The Suburban Circle: Crawling Through The Capital Area’s Suburban Pubs

When I told my friends and family about my upcoming weekend plans, their reaction was a stifled laugh, followed by a hesitant and concerning, “Why?”

Why would I attempt the Suburban Circle? Why do athletes run a marathon, was my genius reply — although only filed within my mental bank of missed comeback opportunities.

The plan: simple. Knock out six pubs in the various capital area neighbourhoods in one day, each presented by a representative in the participating group.

When a dreaded Facebook notification detailing the activity’s fine print came up, my initial reaction was anxiety. I haven’t drunk six beers in one day since before Covid. Alas, I confirmed my participation and preparations were underway.

Comfort is the enemy of adventure

It’s 14:00 o’clock and our 10-strong group of hardy suburban adventurers convene inside Eiðistorg — a vintage glasshouse strip mall populated with tropical plants on the border of Vesturbær and Seltjarnarnes. Our first order of business was Rauða Ljónið.

A popular hangout for football fans, Rauða Ljónið opened its doors in 1989 — the year when Iceland finally legalised beer. Modelled after the classic UK-style public house, its warm interiors are decked with wooden panels.

Two regulars play chess, clearly disgruntled by the raucous group of 20-somethings asking the bartender for his cheapest beer.
“Why do athletes run a marathon?”

Little did I know that Rauða Ljónið was going to be the highlight of the day, in spite of the pungent sewage smell emanating from their bathroom. The beer was good. The company, even better, and once everyone was settled, paper forms were distributed, ranking each bar in vibe, price, and toilet facilities.

In addition to our mammoth task of visiting six bars in six different postcodes, we also had to make sure we’d stay on track time-wise, catching the bus at regular intervals.

The first beer was a taxing, albeit refreshing, Thule. As my optimism slowly grew, my friends started visiting the slot machines in greater number. I later found out that the day was to be punctuated by one-armed bandits.

After the beer-drinking duties, one member snuck into the adjacent Vínbúðin to prepare a ritualistic shotgun session. One by one, we left Rauða Ljónið into the humid Eiðistorg air and painstakingly drank warm Danish beer as fast as we could while visibly annoyed passersby finished their weekly grocery shopping.

Our itinerary led us to travel via bus number 12 into the heart of darkness: Mónakó.

Pints, chitchat, and good people

Known as one of the last vestiges of Reykjavík’s rough 20th-century pub culture, Mónakó sits on the corner of Laugavegur and Barónsstígur.

On such a sunny day, Mónakó seemed like the darkest place we could visit. Locally known as Reykjavík’s last dive bar, its interior surprised the uninitiated. Better toilet facilities than Rauða Ljónið, I carefully scribbled on the scorecard, and the vibe was slightly more energetic, my soon-to-be drunk companions noted. KC and the Sunshine Band and similar adult-contemporary bands blared through Mónakó’s speaker system as 10 millennials stormed the moderate establishment. Discreet individuals scrolled phones, sipped their beers and tried their hand at the slot machines, hoping for a win that never came.

Finishing up, we corralled the rest of the group onto the next bus on our way to my old stomping grounds — Grafarvogur. Number six zipped directly through Reykjavík’s main arterial road Miklabraut until we saw the green pastures of suburbia. As we drove down towards Gullinbrú, the Grafarvogur inlet glistened in the sunrays, and I heard faint angelic voices — although that might be the sign of an oncoming delirium tremens.

We exited the bus and noticed the tranquillity of suburban Reykjavík. No tourists, no cars. Just the sweet sound of birdsong and lawn mowers in the distance. Recently, Grafarvogur’s perennial pub Gullöldin — Göldin — was closed down, acquired by the burgeoning chain of bars Ölhúsið. Compared to my time visiting Göldin during its golden years, Ölhúsið’s newly renovated environment felt sterile. Purple strip lights adorned the bar, tended by a friendly individual who lauded our day’s work. A round of Guinness was ordered to break up the collective lager resistance.

Sadly to say, I did not split the G.

A bar to die for

After a quick round of never-have-I-ever, we hurried to our stop for our journey to Breiðholtið. This was to be the most dreaded pitstop of the day, as our itinerary brought us to the infamous Moe’s Bar.

Tucked behind Krónan in Breiðholt’s Seljahverfi, Moe’s Bar sits atop a car repair shop, accessible via an ominous concrete stairway. In 2022, a man was kicked down this particular flight of stairs, suffering skull fractures and a brain haemorrhage which left him severely disabled.

I felt a chill run down my spine. Our Breiðholt’s representative proudly jumped up the stairs, only to find out that it was closed. I dodged a bullet.

A serious case of jitters was now creeping up on the group. The bus rides had made us queasy, hungry, and urgently needing to pee. One found a spot in the nearby bushes. The others held it in.

“No tourists, no cars. Just the sweet sound of birdsong and lawn mowers in the distance.”

Lethargy engulfed us as the afternoon sun shone strong. Stopping in Kópavogur, we found Catalina. My concerns about its possible gentrification were greatly exaggerated as it bore no signs of a change in customer demographics. My drinking partners disagreed. This place had gone soft. Much like Mary and Joseph, we gratefully had our priorities met at Catalina. Bathrooms and burgers were plenty, passable for our sunburnt, alcohol-fuelled state of despair.

Cement-stained, square-jawed contractors headed down a set of circular stairs to Catalina’s lower floor. It appeared to us like a fever dream, presenting row upon row of slot machines and a glass cubicle for indoor smoking. Now I know why the hipsters love Catalina.

Final stretch

The final leg of the trip was well received, swapping Kópavogur for Hafnarfjörður. There was an idea to hit up Garðabær in the interim, but that suggestion was quickly shot down.

Another pub, another Ölhúsið franchise. In Hafnarfjörður, we encountered similar motifs as in Grafarvogur. Pervy, purple strip lights by the bar (is this a Klíkan reference?) greeted us. More slot machines, more mysterious regulars with haunting backstories. Ölhúsið’s sideroom was closed off for a birthday party. We caught a glimpse of balloons floating around, “70 ára.” What a party.

The final destination of the day, Ölhúsið provided generous breathing room for the group to finally sit down and relax. No more bus schedules, no more worrying. Just pints with the lads and ladettes. My most surprising realisation was our general state. Nobody was off the hinges, probably explained by the ample time of sobering up supplied by the numerous bus trips.

In the words of Ice Cube, today was a good day. Not without its faults, but a solid survey of Reykjavík’s lesser-known alcohol purveyors. Maybe it’s best if they stay that way.