Italians are not known for their generosity with the world’s freewheeling ways when it comes to their cuisine. Publish a recipe, open a restaurant or even so much as attempt throwing spaghetti at the wall (don’t) and an Italian is bound to pass you by and passionately correct you on the pasta type, ragú vs. bolognese debate or throw their hands up in despair. While a popular social media account, Italians Mad at Food is dedicated to butchered Italian dishes, attracting a passionate keyboard army, Italian food in Iceland has just grown both without Italians and Italian disapproval.
While La Primavera laid the foundation for a love of fancier Italian outings, Italian food in Iceland has been a curious amalgamation of Italianate Americana and Scandi brashness. Unsurprising since Italian food was virtually unheard of until the 1950s, and even then, macaroni cooked in milk was the only pasta cooked as a sweet, milky dessert type dish. As Nanna Rögnvaldsdóttir shares in her 2004 book Icelandic Food and Cookery, ‘‘This was virtually the only form of pasta I encountered before my tenth birthday — using macaroni for anything other than a sweet dish would have been considered a revolutionary idea.’’ In fact, this Italian revolution in the Icelandic kitchen was not led by restaurants but by Icelanders travelling abroad in the 60s, exposed to foreign cuisine that would have still been considered exotic here. Loosely based on Italian-style cooking, the earliest recipe for ‘Spaghetti in Italian sauce’ was essentially tomato ketchup stirred into bechamel sauce (an enduring classic and one you continue to encounter in Icelandic homes today, although they dropped the ‘Italian’ sósa and just call it pink sauce).
Before Hornið opened the first pizza and pasta restaurant in 1979, the credit for the first pizza actually belongs to Naustið that served a ‘Pizza à la Maison’ in 1960, and by the 70s and 80s spaghetti og kjötsósa, that classic Icelandic Italianate was a firm household favourite. Cut to the 2000s and the tourism boom after the economic crash, Italian continues to be the favourite genre of restaurants in the country, mimicking global trends (sorry, Italy).
One such relative newcomer is Ráðagerði. While yet another Italian restaurant doesn’t seem like an inspired idea, this one comes from a stable of seasoned restaurant owners who seem to have cracked the elusive code to running a successful business far from downtown Reykjavik.
The little house on the peninsula
Getting to the Grótta side of town seems like some distance away, but this is a 10-minute drive from the city centre — perhaps not as accessible via public transport (the bus number 11 will take you close, and it’s a short walk after that). Maybe it’s the expansive grassy meadow where the house sits, almost lonesome, its back to the town of Seltjarnarnes, or the drive where houses seem to keep getting fewer and fewer the closer you get, or the ocean hugging bends of the road, there is usually a sense that you are leaving the city behind and heading out of town. The gravel driveway, squawking arctic terns and the smell of ocean breeze mingled with that of fresh mown grass adds to that out-of-town-in-the-sveitó feeling.
Set in a cute-as-a-button timber house that originally dates back to 1885, thoughtfully restored by ARGOS architects, Ráðagerði sits on the tippity tip of Seltjarnarnes peninsula, overlooking stunning views of Snæfellsjökull and Esjan. The main house has recent additions: a greenhouse-esque additional seating area, outdoor patio, and an outer building that has the kitchen and pizza ovens.
On bright summer days, it’s great to bring your kids, furry friends and walk the length of Grótta and then head here for brunch. Or do as many do, and chase northern lights come winter and seek refuge from the bitingly cold winds. Ráðagerði is open all day most days, serves brunch on the weekends, and has a discounted takeaway menu.
Nonna Italianata
Ráðagerði’s menu is a little hard to place at first glance. It runs wild with everything from Caesar salad to Turkish eggs, chimichurri instead of salsa verde and bacalao instead of baccalá jostling for space amongst a variety of carbs. Loosely Italian yet distinctly Icelandic in how much bread dominates the menu — there is a bruschetta menu, focaccia sandwiches, pizzas and some more bread with the antipasti and mains — it sits comfortably in that neighbourhood joint spot, without being loyal to any one region in Italy or the larger Italianate universe.
The menu does suffer from repetitive elements recurring across dishes and perhaps this stems from a need to be efficient, but as a diner, it’s glaringly obvious, so you’d still be wise to read through carefully to avoid ordering similar dishes. The scamorza salad is eerily similar to the zucchini carpaccio (2.690 ISK), but the latter is a great showcase of just how good grilled vegetables can be. I would have liked more zucchini and none of the cranberry-sunflower seed mixture as it was a distraction from the slender ribbons and did little for the dish. The scamorza’s delicate smokiness, however, is a nice recall against the robust smokiness of the zucchini and a light start while you wait for your mains.
A dish that has been on the menu practically since they opened in 2021 is the mascarpone meatballs (4.390 ISK). This dish is by far the best representation of Ráðagerði — nostalgic Italian but the way you’d remember it from the 90s — unapologetically creamy, hearty in that I-could-whip-this-up-at-home kinda way. A handful of meatballs — a mixture of beef and pork, is panfried in the woodfire oven, then finished in a creamy mascarpone sauce with chunky mushrooms and spinach. The menu talks about a gremolata, and if you’re imagining that the one-two punch of fresh parsley, garlic and lemon zest would add necessary brightness and spunk to the rich saucy dish, you’d be right. Except we are served what looked like defrosted spinach clumps and a couple of chunky spring onions. Even as we mourned the absence of the gremolata, we made good work of the dish, grateful for the cast iron skillet keeping that cheesy sauce warm and bubbly right down to the last bite. There are some fried whole skin-on potatoes as well, a nod to local preferences. If you feel like a child at heart as you go after one more meatball, well, that’s the pull right there.
Much as we liked the dish for its straightforward simplicity, my dining partner and I did feel that if we were to get this alone as a main, we’d quickly tire of it. If you do order it, and you should, do as we did and split it with someone.
Wines can be ordered by the half glass, which thrilled us 40-somethings to no end. At 950 ISK for half a glass, is this the cheekiest deal in town? Maybe. The restaurant is an official partner of Ca’ dei Frati wines, with bottle prices not exceeding the 9k mark — great value however you look at it. Cocktails, too, are priced competitively. And it says something about just how expensive drinks are in Iceland that we practically gasped that cocktails here hadn’t crossed the 3.000 ISK mark yet.
Pizzas are dealt with great care, and there are fun toppings beyond margherita. Consistency has sometimes been an issue on the cook, with overly done crusts to its pale cousins making an appearance. But when they do get it right, which is more often than not, the pizzas are light, lightly dressed and topped. Lots of local favourites get a nod here in pizza form, like the predominance of pepperoni, or dates, or complete outliers gaining acceptance recently, like the mortadella burrata or the fun-sounding shrimp and chimichurri. All the pies range from 2.790 ISK to 3.890 ISK, with an additional 10% off on takeaways.
Brunch sees the usual suspects, shakshuka, waffles, platters of toasts and eggs. The Turkish eggs (3.390 ISK) have been a staple but are distant relatives of cilbir. For reasons unknown, the restaurant serves perfectly poached eggs on cold Greek yoghurt, the temperature immediately renders the spiced melted butter useless and what you receive is butter starting to set and harden. Warm yoghurt, even at room temperature, would arrest this, which is what the traditional recipe calls for. In lieu of Aleppo pepper or Urfa Biber, the restaurant curiously uses nduja instead. Is this ‘Turkish’ the way the original ‘Italian’ sauce was not Italian? If they’d tweak these little details, Ráðagerði would climb a few rungs higher, closer to where their ambitions lie.
Despite my misgivings about the attention to detail, Ráðagerði draws a loyal customer base and is regularly busy. The food is delicious, the quality of ingredients shines through, and the service is attentive and warm, even on the busiest days. At our most recent meal when we walked in without a reservation, the waitress let us sit at the bar and chatted with us the whole time, even as she served drinks, plated desserts and cleaned up after a broken glass incident. The restaurant is especially popular with groups of women over the weekdays, attracting families with young kids and couples on cosy dates over the weekends, and is popular with wedding parties as well. With the grassy knolls and panoramic views, hearty portions and easy on the pocket wine-ing, it’s hard not to see its attraction.
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