Fish jerky and fermented shark get the headlines, but Reykjavik's food scene runs deeper than novelty acts. This is a city of contradictions: a volcanic island that imports most of its produce, yet grows tomatoes in geothermal greenhouses. A place where traditional hangikjöt (smoked lamb) shares menu space with dill-infused skyr foam. The chefs here are working with severe limitations—geographic isolation, a short growing season, volcanic soil—and turning them into a culinary identity.
The best way to understand Icelandic food is to understand scarcity. For centuries, preservation was survival. Lamb was smoked over birch. Fish was dried. Milk was cultured into skyr, a thick, tangy dairy product that predates yogurt and remains a national staple. These techniques weren't culinary choices; they were the only way to eat through winter. That heritage still shapes the plate, even as Reykjavik's restaurants earn Nordic Michelin attention.
Where to Eat
Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur is the practical starting point. This hot dog stand near the harbor has operated since 1937, and while tourists queue for the "Clinton" (the former US President ate here in 2004), locals visit because it's a genuine institution. The hot dogs are lamb-based, topped with raw onions, fried onions, ketchup, sweet mustard, and remoulade. Order "eina með öllu"—one with everything. It costs around 600 ISK ($4.50) and takes thirty seconds to prepare. Eat it standing up, preferably at 2 AM.
For traditional Icelandic fare without the tourist markup, Saegreifinn (The Sea Baron) operates out of a converted fishing hut on the old harbor. The founder, Kjartan Halldórsson, was a fisherman and fishmonger who started grilling skewers for his crew. The lobster soup has become famous, but the real move is the minke whale steak—controversial, legally harvested, and served simply grilled with potatoes. A bowl of soup and two skewers runs about 4,500 ISK ($33). The seating is communal at long wooden tables. The decor is rope, buoys, and mounted fish.
Dill Restaurant represents the New Nordic ambition. Located in the Nordic House cultural center, Dill was Iceland's first Michelin-starred restaurant (it held one star from 2017 to 2022, currently unstarred but still operating at that level). Chef Ragnar Eiríksson works almost exclusively with Icelandic ingredients: lamb from the highlands, arctic char from Thingvallavatn, seaweed harvested from the coast. The tasting menu runs 29,900 ISK ($220) and changes with what the greenhouse growers and fishermen deliver that week. Book two months ahead.
Skál! offers a more accessible entry into modern Icelandic cuisine. Located in the Hlemmur Mathöll food hall, this casual spot focuses on fermentation and vegetables grown in Icelandic greenhouses. The barley risotto with mushrooms and lovage, and the slow-cooked lamb shoulder with rhubarb, demonstrate what local chefs can do when they stop trying to replicate continental Europe and embrace their constraints. Most plates range from 2,500–4,500 ISK ($18–33).
For daytime eating, Bergsson Mathús is a reliable lunch spot on Templarasund. The menu is simple—soup, salad, sandwiches—but everything is made with attention, and the atmosphere is pure Scandinavian calm: white walls, wooden tables, natural light. The lamb soup is hearty and honest. A full lunch costs around 3,000 ISK ($22).
Kaffivagninn, down by the harbor, is the oldest café in Reykjavik (established 1935). Fishermen come here before dawn for strong coffee and kleinur, twisted doughnuts that are lighter than their American cousins. The clientele is a mix of dock workers, taxi drivers, and tourists who've done their research. A coffee and pastry costs about 1,200 ISK ($9). The hours are 6:30 AM to 4 PM, Monday through Friday.
The Drinks
Alcohol was prohibited in Iceland until 1989, and the drinking culture is still developing. Beer, however, has exploded. Bryggjan Brugghús on the harbor brews excellent IPAs and stouts on-site. Their Reykjavik Weisse, a sour wheat beer brewed with Icelandic moss and thyme, tastes like the landscape—earthy, strange, memorable. A pint costs around 1,400 ISK ($10).
For something uniquely Icelandic, visit Íslenski Barinn on Ingólfsstræti. They serve Brennivín, the caraway-flavored schnapps nicknamed "Black Death" for its potency and label. It's an acquired taste—medicinal, sharp, traditionally consumed with hákarl (fermented shark), which does not improve either experience. Order it once for the story, then switch to local gin. Vor Gin and HiNoDdi Gin are both excellent, distilled with Icelandic botanicals including arctic thyme and crowberries.
Cocktail bars have emerged in the last decade. Kaldi Bar on Laugavegur serves well-made classics in a dim, wood-paneled space that feels imported from Copenhagen. Pablo Discobar (yes, really) on Hverfisgata leans into the theme with Colombian-inspired cocktails and a vinyl-heavy soundtrack. Neither is strictly Icelandic, but both represent the city's growing confidence in its nightlife.
What to Try
Skyr is not yogurt, though it's sold in yogurt packaging. It's technically a fresh cheese—strained, cultured, high in protein. The plain version is tart and creamy. The flavored versions (vanilla, berry) are sweetened. Eat it for breakfast with a drizzle of heavy cream and a sprinkle of berries. Available at every grocery store for about 300 ISK ($2.20).
Hangikjöt (smoked lamb) appears on sandwiches, in soups, and as a Christmas staple. The smoking is done over birch or sheep dung, which gives the meat a distinctive, slightly gamey flavor. Try it at Kaffi Loki near Hallgrímskirkja church, served on flatbread with béchamel sauce.
Plokkfiskur is fish stew—cod or haddock mashed with potatoes, onions, and béchamel. It's nursery food, comfort food, the kind of dish that appears on Tuesday lunch menus across the city. Simple, filling, honest.
Harðfiskur (dried fish) is sold in every supermarket and gas station. It's cod or haddock wind-dried until it resembles leather, then buttered like bread. The texture is chewy, the flavor is concentrated fish, and it's packed with protein. Tourists buy it as a novelty; Icelanders eat it as a snack. Pair it with butter—it needs the fat.
Hákarl (fermented shark) is available at tourist restaurants and the Kolaportið flea market on weekends. It's Greenland shark, which is toxic when fresh, buried underground for months to detoxify, then hung to dry. The smell is ammonia. The taste is ammonia. The texture is rubber. Try it once, regret it, have the story.
Practical Notes
Reykjavik is expensive. A proper dinner with wine can easily hit 15,000–20,000 ISK ($110–150) per person. The lunch menus ("hádegisverður") at restaurants like Dill and Apotek offer the same quality at roughly half the price. Grocery stores (Kronan, Bonus, Nettó) sell prepared foods, sandwiches, and skyr for significantly less than restaurants. The hot dog stands remain the budget option.
Tipping is not expected. Service charges are included in prices. Water is safe to drink—some of the purest in the world. Tap water in restaurants is free and excellent.
Reservations are essential at upscale restaurants, especially in summer (June–August). Book Dill two months ahead. Book other fine dining spots at least two weeks ahead. Casual spots and food halls generally don't take reservations.
The best time to visit for food is September–October, when the lamb harvest comes in and the mushroom foragers are active. January–February offers "Þorrablót" festival foods—surströming-like fermented fish, smoked meats, and preserved dairy—if you're feeling brave.
What to Skip
The "Icelandic buffet" at hotels and some tourist restaurants charges premium prices for mediocre renditions of traditional dishes. The food sits too long under heat lamps. The hangikjöt dries out. The fish stew separates. You're better off ordering à la carte at a proper restaurant or going casual at a hot dog stand.
The Blue Lagoon's restaurant, Lava, has a stunning view and prices to match. The food is competent but you're paying for the location. Eat elsewhere before or after your soak.
Any restaurant with a "Viking menu" and decorative horned helmets is probably overcharging tourists. The real Viking diet was dried fish, fermented dairy, and whatever they could steal from Irish monks. The modern fantasy version involves too much meat and mead.
Final Thought
Reykjavik's food scene rewards curiosity and punishes expectations. Come looking for Nordic refinement, you'll find it at Dill. Come looking for traditional preservation, you'll find it at the harbor. Come looking for cheap eats, you'll find it at the hot dog stand. The through-line is adaptation—chefs and home cooks alike figuring out how to eat well on a volcanic rock in the North Atlantic. That struggle produced a cuisine. It's worth understanding before you dismiss the fermented shark.
By Tomás Rivera
Madrid-born food critic and nightlife connoisseur. Tomás has been reviewing tapas bars and underground music venues for 15 years. He knows every back-alley gin joint from Mexico City to Manila and believes the night reveals a city is true character.