our dinner that evening, Gundi generously pulled some fish from the tank. It was beautifully white, with a firm texture and a delicate, clean taste.
The global kitchen may have delivered new ingredients and tastes to Iceland, but its customs are still very much alive. Old dishes are simply updated. In M´yvatn, Pétur Snaebjörnsson connects small producers of organic lamb or produce with restaurants around the island. At his own restaurant, Gamli Baerinn (“The Old Farm”), he has put a modern spin on such Icelandic mainstays as mutton soup and has introduced locally smoked arctic char. This is char smoked the old-fashioned way, over briquettes made of sheep dung and hay.
The man responsible for this buttery fish is Jón Adalsteinsson, who does business from his sod smokehouse. Adalsteinsson salts the char for 24 hours, then cold-smokes it for two to five days. Served on a slab of hverabraud, its smoky, smooth flavor beautifully captures the rugged beauty of M´yvatn.
On the coast, fish is more often dried than smoked. Árni Páll Johannsson, a well-known film and exhibition designer, has a unique drying shed next to his house in the small town of Hofsós, built right at the point where Thorfinn Karlsefni, the father of the first European child born in North America, set sail for Vinland in the 11th century. The shed is slatted and roofed, which allows air in but keeps the rain out. Johannsson makes “hardfish,” prepared by soaking cod for three weeks in a salt brine then drying it until stiff.
Smoked lamb, or hangikjöt, is another Icelandic specialty, traditionally served at Christmas. It was summer when I visited, so I didn’t hold out much hope of being able to have a sample. But then I met Valgerdur Kristjánsdóttir, of Thrastastadir (“Thrush Farm”), whose sheep graze throughout the summer on highland grasses, which lend depth of flavor to their meat, and who makes hangikjöt year-round.
To make hangikjöt, Kristjánsdóttir soaks the leg in a salt brine for nearly a week, then hangs it to dry for a couple of days. She wraps it in muslin and takes it out to a tiny smokehouse dug into the side of a hill, where it is carefully smoked over sheep dung. She boils the smoked lamb, which, with its dusky flavor, conjures associations with medieval kitchens. This she serves hot with canned green peas and boiled potatoes in a sweetened béchamel sauce. For dessert Kristjánsdóttir creates jólakaka, a pound cake, also once reserved for the Christmas holidays (white flour and raisins were imported luxury items) but now an everyday sweet.
Leaving Iceland without a healthy dose of herring is unthinkable. At the Herring Era Museum, in Siglufjördur, not far from Gundi’s sea bass operation, the director, Örlygur Kristfinnsson, treated me to both smoked and marinated herring, and over an accompanying swig of brennivín, Iceland’s caraway- or angelica-flavored schnapps, regaled me with tales of the halcyon days of the herring trade. From 1903 until 1969, there was a great abundance, but then, as a result of overexploitation of the herring by Norway, Iceland, and Russia, and a change in migration patterns, the vast schools of fish deserted Icelandic waters, causing the industry to collapse. Remnants of better times are evident in Siglufjördur, once the world’s most famous herring town—the museum, housed in an early-20th-century salting station, contains beautiful old stencils that identified the herring barrels and the dormitories inhabited by the “herring girls,” who for several months each year processed and packed the fish, sometimes earning more than the men in the fishing fleets.
Pinterest
