Our plane touched down in Reykjavik late in the evening. The sun hadn’t yet set, and the lingering brightness in the sky woke us from our traveling slumber. After checking into our hotel, my pal and I headed straight out to find a bar.
We had prepared ourselves for how expensive alcohol would be here, but it still stung when that first payment notification popped up on my phone after I ordered a pint. We moved on to another few places before ending the night at Einstök’s bar in the center of the city. It had been a long time since I’d drunk the brewery’s Icelandic White Ale (which is actually a Belgian Witbier), so that’s what we ordered first. I’d always found the slice of orange that some venues serve with their Witbiers to be a bit gimmicky, but the barman suggested it. And dammit if it didn’t work.
A bottle of Wee Heavy later, and we set off in search of some food. After spending so much on our drinks, we were anticipating another blow to our wallets in our hunt for carbs. But then we found Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur, or “The Town’s Best Hot Dogs.” The small red hut shone brightly, even as late-night mist from the harbor was beginning to descend around us.
Little did I know that Icelanders are mad for hotdogs. I was surprised to discover that residents and tourists alike have been queuing here for over 80 years. I chose the “one with everything” hot dog (except for raw onion—sorry, but never raw onion). Ketchup, sweet mustard, and traditional remoulade adorned the steamed sausage that lay on a bed of crispy fried onions, all packed into a light bread bun. It was cheap, tasty, and charming in its simplicity. I wondered what meat and filler might be crammed inside the casing of the sausage.
“It’s a hotdog. Never ask.” Right on.
Words + Photoby Sean McEmerson