Dill

For our last evening in Iceland, we splashed out and booked reservations at Dill, Reykjavik’s Michelin-starred restaurant, founded in 2009. Under founding chef Gunnar Karl Gíslasson, Dill’s new Nordic tasting menu focusing on local ingredients and sustainability, it also won a Green Star award.

We entered the bottom floor of the restaurant and were welcomed into what looked like a rustic wooden fishing shack, with cuts of meats and herbs drying on the wall. The hostess took our coats and locked them away, while behind a short bar, a man prepared the first bite of what would be many: Harðfiskur from Finnbogi with red currant, whey, and lovage. On carved wooden spoons, he presented us a taste of the wolf fish, dried and flaked with butter. J loved it, but I sampled it cautiously, not a fan of dried fish, and fish flakes fell all over my tits. I brushed them off. A tiny palate-cleansing shot of red currant berry juice followed.

With that auspicious start, we followed the hostess up a spiral staircase to a lounge filled with low-set couches, chairs covered in woolly sheepskin, and low Scandinavian-style tables. We ordered cocktails: I got a 5% alcohol Dill Birch Beer, a light white beer. J splurged on the mixed pairing, a selection of both wines and alcohol-free fermented drinks like kombuchas, chosen to complement the tasting menu.

As we imbibed in the lounge, a waiter brought another taste: a smoked haddock onion cake in the shape of a piped pastry star, stuffed with fish and potatoes, and topped with tiny petals of kohlrabi and a dill-stem garnish. It was light and tasty, and reminded me of the piped spritz cookies my mom used to make in the ‘70s.

Then came a half-moon of caramelized onion tart, with a swipe of thick cream from a local dairy, and glazed carrots topped with dried juniper. The sweetness of the carrots tempered the oniony taste of the tart. It was accompanied by one of the best sips of the evening: a tiny cup of smoked root vegetable soup with wasabi powder, cooked for days until caramelized, and possessing a deep vegetable taste.

Next was a locally sourced slice of reindeer thigh cut in two, macerated for days in brown butter and presented with a reduced celeraic-root sauce. Sorry, Santa, but it was delicious, not gamey at all, and with a sauce that was nearly as sugary as caramel.

Just as we were getting comfy in the lounge, it was time for us to move to the main dining room. The waitress came by with J’s next pairing: the juice of Angelica herb and celery, poured tableside into a long, thin glass with a long, thin ice cube that cracked so very pleasantly. It was a perfect palate cleanser; we both tried it out, and the wait staff refilled it twice.

They brought over a clay plate with a tiny round loaf of brown Icelandic Ølland grain bread, accompanied by a puck of butter topped by a round of solidified brown butter, smoked with birch branches. Between the two types of butter was shaved Angelica herb, which came across like horseradish without the bite. We didn’t love that layer, but the savory butter/brown butter puck was a hit. Iceland really does butter better.

We wiped our mouths with the super-weird, small and fibery table napkins, and I revisited a time when I attempted to use Japanese Muji cleaning cloths as napkins. It was unusual but didn’t really work out great. Nonplussed over those napkins…

Next came a tiny bowl of Northeast Iceland barley cooked two ways: steamed and fried in puffy bits, along with a rutabaga salad from the South, presented in perfect squares of brunoise cut. On the bottom was confit butter and marigold pickles; on the top was a leafy garnish. The texture had an amazing mouthfeel; it was certainly not your grandma’s barley.

Unlike other tasting menus we’ve done at top-tier restaurants, Dill servers paced everything perfectly. We were never rushed, nor were we left sitting too long between courses. And the tiny bites ensured that we weren’t too stuffed to enjoy the ethereal flavors the chef had mastered. We liked the focus on sustainable, local cuisine, and enjoyed the stories the servers told of their long-established relationships with local vendors or trappers who provided the ingredients.

J next got a nice pour of an Iceland Pinot Blanc, then came a ‘soup course,’ if you will: a tiny bowl of baby potatoes and in a foamy, caramelized Icelandic Tindur cheese milk, smoked with birch branches. It came across as a cheesy potato soup, with the smoky foam hitting the back of the throat so pleasantly. Our waitress admitted it was her favorite bite.

It was followed by tiny rounds of pickled kohlrabi ‘scallops,’ dressed tableside with ponzu sauce. They came in a bowl with three red currants that sweetened it and added contrast. They kept up the kohlrabi theme with another course of kohlrabi with whey, topped with smoked oil.

J’s next pairing pour arrived: a lingonberry kombucha with a pretty, pink, foamy top. It complimented the first fish course: an ocean perch consummé, with pickled radishes, cold lemons, and chili, topped with foam, peppered with dulce powder. It was a soup course that was outside the box for sure, but it was crunchy, salty, and sweet all at once.

We’re on hour two of our tasting menu now, but unlike other restaurants we’ve tried this at, we don’t feel stuffed or unpleasant at all. The attention required to pay to these dishes is admittedly becoming a bit tiresome. But we’re looking forward to our protein entrees arriving—and when our server places sharp knives down on the table, we know it’s coming.

The fish course is an ocean perch, dry-aged for five days, then fried and served with potatoes. It came with a soupçon of creamy sauce poured over the fish and glittering emerald pools of chive oil. It was accompanied by the most adorable tiny popover of milk bread. It tasted as buttery as movie popcorn; it was delicious. Providing the milk bread to mop up the rich sauce was lowbrow brilliant.

With the fish courses finished, the waiter brought J a pour of a local red wine to enjoy with her meat, which arrived in a small orange bowl with a cracked-glaze effect: butter-macerated goose confit, with a crisp beetroot cracker on top. Shattering that wavy maroon cracker was the highlight of my meal; I just could not stop smiling after I dragged the savory confit through the layer of cream, which smacked of caraway.

It was followed by cuts of roast goose breast with crowberries, submerged in brown butter with cabbage and rye bread crisps. The thin cuts of meat popped against the bright red cabbage, and the impossibly thin curls of rye crisps gave the dish a licorice aftertaste—a flavor Icelanders love.

We’re now in our third hour of this tasting menu, and dessert is beginning. J gets another pour of kombucha, with elderflower and apple. It’s fuzzy and fun, with notes of smashed banana. Our first dessert course is a dish of Icelandic wasabi granita, hot and cold at the same time, a perfect palate reset.

Next comes a Skyr yogurt panna cotta flavored with licoricey liquor called Brennevin, with a poached rhubarb meringue, a chervil rhubarb sorbet, and a sweet crumble. It was topped with two discs of white chocolate with chervil. The dish offered a perfect contrast of sweet to tart, to cold, smooth Skyr.

At last, it was time for the final petit fours course: three tiny, sweet bites. There were two flower-shaped lovage jelly tarts with sweet apple gelee on top, billberries, and locally distilled crème anglaise. A tiny bowl held two long-stemmed cherry bonbon confections that exploded cherry Schnapps. Two tiny ginger snaps made with lamb fat in lieu of butter were paired with a dish of piped, whipped sour cream with lemon, for dipping.

The meal, which began at 6:45 p.m., was finally over by 10 p.m. The restaurant had begun clearing out, with the Asian family seated next to us finishing their Lunar New Year celebration. I wished them the best in perfect Korean (thanks, K-pop dramas!) and we asked for our bill. Thank goodness I’m poorly at maths, because a quick look revealed it was 102.000 krona—the most expensive tasting menu we’ve ever done.

But everything in Iceland was ridiculously expensive, and after all, it was a once-in-a-lifetime Michelin-starred meal. And when we arrived home, I tried some of the chef’s tricks in my own kitchen. It’s all about savoring the memories, and Dill made sure to make them everlasting.

Dill
Lauavegur 59, 2^nd Fl.
101 Reykjavik 552 1522
+354 552 1522
www.dillrestaurant.is/en/home

Tuesday-Saturday 6 p.m.-12 a.m.

Save A Few Clams

No. No clams can be saved. You will pay upwards of $400 per person for this 18-course, multi-hour tasting experience. Save clams elsewhere.