When a wine-loving couple opened Apéro, Reykjavík discovered that it indeed nursed a penchant for a grown-up space serving effervescent cremants, champagnes and creative nibbles that far exceeded the ‘bar menu’ description. Indulgent grilled cheese sandwiches piled high with further adornments of truffle and honey, plump shrimp with whole lemon peel gremolata and service that remembered its regulars and made newcomers feel like regulars, made Apéro a weekly fix for many. Its closure is still quietly mourned, and I can’t help but hold out hope that the old crew will somehow team up again in a smaller, cosier location someplace else.
Brút, with its award-winning wine lists and ambitious seafood menu, did not seem like it would go the shutter-your-doors way, but that is just what happened towards the end of the year. Despite a successful brunch that was more Ottolenghi than bottomless Reykjavík, a menu that shone the spotlight on local catch, heroed fresh skate, and an annual nostalgic Christmas feast of prawn cocktail and heady drinks, the logistics of running a restaurant seem to have been the nail in the coffin for this short-lived legend.
Other openings and closures are Piccolo on Laugavegur where Italia once was, Kaffi Ó-le’s now we are closed, now we are open again act two, Tívoli (yet another bistro) that has opened in the place of Brút but has already courted controversy with their poor handling of social media takeovers. Bari marries curated chic with easy plates at their Italian-inspired spot, and 280 Bakarí tempers its Danish bakes with Icelandic nostalgia. Biang’s unabashed ambitiousness to take on the culinary behemoth that is Chinese hand-pulled noodle falls victim to the Euro-centric trap of wanting to elevate a dish sans context, to appeal to a further removed audience, all after an ‘inspirational ferðalag’ (and no, not the birthplace of the dish).
Sure they are not the only ones guilty of this fantasy world-building that restaurants here regularly indulge in, but it’s nevertheless a fascinating pattern when sociopolitical winds all screech for oneness, sameness, rejecting multiculturalism as a sign of crumbling societies while also chasing flavour, excitement and relief from beige blandness in the very cultures they seem to despise.
Then places like Ylja come up, honouring the local beyond platitudes, and you can’t help but feel hopeful again. We are also seeing a surge of Polish restaurants, Payda being the latest downtown addition. Chinese Flavours has moved indoors from their shiny stainless space capsule of a food truck to concrete digs at Hlemmur.
Prices of eating out reached such ridiculous extents that my colleague Ragnar Egilson registered his protest by taking time off of restaurant reviews entirely. Who can blame him? The price of a steak, without any accompaniments, averages 14.000 ISK (110 USD or 95 EUR) today. We can argue about the challenges of the industry till the cows come home, but what is undeniable is that given the barrier to entry in this country, every open restaurant is an opportunity, not one to be squandered lightly either.
The best things I ate in 2025
Some of the best bites this year were all courtesy of pop-ups. The year started strong with an exquisite pop-up at Skál by chef Toni Toivanen from Popl Burger, Copenhagen. Here was a small menu with each dish showcasing the breadth of flavour various seaweeds lend, and lots of flourishes that spoke volumes about the time taken to ferment, cure, pickle and preserve to extract flavour rather than flouncy garnishes. Like the dried strawberries and tomatoes in a pool of frothy koji butter sauce that accompanied the monkfish, the sheen of kelp oil added just the right amount of je nais se quois vegetal note. Few components, each there to build a cohesive story.
Food & Fun 2025 was yet another highlight of culinary heavyweights gracing Iceland, and this time chef Cesare Battisti from the renowned restaurant Rataná, Milan, played host at La Primavera showing us what a sublime masterpiece risotto Milanese is with his classic rendition of the saffron-rich rice dish amped up with grilled bone marrow and gremolata. Did I weep that good risotto is impossible to find here? I did.
280 Bakarí holds clues for where to turn in a sea of sameness with its baby-head-sized gifflar — a cinnamon sugar bun — nostalgic, familiar yet very new. The feta-tomato-olive croissant’s popularity even in its young term is proof that this sugar-loving country is ready and hungry for savoury treats.
Maria Jimenez’s Mijita was satisfying in that moreish, angels-are-singing-in-my-head way, proof of which is sealed with the first peppery bite of Butifera Caribena, a blend of beef hearts and pork, laced with the bright and zingy herby sauces, which was truly a taste of the tropics.
Austurindiafelagið ended their year with a ‘Kashmiri’ menu showcasing flavours from the Northernmost Indian state. Known for its aromatic flavours that are often divisive even for Indians, the restaurant managed to capture the essence of the region even as it stuck to the staples of roghanjosh. Out came the ghosth ki pasliyan, a comically large lamb chop, marinated with fresh pounded spices and a glaze of balsamic vinegar, chargrilled in the tandoor, and I quickly ate my words — smoky, tender, tangy and fiery, this was the perfect late November bite. A personal favourite, the curry leaf martini is now on the main menu, and I cannot urge you all enough to try this over the mango lassis and beers.
La Primavera continues to floor me and despite eating there regularly, I love that I can still be surprised. Like their checkerboard ravioli this winter with alternating pursefuls of butternut sage, with ricotta and goat cheese in others, all making for a delectable experience where no two bites were the same.
Yet another pop-up, this time by Saji, Copenhagen, showcasing Indonesian flavours at Skál managed that enviable feat of not just bringing the food to the table, but somehow transporting us to a place elsewhere, where the music thrummed just so, the rich smell of toasted coconut and spices wafted from the kitchen, everyone bowed down in concentration, even as the palpable excitement of the new kept revealing itself plate after plate. Gohu Ikan, a beautiful plate of ocean perch ceviche tweaked to Indonesia by way of a cold coconut oil dressing, the velvety viscousness of the fat a terrific foil to the lean fish, crowned by slow-cooked chilli onions and roasted peanuts, was a showcase of local produce married to global influences.
Regulations and third spaces
Of the many things to leave behind what I fervently hope for most is that restaurants cease to close. This is wishful thinking of course as we simply cannot will business to stay afloat. Like flogging a dead horse, I will repeat myself yet again, urging policy makers and politicians to actually sit down with the real influencers — farmers, fishermen, chefs, purveyors, food journalists and organisations like Slow Food Iceland, to formulate a food-safe, future-proof framework that centres Icelandic sustainability and self-sufficiency while championing culture, flavour and identity.
Transparency of building and health regulations to aid businesses cannot be achieved by promises of fast-tracked applications. Identifying slabs and lowering the barrier to entry will help promote a diverse cross-section of employment whilst nurturing a robust food culture. Think food markets that sell meat, fish and vegetables, home caterers that can bake Saras out in the open without the fear of festive wrist-slapping, eight-seater negroni bars to standing sushi joints. And while we are dreaming, hot-pot restaurants and K-barbeque too!
The impact of regulations, both from labour laws as well as building authorities, has been felt by third spaces. Our regulations are restrictive rather than helpful and whether we like it or not, have a profound influence on social life. In a country where good weather is a given only for 18-odd days of the year, not everyone is inclined to cross-country ski. Take for example cafés; barring a couple, almost every cafe across the country closes before 5pm, leaving a vacuum for socialising that isn’t filled by bars and restaurants alone. Society needs a variety of third spaces and issuing licences for more food halls is not it.
Trends to leave behind
While pundits elsewhere talk about the shrinking sizes of drinks and dishes, I laugh that we have had shrinkflation as a staple in Iceland long before GLP-1 drugs hit the shelves. As early as the post-pandemic days, bars here were starting to serve 3.000 ISK thimble of cocktails. It’s not waistlines that are dictating our portions, it’s always been our wallets. 2025’s shrinkflation was particularly noticeable, from burgers that are dangerously resembling sliders to fish being propped up by root veggies, the zeroes increase on the menu with no relief in sight. Sure balancing books is hard, but could we bring back real plates of food and leave small plates behind?
Another thing to leave behind, beverage pairings that are either wine or alcohol focussed and nothing for the teetotaller. Yes to cheeky mocktails crafted with the same attention to detail as a good cocktail.
No to more food halls, no to more of the usual suspects hiding between seven different names for three weak concepts everywhere. No to Emmessis and Kjörís peddling air-whipped water and coconut oil as ice cream. A resounding no to the latter’s indecency for human rights but cheerfully doling out Dubai chocolate ice cream in the same calendar year.
No to burrata-mozzarella-tomato dishes as default appetisers, no to limp matcha but being charged Uji matcha prices, no to lip-service authenticity and for the love of all that is holy, enough of the trifecta of doom — straight-up Garri catalogue, deep fryer, and enthusiasm for distant cuisines about whom curiosity doesn’t exist beyond pre-packaged bottled sauces and condiments, rarely extending to technique or flavour profiles.
What to take forward
A commitment to our land and waters and championing sustainably caught seafood — it would be enriching both our supermarket shelves as well as menus to draw attention to bycatch, smaller fish and other varieties than just cod and haddock. Did you know that over 90 percent of all our capelin is shipped to Japan, where it is treated as a high-value product? Only once have we seen whole capelin on the menu here at Slippurinn years ago.
Chicken so far only makes an appearance on restaurant menus frequented by tourists, and the rest when it does appear is in the form of a fried wing (enough, please). To go into why this is would be an entire other article, but I’d like to see businesses embrace this bird. But that’s less likely to change while we only have access to an anaemic animal husbandry. How I long for the return of Litla Gula Hænan.
Stores and supermarkets play a pivotal role in shaping a country’s consumer habits. Krónan has proved that we can in fact buy vegetables without their plastic condom packaging, but what we need stores across the board to do is to start at the very basics — build a robust procurement department with flavour and nutrition as a guiding light. Sell produce at a discount BEFORE they go bad. Fiska’s recent expansion has brought in a cornucopia of fruit, vegetables and greens, some of which have never been available in the country before. Between them and Dai Phat, Istanbul Market, Filipino Store, we have never had this much access to such a broad variety of produce and ingredients. Matland shows the way in sustainable practices to consume meat. It’s not an exaggeration when I say I have never had better meat than the ones sourced straight from the farmers here.
In 2026, we may see the rise of the ‘Icelandic’ restaurant. We have so far relied on tourist footfalls in the city centre and mötuneyti or industrial canteens in the work areas as two hubs that showcase Icelandic food devoid of frills. One satisfies the shock value itch for hákarl and boiled sheep head whereas the other doles out weekly sustenance rather than national identity. This year may be the year restaurateurs finally look at their own backyards and not for New Nordic foraging expeditions but to make fiskibollur from scratch, obsess over the best window to put kálbögglar with homemade kjötfárs on the menu. Matur og Drykkur in its heyday was the only such outlier, and we have a wide open opportunity to showcase this humble cuisine.
My sincerest hope for 2026 is the return of care and craft. We have sacrificed meaningful friction where creativity thrives for short-term convenience. We have seen talented chefs seek the reliability (as they should) of corporate lunch gigs. We see the duplication of the same menu in new fonts, behind newer names, rinse repeat under newer and newer kennitalas. Time and consistency are invaluable in any culinary exercise; a slow-proofed loaf of bread, broth simmered for hours, meats and veggies marinated for days, every act of cooking, from the mundane to the complex demands care and attention. As the world tries to find its feet amidst changes, restaurants are the safe spaces where we can break bread and be more curious about each other through food.
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