Crust And Crumbs: Unpacking Iceland’s Bakery Culture

A closer look at the tensions between authentic tradition, modernist aesthetics and globalised bakery trends behind Iceland’s bakeries

Icelanders love bakeries in a distinctly Icelandic fashion: from picking up kleinur at gas stations, crowding a mural-covered storefront for kanilsnúður (cinnamon bun), or laying out 10 kinds of homebaked rjómatertur (cream-filled cakes) at a funeral. Even if the croissants come from Belgium — frozen — we still want the smell of warmth, and maybe, a slice of nostalgia, with our coffee. This love for bakeries is one that locals and tourists alike share in equal measure. Questions about which bakery is the best in town are asked just as frequently as where to find the best fish. But did you know that much like most of the country’s culinary history, this too, is a recent love affair?

From Reykjavík’s Bernhöftsbakarí — founded in 1834 — to the regional pioneers in Akureyri (1868) and Ísafjörður (1871), Iceland’s baking tradition began as a carefully imported craft. (Even then, its importance was such that Bankastræti was in fact called Bakarabrekka or the Bakery Hill.) These early bakeries didn’t just bake bread — they installed ovens, trained bakers, and wove social rituals around sweet breads and cakes. It’s this lineage, rather than modern crème pâtissière, that truly underpins our tastes and techniques today.

What (if anything) sets Icelandic bakery traditions apart from the rest of the Nordics?

In her seminal work, Icelandic Food and Cookery, Nanna Rögnvaldsdóttir traces uniquely Icelandic traits and practices through food history and lore. Such was the absence of bread, particularly noted by travellers in the Middle Ages, she writes, that a common tale was that Icelandic farmers would allow anyone to sleep with their daughters in exchange for a piece of bread! A far cry from today’s reality, where a bakery is as much a neighbourhood staple as a swimming pool.
“A common tale was that Icelandic farmers would allow anyone to sleep with their daughters in exchange for a piece of bread!”

There are, to my mind, three distinct bakery traditions that set Iceland apart from the rest. Firstly, geothermal baking, secondly, a continued love for stove-top classics, and finally, a cake-heavy coffee culture that puts fika to shame, over and over.

Uniquely place-based, rúgbrauð, Iceland’s answer to Nordic rye bread is more cake than bread, perhaps the best expression of a country long denied flour, sugar and ovens. While its faithful appearance on travel shows for the past 10 years is a predictable flogged, dead horse, few things come close to the joy of steaming hot rúgbrauð schmeared with the thickest slice of salted butter. The 24-hour baking renders the sugars in the súrmjólk and lets the sugar caramelise slowly, evenly, turning the earthy, nutty flour into a Scandi version of a sticky date loaf. Not all rúgbrauð is geothermally baked however, and those baked in the earth, proudly proclaim it on their labels. Look for the ‘Hverabrauð’ label for genuine geothermally baked loaves, and keep wrapped at all times to prevent it from drying out.

The best flatkökur and soðið brauð (which curiously translates to boiled bread, even though it’s fried) are only found in homes. If you can wrangle an invite to a summer cookout at a farm, be sure to stay close to the portable stove where flatkökur are cooked directly on the hot plate and not on a pan. Sjávarpakkhúsið in Stykkishólmur, however, does serve a banging fry bread, if a trip to the North, especially in Akureyri, where it is more common in bakeries, proves too far.

Ever heard of a kökuhlaðborð? It simply means cake buffet, but there is nothing simple about the extravaganza that is an Icelandic kökuhlaðborð. Staples at birthdays, communions, graduations, weddings, and you guessed it, funerals, this is a joyful expression of stacked, filled, and layered cakes, jostling for space amidst the simple sheet and loaf cakes, none towering higher than the marengsterta (meringue torte) or a classic fruit-cocktail-studded rjómaterta. Early stacked ‘cakes’ were more shelf-stable cookies that made the most of expensive flour — hence the thin-baked, crisp, cookie-like layers — rehydrated as cake. Layers cemented together with cooked prune filling, these cakes were left undisturbed in a cold attic for month before being sliced as a cardamom-scented treat. Vínarterta has been kept alive in Canadian parts where New Icelanders settled in the 19th century, and not so much in Iceland, where economic freedom steered us towards the reckless joy of fluffy whipped cream, canned fruit and crisp meringue.

Bakery boom & Danish influence

We may have long gained independence from Denmark, but the Danish influence continues to reign supreme locally. True, they did set up the first bakery in the country, and our bakers continue to flock to Copenhagen both to train, as well as be ‘inspired’ — ahem — borrow ideas freely for everything from laminated pastry construction to fillings and toppings. But maybe this is a collective Nordic crime? Just google Danish/Icelandic/Swedish/Norwegian bakery and the images thrown up are practically indistinguishable from the other. Barring Finland though, nope, Finnish bakeries, resolutely Finnish still.

Iceland’s bakery landscape has become a visual echo of Copenhagen or Stockholm, but just beneath the surface lie nuances that still set them apart. If you are looking for an Icelandic-Icelandic bakery, look no further than the OG, Bernhöftsbakarí that is still in operation, albeit at a newer location, and still making rúnstykki and franskbrauð, or the other chain, Bakarameistarinn, sought after for their soft sandwich loaves. Neighbourhoods (OK fine, small towns) like Kópavogur and Hafnarfjörður have held on to their Lindabakarí and Hjá Reynir, while what it says about Garðabær that they don’t have a home-grown bakery when even Bolungarvík at its peak boasted three bakeries, is anyone’s guess. At an Icelandic bakery, you are looking for the glazed, baby-sized cinnamon roll that is more glaze than cinnamon. Choose from hard shell chocolate to soft caramel to the classic, glassúr snúður. You may find doughnuts, pretzels or even baguettes. But in true-to-Icelandic preferences, they tend to be pale imitations and generally lean soft. Do not mistake the current epidemic of crusty sourdough ready to slice your mouth as some kind of a shift. You’ll also find tea cakes baked in ready to go ‘forms’. A well made sandkaka (pound cake), marmarakaka (marble cake) or the elusive kryddbrauð (spiced bread) are well worth trying. As is the rommkúlur with its heady mix of rum extract. Fair warning if you are marzipan averse like me — the Nordics really do love their almond-extract-spiked almond paste and find it perfectly reasonable to stuff it into cakes, bakes and breads with gleeful abandon. Savoury bakes are rarer and the only concession you may find is a dried oregano-rich pizzasnúður.

And even though traditional Icelandic bakeries all boast German training, as the first professional baker was hired from Germany to run Bernhöftsbakarí, other German influences like tortes, cheesecakes and fruit-filled bakes continue to be missing in the country.

For a pronounced Danish experience, there is Brauð og Co, now in multiple locations, with a menu that has grown from their simple days of cinnamon rolls and einkorn loaves to day specials, cakes and even lunch soups and sandwiches at select locations. Other Danish, nee Brauð-inspired bakeries quickly followed suit, as is wont in Iceland, but BakaBaka stands apart. With the original founder of Brauð og Co, Águst Einþórsson at the helm, the overlap with Brauð is, and a full-circle moment of being in the same house where Bernhöftsbakarí first started. Now if they brought back their savoury bakes like the broccoli mascarpone, or the tomato croissant, I may start frequenting the space with renewed gusto.

But what about Icelandic-Danish bakes you ask? Well, young baker Gulli Arnar had the same thought, and opened a bakery workshop in far-flung Hafnarfjörður at the cross-section of are-we-in-IKEA-town and does-this-bakery-exist. Locals sick of gussied-up Danish fare flocked to Gulli’s crafted-everyday fresh takes on Icelandic bakkelsi, replete with pink glassúr (royal icing). The ostaslaufa (twisted cheese bun) and sjónvarpskaka (TV cake, or the Danish drømmekage) are especially popular, so much so that he makes a croissant version of the latter.

Sandholt’s fourth generation leans French, and this are-we-in-Paris chic bakery/café is still the country’s inspiration for sourdough loaves that sigh with time, taste and flavour that only expertise and care yields. Steadfastly a single-location operation, Sandholt also puts any ‘do they make their own loaves’ gossip to rest with that stunning open bakery at the back of their space. Seasonal tarts, cakes and sandwiches are aplenty, as are bonbons, given Ásgeir Sandholt’s training as a chocolatier, but what do I sneak in for repeatedly? The ciabattas (perfect for sandwich-for-one treats) and the warm herby focaccia rounds.

American influence came late to the bakery tradition here. Sure the USA brought with it army bases, our airport, and highways, but it is the burger we cherish the most. ​​Markús Ingi Guðnason merges his American-Icelandic heritage with his love for truck-stop fare and his small but sprightly crew sling hand-shaped bagels and doughnuts at Deig. From introducing the country to potato buns (yes that Myllan later followed suit with their line), to blowing our mind by turning ‘súrmjólk í hádeginu, Cheerios á kvöldin’ into a doughnut (a revival, please!), Deig continues to draw in locals and visitors alike.

Bakers trained abroad and in local institutions have gone on to open their own ventures: Hygge boasts of Sandholt alumni, while Vigtin in Vestmanneyjar, is a Brauð og Co alum.

What is particularly noteworthy is that bakeries are a vital third space in the city’s fabric. Walk into Bakarameistarinn in Breiðholt for lunch, and you’ll find a riveting choreography of older couples on lunch dates caught between errands and doctor’s visits, young parents rocking babies to sleep, and workers grabbing a quick bite on their lunch shift. Stripped of social media perfection, these bakeries are a reminder that pockets of such oases to socialise and/or linger at leisure still exist.

Sugar, steam and suspicion

The power of conformity has steered many practices in Iceland. Couple that with stubbornness and you get a country that drove itself to the brink of starvation, hell bent as they were at being farmers, before taking to the ocean and being known as a fishing nation today. The same holds true for bakeries. From 1834 to as recent as early 2000s, bakeries in Iceland have been the generic sort that married complacency with lazy presumption of ‘customer wants it this way’ mehness. You couldn’t really tell one bakery from the other. Not surprising when you consider that Iceland, like many of its global counterparts, was riding on that bakery-as-retail model, and not as a craft like its own early days.

Until Sandholt’s reincarnation as a fine pastry house and Brauð’s arrival in 2016, bakeries were pretty much clones of each other. You could buy bread shaped like croissants, or soft kringlur shaped like pretzels, sans the lye-boil. Many bakes that should have butter, rarely tasted of it. Extracts like cardamom still held favour, despite the country’s better economic strides (while Sweden and Denmark use real cardamom, we have always favoured the sweeter, industrially made cardamom essence).
“While its faithful appearance on travel shows for the past 10 years is a predictable flogged, dead horse, few things come close to the joy of steaming hot rúgbrauð schmeared with the thickest slice of salted butter.”

But a quieter, more sinister sleight of hand was at play — most bakeries were passing off imported frozen goods as house-baked Icelandic bakes. Ever wondered why a country that struggles with consistency somehow sold identical pekanstykki everywhere? Such was the extent of this trickery that in 2014, the chairman of the Icelandic Association of Master Bakers, Jón Albert Kristinsson, lamented in the media that Iceland had been importing over 1,800 tonnes of frozen, pre-baked breads and pastries. In 2017, we raised those same concerns at the Grapevine, even as bakeries baked and passed off pre-made bakes as their own. Sure we import all the ingredients to bake in this country, or as Jón wryly put it, ‘only the water is Icelandic’, baking traditions should be held onto. And that 1,800 tonnes of imports have steadily risen in the last few years.

Kleina, cake and the copycat era

In a country still coming to terms with and defining what its own cuisine looks like, young as it is, perhaps it is up to chefs and restaurants yet again to remake these frameworks. It is no secret that Icelandic cuisine is moving from its survivalist, improvisational fare to destination-dining status because of chefs. Whether they can influence bakeries and bakery traditions by nudging practices towards more artisanal, ceremonial renditions remains to be seen.

We are quick to adopt global trends here, with little thought to what we are overlooking in its stead. What if, in lieu of buttery brioches and the now rampant Japanese milk bread (which rarely has Hokkaido flour and perhaps only some attempt at tangzhong), we’d explore local histories? What does a flatbread made with Iceland moss and dulse look like? Historical records show that when local grains dwindled due to bad weather and delayed imports, Icelanders displayed great ingenuity and turned to their own backyards, soaking and grinding humble ingredients like the twig-like Iceland moss to create unleavened flat breads. What did that taste like? What if what was once a reminder of scarcity was renewed as a celebration of history? What if bakeries would compete not for the title of best sourdough or croissant alone (I do think our croissants are some of the best out there) but for the best lagkökur or rúgbrauð? Or perhaps fjallagrös brauð?

Of course there is room for all kinds of bakeries, even in a small country like ours. But shouldn’t we expect our bakeries to be ‘unique’ or do we continue to peddle a borrowed flavour and visual lexicon?