Kj?tsúpa is a traditional rustic Icelandic dish that is somewhere between a soup and a stew. It is made with inexpensive cuts of lamb or mutton that are cubed and then boiled along with the bone for about forty-five minutes or so. After the meat has broken down, root vegetables such as carrots, potatoes, swedes, turnips, onions, etc. are added, as well as stock, some dried herbs, maybe some cabbage, and the whole thing is then cooked for another twenty minutes or so. Sometimes oats or rice are added to thicken it.
Let’s face it, most stews are basically made the same way. Sometimes the meat is browned first, maybe a mirepoix is sautéed, and then everything is put together in a pot. Once you know how thin or thick you like it and what other ingredients you fancy, you can just kind of make a stew up as you go along. Grab a not-very-fancy piece of meat, the fresh or fading vegetables from the fridge, some wine, stock, herbs, etc., etc. and knock yourself out. （I have only recently started cooking stews and stocks in a pressure cooker, and it has changed my life. I don’t know what took me so long.） Along with good bread or served with polenta, noodles, or rice, a stew is quick, hearty, inexpensive, and comforting. In summer, I often make fish stews like cacciucco or some variation thereof because I love the idea of bringing simple ingredients together in one huge pot and presenting it like some sort of religious offering to whatever deities are seated at my table that day.
Anyway, this kj?tsúpa was so superb that I embarrassed myself by going back for thirds. To this day it remains the best catered meal I have eaten on any film set from the South Pole to the Arctic Circle and all points in between.
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Due to the limited number of flights from Reykjavík to London, flying back home often required an overnight stay in the island’s capital city. With the exception of a small percentage of older buildings, the architecture is minimalistic. The houses are simple boxlike structures with roofs or even walls of corrugated metal, most of which are painted bright, cheery colors. It’s a small city to say the least, yet it’s the most populated in the country with about 125,000 people. （On the entire island there are only a little over 350,000 inhabitants.） On one trip home I was not able to make the last flight to London so I had to spend the night in Reykjavík, as did Michael Gambon and the wonderful actor Darren Boyd. I had asked a number of people about what restaurants they’d recommend in the capital and I was consistently told to visit Grillmarkaeurinn. Although it was a busy place, I was fortunately able to get a reservation for the three of us that night.
Grillmarkaeurinn is a rather hip upscale eatery that serves mostly meats. （They also have a sister restaurant called Fiskmarkaeurinn that obviously serves mostly fish.） The menu lists dishes such as heavily marbled rib eyes, tomahawk steaks, and tenderloin of horse. I don’t remember horse being on the menu when I was there; if it had been, I would have ordered it, because I have always wanted to try it. It is frequently eaten in France and Italy, yet I have never ventured to order it or buy it when I am there. I can only assume my trepidation stems from the fact that I once owned a couple of horses. My late wife, Kate, was an avid rider, as were my kids for a few years when they were young, and it feels too close to eating one’s pet, not out of desperation but just because one can. At any rate, Grillmarkaeurinn’s menu also listed two items I’d not seen in any restaurant before, minke whale and puffin. I was intrigued and so I inquired. The waiter assured me that the minke whale, which is indigenous to the Icelandic waters, was not endangered and was procured in a sustainable fashion, and that the same was true of the puffin. My guilt vaguely assuaged, I ordered both.
When my plate of whale arrived I thought the waiter had mistaken my order, because what was before me looked like crimson medallions of beef. He assured me it was indeed whale and so I dove in. The flesh was seared quickly like one would do with a piece of fresh tuna and maybe flavored with a little olive oil and salt, but I can’t be sure. All I know is that the flavor was rich and deep, like a Kobe steak but more complex because it also had the delicate fishiness of sushi-grade tuna. Never had vaguely assuaged guilt tasted so good. The puffin was next, which was just the breast meat, smoked and sliced. To me, the smoking had dried it out to the point where it almost could have been the breast of any small, cute bird we probably shouldn’t kill, but this is not to say that it wasn’t very tasty. However, unlike the whale, I wouldn’t rush to order it again. Although placing an order for minke these days might be to no avail, as I have recently read that Iceland is putting a halt to their whaling because demand for the meat is declining. It seems they can make more money from tourists who are keen to pay a pretty króna to watch whales rather than ingest them, which in the end is probably not such a bad thing. I do not know about the fate of the flamboyantly beaked puffin, however. As far as I know they are still culled for the smoker and the plate, but since there are over eight million of them on an island of less than a half a million people, most of whom aren’t very interested in eating them anyway, I’m not going to stay awake nights worrying.