Matarkjallarinn should put out a new hit album
We have given Matarkjallarinn some love in the past and much of what there was to like at the time remains very, well, likeable. But this success story from Iceland’s first big tourist boom may be in need of a gentle shake-up.
Where the demi-glace still flows like wine
Descending into the gentle theatricality of Matarkjallarinn, Reykjavík’s longstanding food grotto on Aðalstræti, has a cabaret-like feel — with dim lighting, live piano, exposed stone, plush velvet accents, and the faint scent of the five mother sauces clinging to the 160-year-old mortar.
Matarkjallarinn remains a highly competent, independently run restaurant in a town where its many menus seem to have been quietly arranged in spreadsheets by holding companies. The team here clearly cares. Whether you’re plant-curious, gluten-loathing, pescatarian, or the kind of carnivore who views vegetables as garnish, you’ll find something plated with panache and demi-glace.
The service level is still as consistently high as it was nearly a decade ago, with waiters that skip the hovering, but when you need help with the details they are only too happy to take a knee like a priest hearing confessions.
This is a great introduction for visitors who want to sample the classics — pan-fried cod, grilled lamb, cured arctic char, stewed langoustine — without being accosted with a plate of fermented shark or a conspiracy of minke whales. The cooking is consistently precise. A lamb loin ordered medium rare arrives obedient and glistening, paired with a sauce that’s been reduced to tears. The fish is flaky, the meat tender, everything is in its right place.
The old fashioned came with the kind of ice cube that threatens your dental insurance and your sense of self. It tasted like your father finally telling you he’s proud of you — smoky, bitter, and surprisingly sweet.
The suggested wine pairing was an oaky and leathery Napa Pinot. Good fit for the lamb but quite overwhelming with the cod, for which I had no one to blame but myself.
The first courses were the scallops with cauliflower and hazelnuts, a trusty pairing for a fresh and fruity scallop, and the watermelon tartare, which was a type of vegan ceviche with pico de gallo and a side of sweet-and-sour sambal. Trusty appetisers but both were at risk of being overwhelmed by the sauces and garnishes. A less-is-more approach would have elevated both dishes.
The pan-fried cod was accompanied by duck confit in the form of croquettes, a robust dish which was pleasantly fearless with the tasty fats but perhaps a bit too fearless with the seasoning, which nudged the fish into the bacalao region.
The pepper steak with pommes anna was delicious but quite a familiar arrangement for anyone who dines out frequently in Iceland and the sauce, like many of the diners, was rich enough to own a ski lodge in Gdansk.
For dessert, we embraced the chocolate lava cake — which exploded with gooey cliché and was, annoyingly, quite good. You may groan. You will eat it. You will enjoy it.
Verdict: a smooth ride on familiar tracks
But once you’ve spent a few minutes taking in the dishes — both yours and those of surrounding tables — you begin to notice a pattern. The broccolini makes multiple cameos. As do the cubes of pickled apples, appearing in contexts that feel more the result of convenience than inspiration. The ever-present Jerusalem artichoke crisps are snuck onto the plates. I have waxed on about their popularity for almost a decade and it’s gotten to the point where I would like to sit at the harbour when those inulin-rich tubers come flooding out of the weekly shipping container to supply every restaurant in Iceland with garniture.
When it comes to the accents and finishing touches at Matarkjallarinn, the illusion of variety is stronger than the variety itself. You’re not dining à la carte so much as navigating a culinary Rubik’s Cube, where the same ingredients have been shuffled just enough to suggest difference. Not that those side attractions are worth their while, but it does break the illusion a bit.
There’s an assembly-line logic lurking beneath the surface — certain dishes seem designed with kitchen efficiency in mind, rather than innovation. That’s not a sin in itself; restaurants are a strange machine made of butter, heat and sweating humans that thrives on careful pre-assembly. But for repeat diners, especially locals, there’s a growing sense of déjà vu. The Nobashi tiger shrimp and the chocolate “Lion Bar” dessert were clever touches eight years ago but are at risk of overstaying their welcome. Consistency is key but this has become the culinary equivalent of watching your favourite band play the same setlist for the 10th Glastonbury show in a row.
None of this will bother the first-time visitor. In fact, Matarkjallarinn remains a recommendation for guests who want a centrally located, comfortable, atmospheric space to try quality Icelandic fare without being challenged too hard. The dining room is cosy and accommodates small-to-medium groups with ease, and the staff are knowledgeable and warm.
But for locals — or anyone who’s been eating here since Eyjafjallajökull was a trending search term — it’s hard not to wish for a menu refresh. Icelandic food culture has evolved significantly in the past decade, and it would be wonderful to see Matarkjallarinn put out a new album of hits.
Buy subscriptions, t-shirts and more from our shop right here!
