Hákarl and skata
At this point, it is worth mentioning something about Icelandic food. On the whole, the diet of modern Icelanders is not very different from that of north Europeans, with the usual staples of bread and potatoes, supplemented by lamb, beef, pork and fruit and green vegetables. However, fish and other seafood feature more prominently and include familiar catches such as cod, haddock, mackerel, shrimps and lobsters. The main dish with Bjössi and Signý that evening was a delicious lobster soup – more of a lobster stew really – that I would eat again with relish. However, they also have more ‘traditional’ and (to us) exotic dishes, such as boiled sheep’s head, whale, puffin and their infamous rotted shark (hákarl) and skate (skata). Whale meat is delicious and to my mind compares favourably with the best rump of beef. We sampled a small dish of cold puffin at a tapas bar in Reykjavik; it is a dark, rather gamey meat with a slight aftertaste of fish. Hákarl and skata are in a league of their own. Some Icelanders (such as Bjössi) consider these rotted selachians a delicacy, while others (such as his son Hafþor) give them a wide berth. Having tried a small amount of the hákarl, I can honestly say that it was the most disgusting stuff that I ever ate in my life.
To describe it, I have to take you back to 2008, when I first visited Iceland. Bjössi and I were talking to some fishermen, old friends of his, at the harbour. Having seen some of Bjössi’s photos the previous evening, I asked if they frequently caught sharks.
“Shark? You want shark? I get some”, said Wili, at 43 the youngest of the crew. He returned with a piece of orange-coloured meat about 12 inches in length and 5 in width, one side still covered in dark brown hide with the texture of a cheese grater. I turned it over in my hands like some museum curiosity and then handed it to Bjössi, who promptly borrowed a knife and started eating pieces of it. “It is mild”, he commented, “not ready yet”, and then handed me a couple of small pieces. I tentatively chewed one of them and suddenly became acutely and painfully aware of every feature of my face. Tongue, palate, throat, nose and every tiny, individual sinus were flooded with the taste and stench of urine. Grimacing, it took about 2 seconds to decide that there was no way I could swallow the stuff and I spat it out in the nearby toilet, accompanied by gales of laughter from my Icelandic friends. As I gave the remaining piece to the dog, Wili said “You don’t like? Maybe you should try skata!” He then opened an ordinary, wooden cupboard to retrieve a plastic bucket – it looked like an old paint tub – within which was a plastic shopping bag containing roughly hewn pieces of skate. The smell of ammonia was overpowering. If the local mediaeval sorcerers really were able to wake the dead, they must have used this, and I’m surprised that nobody has ever thought of using it as a weapon in place of pepper spray or tasers. By this time, Bjössi was thoroughly enjoying himself and told me that the skata was not yet ready to eat because it was still only October. It would be allowed to rot further and grow in ‘flavour’ until 23 December, when it would be cooked and eaten at a feast to welcome the return of the sun after the winter solstice. I promised him that if ever I were around in Iceland on that date, I would hide in the hills.
To my amazement last week, Ranulph and Tineke tried a little rotten shark and declared it “not bad”. I tried a small piece from the same joint and it still tasted like somebody had pissed in my mouth (although I did manage to swallow it this time). I’m assured that it is an acquired taste, but I think I am firmly on the ‘hate it’ side of the fence.
At least I love Marmite.
To describe it, I have to take you back to 2008, when I first visited Iceland. Bjössi and I were talking to some fishermen, old friends of his, at the harbour. Having seen some of Bjössi’s photos the previous evening, I asked if they frequently caught sharks.
“Shark? You want shark? I get some”, said Wili, at 43 the youngest of the crew. He returned with a piece of orange-coloured meat about 12 inches in length and 5 in width, one side still covered in dark brown hide with the texture of a cheese grater. I turned it over in my hands like some museum curiosity and then handed it to Bjössi, who promptly borrowed a knife and started eating pieces of it. “It is mild”, he commented, “not ready yet”, and then handed me a couple of small pieces. I tentatively chewed one of them and suddenly became acutely and painfully aware of every feature of my face. Tongue, palate, throat, nose and every tiny, individual sinus were flooded with the taste and stench of urine. Grimacing, it took about 2 seconds to decide that there was no way I could swallow the stuff and I spat it out in the nearby toilet, accompanied by gales of laughter from my Icelandic friends. As I gave the remaining piece to the dog, Wili said “You don’t like? Maybe you should try skata!” He then opened an ordinary, wooden cupboard to retrieve a plastic bucket – it looked like an old paint tub – within which was a plastic shopping bag containing roughly hewn pieces of skate. The smell of ammonia was overpowering. If the local mediaeval sorcerers really were able to wake the dead, they must have used this, and I’m surprised that nobody has ever thought of using it as a weapon in place of pepper spray or tasers. By this time, Bjössi was thoroughly enjoying himself and told me that the skata was not yet ready to eat because it was still only October. It would be allowed to rot further and grow in ‘flavour’ until 23 December, when it would be cooked and eaten at a feast to welcome the return of the sun after the winter solstice. I promised him that if ever I were around in Iceland on that date, I would hide in the hills.
To my amazement last week, Ranulph and Tineke tried a little rotten shark and declared it “not bad”. I tried a small piece from the same joint and it still tasted like somebody had pissed in my mouth (although I did manage to swallow it this time). I’m assured that it is an acquired taste, but I think I am firmly on the ‘hate it’ side of the fence.
At least I love Marmite.