Tastes of Iceland, Parts 1 and 2

Let me take this opportunity to invite you to check out the column I’ve been writing for a new web newspaper called The Faster Times. Below are the my last two columns,  both on my recent trip to Iceland.

Part 1

I’ve been in Iceland for just about 6 days now, which is hardly enough time to collate a comprehensive and far-reaching opinion on all things pastry in this island of near-midnight sun (It’s 9pm here and I can still see the sun just barely peeking out behind the mountains from my hotel room in Husavik.) But, in 6 days I’ve already driven round half the country and consumed 18 meals plus almost as many snacks, if you count cups of coffee. So here are just a few highlights from the sweets (and bakery) scene in Iceland, surely just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

I’d heard about skyr before coming to Iceland, but the only skyr I’d tried was Siggi’s, a variety made in upstate New York that I bought at Whole Foods. And Siggi’s skyr, a decidedly unsweet, thicker-than-Greek-yogurt, low fat yogurt-like dairy product is good, but I did not quite understand the full range of skyr until having it every day–sometimes twice a day–here in Iceland. One variety of skyr (prounced skeer) is the thick Siggi’s variety, which often showed up in my desserts (most recently and simply, blended with tiny Icelandic blueberries and drizzled with heavy cream, but also in a more modern approach: whipped and smeared on a plate and topped with rhubarb compote, rhubarb granita and lightly stewed slices of rhubarb). It was this modern dessert that got me thinking about ways to use skyr in my desserts back home. It is a perfect starting point and counter point for someone like me who likes her desserts on the less sugary side and pairs beautifully with almost any fruit. Its thickness only makes it easier to incorporate into into mousses.  But it is the other kind of skyr, the looser, slightly less sour kind that has really won me over, the one that’s been elevating my morning muesli to something I look forward to while falling asleep. Well, one of the things, but more on that later. This almost pudding-like skyr is similar to yogurt but without the sourness, and is impossibly creamy while remaining low fat, as skyr is made with skim milk. It, too, appears as a simple, classic dessert, usually with berries and a simple shortbread biscuit.

What else do I fall asleep thinking about? Vöffler, for one. These waffles seem to be everywhere, for breakfast and for an afternoon snack with coffee. And they’re not like any waffle I’ve seen before. In fact, they are more like slightly thick crepes that have the tell-tale, golden brown hatch marks of waffles. They are soft, with only the slightest bit of crunch on the edges, and are served the way crepes and waffles are served in the rest of Scandinavia: with fresh whipped cream and jam. I like the the tender, egg-y vöffler with my afternoon coffee, without the cream and just a tiny bit of strawberry jam, but that’s just me.

Iceland has got me wondering why we don’t have better whole grain bread back in New York. Don’t get me wrong, I like a lot of the fresh, whole grain bread from the Union Square farmers market, and even a lot of the store-bought types ( I’m weirdly partial to Ezekial, despite its biblical background). But Iceland has got me thinking that maybe I’ve been settling. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to the somewhat dry, vaguely cardboardy-but-definitely-good-for-me bread, and maybe never realized how delicious whole grain bread could and should be. Every morning my breakfast-included hotels put out a spread that includes the aforementioned skyr, sometimes waffles, and always the best whole grain bread I’ve ever had. It’s not always exactly the same, but it has not disappointed yet: crunchy/flaky crust with a very tender, but sturdy crumb, always with flax seeds, usually with sunflower seeds, sometimes with millet or other grains. The point is, it isn’t dry. It’s soft and dense–but not too dense. And it has enough salt to bring out the flavor of all the seeds. But it’s that crust that really sets it apart. The crusts of whole grain bread back home are more like tough edges posing as crust. Crust should be crisp and flaky and actually leave crumbs behind when you bite into it, like when you eat a baguette. In the next 5 days it is my mission to find a recipe for Icelandic-style whole grain bread.  Another thing Icelanders have figured out that New Yorkers are only just beginning to appreciate? Currants, black and red. These tiny berries have been showing up everywhere: in my berry compote, on top of skyr, made into marmalade. Not only are they packed with anti-oxidents, they are deliciously tart and unlike any other berry. Sure, I’d known about currants before coming to Iceland, and even used them to make sorbet but sometimes it takes travelling to be reminded of just how much you love a simple, less common thing like currants. For now, I’m happy to mix red currant jam into my skyr, onto my vöffler and onto my generously buttered whole grain bread while looking forward to 5 more days of of eating.
Part 2
The second half of my trip around Iceland was much like the first. Each day we spent a few hours driving past green hills, numerous waterfalls, volcanic fields, glaciers, and even a vast black sand desert, on our way to the next overnight town. In between were few signs of life,  aside from countless free-roaming sheep and a multitude of sleeping horses. In fact, all forms of life in Iceland seemed to be more relaxed, and the laid back attitude was contagious.

My love affair with all things skyr grew, and I continued to have it every morning for breakfast. But skyr wasn’t the only object of my desire, I fell for all the dairy in Iceland, from butter to milk to cheese to ice cream–all of it tasted richer, better, than at home. Learning that hormones are prohibited and that pesticides are not used (the harsh climate makes them unnecessary) only encouraged my pro-dairy diet. Take into account the vast supply of clean, glacial water and unpolluted air (the country is virtually run on clean, geo-thermal energy) and how could I not ask for extra butter with my bread or order the local jöklais ice cream in Skaftafel?  I’m absolutely certain that the reason the cafe latte I had at Kaffitar in Rejkyavik blew me away so completely was the milk. And with 700 dairy farms, Iceland dairy products are almost always local.

I’m sure it was the butter that made the pastries so undeniably superior–that along with the influence the Danes have had on their bakery business.  The vinarbraud (or what the Danes call wienerbrød, which really means Vienna bread) was some of the lightest and flakiest I’ve had outside of Denmark, and was never tough or soggy or overly sweet (no syrup-y glazes), as is too often the case with mainstream pastry here in the U.S. It seemed that quality pastry, sweet and savory alike, could be found even at the gas stations, and that most larger towns had seriously good, proper bakeries. Sandholt in Reykjavik was one of my favorites.

Driving through the weird and cool landscapes surrounding Lake Mývatn, an area of active volcanism, I discovered hverabraud, a dark rye, incredibly moist and slightly sticky bread lightly sweetened with molasses. It’s baked for 24 hours underground by geothermal heat–I even spotted a few above ground doors leading to the underground “ovens.” Topped with plenty of Icelandic butter, hverabraud was my favorite afternoon snack, and one I’ll never be able to replicate here in New York City.

So what didn’t I like about Icelandic sweets? Kleinur, for one. These cardamom-scented doughnuts just didn’t do it for me. I found them un-crispy to the point of seeming stale, overly dense and just plain uninspired–and they were everywhere. And I’ve never been able to develop a taste for black licorice, which as in most of Scandinavia, flooded Iceland’s gas stations, grocery stores and candy shops. Too many times I’d fill a bag from bulk candy bins and bite into what I thought was a malt ball, a chocolate covered nut, a nougat, only to be disappointed by the assertive flavor of black licorice, or worse, its harsher, crazier cousin, salt licorice.  Still, only two dislikes out of an entire country of sweets isn’t too bad.