Table Of ContentCopyright © 2014 by Gunnar Karl Gíslason and Jody Eddy
Foreword copyright © 2014 by René Redzepi
Photographs copyright © 2014 by Evan Sung
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ten Speed Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random
House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
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Ten Speed Press and the Ten Speed Press colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gíslason, Gunnar Karl.
North : the new Nordic cuisine of Iceland / Gunnar Karl Gíslason and Jody Eddy. — First edition.
pages cm
1. Cooking, Icelandic. I. Eddy, Jody. II. Title.
TX723.5.I2G57 2014
641.594912—dc23
2014003525
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-60774-498-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-60774-499-3
Design by Toni Tajima
Original cover design by Emma Campion
v3.1
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
FOREWORD BY RENÉ REDZEPI
IN GRATITUDE
INTRODUCTION
A NOTE ON THE RECIPES
The Bacalao Producer
The Arctic Char Smoker
The Rugbraud Baker
The Fisherman
The Seabird Egg Collector
The Barley Farmer
The Dairy Farmer
The Birch and Mushroom Forager
The Sheep Farmer
The Hardfiskur Producer
The Salt Maker
The Goat Farmer
The Blue Mussel and Dulse Harvester
INGREDIENTS FOR AN ICELANDIC PANTRY
INDEX
FOREWORD
René Redzepi
The first time
I went to Iceland was in 2002. It was late autumn. We swam in the hot springs, visited the
beautiful waterfalls, and saw wild thyme growing all over the volcanic plains—and that was just on the ride from the
airport into Reykjavík. I thought I had landed in a fairytale. I was blown away, and I remember that my first desire
was to eat, to experience all the things I’d seen so far, distilled on a plate. I thought to myself, This is going to be
good; maybe the meal of a lifetime. As I glanced up at the crystal clear blue sky, I dreamed about all the
impossibly good fish and shellfish that would be part of the dinner.
I had virtually no experience with Iceland before that trip. I had heard of Björk and the crazy nightlife, of course,
and if I remember right, we read the Sagas of Icelanders in school. (But that was in school, so there’s a one
hundred percent chance I didn’t do much listening.) Prior to that first trip, I made the deliberate choice not to
investigate the country’s culinary traditions. So when I finally reached the outskirts of the capital, ready for some
food, I was filled with a childlike sense of wonder and excitement.
On the ride from the airport, I wasn’t shy about telling my host how hungry I was. “I need to eat,” I reminded
him again. “Don’t you worry,” he replied swiftly, in that distinct Icelandic-English accent that can at times seem a bit
robotic and stern. “I have the right place for you.”
We drove for a couple more minutes until we pulled over at Reykjavík’s premier sushi restaurant. I gave him a
skeptical look. “You’re feeding me sushi? I’ve come here for inspiration,” I said. “Yes, but this is Icelandic fish they
serve here,” he told me. My host apparently thought that even though it was sushi, the fact that the restaurant used
local fish made it Icelandic. That was the first of several memorable moments for me. Just a few years later, during
the early days of Noma, I found myself dissatisfied with making well-known, practically universal recipes with local
ingredients. It didn’t feel right. I remembered that disconnected feeling I experienced at the “Icelandic” sushi parlor
—simple substitution doesn’t make something of a place.
During that first visit, I spent a good week eating around town. There was a tapas place, an Argentinean
steakhouse, and, I must admit, a few traditional restaurants. But those seemed more like caricatures than genuine,
proud interpretations of tradition. I left Iceland blown away by the people and their spirit, and I was so taken by the
wonderfully untouched natural landscape. I remember being on the plane, thinking that “untouched” was the word
that defined the experience. It’s a word, and an idea, that would become a major influence on our cooking in
Copenhagen: untouched.
When I left Iceland, I didn’t think I’d be returning for the food.
Years passed. I traveled back and forth a few times, to spend time with the Icelandic people and to seek out that
“untouched” element. The food was always secondary, or even tertiary. Then one day I received a phone call.
“René, something is happening in Iceland,” said my friend from the region. “It’s our friend Gunni,” he murmured
after a pause, using the nickname we’ve always had for Gunnar. “He wants to open a restaurant that works with
the traditions and the history of our place.”
I’ll be honest: I was skeptical. “Sounds good,” was my rather curt reply. We started talking about something
else.
Not too long after that, I got a package in the post from Gunni. The letter read something like, “Hey chef, here
are some presents for you.” I opened up the box, and it was filled with food—food that I had seen before, but
always in a mass-produced, industrial state. Suddenly I was tasting raw skyr and artisan bread that’s baked in hot
earth. I tasted dried seaweed with an umami richness that’s matched only by certain Japanese varieties. As a chef,
it was as if someone had gone to the bottom of the ocean, found a box full of treasures, and handed it over to me for
free.
I was in the clouds. I wanted everything. To this day, we use that seaweed throughout our menu—to add a little
depth to a vegetable stock or to give that little extra bit of flavor to almost anything.
That’s why I think chefs like Gunni and his restaurant Dill are immensely important: they rediscover lost
traditions, breathe life into old techniques, and support the good people out there producing food with quality and
deliciousness as their only guiding principles.
I haven’t been back to Iceland for years. I’ve actually never eaten at Dill, although I’ve met Gunni many times
in Copenhagen. But after more than a decade, I feel differently about how my next trip is going to shape up.
I want to go back to Iceland for the food.
