Drink - Victoria Moore gets the Black Death in Reykjavik
It seems a general and perfectly understandable rule that the more miserable a country's weather, the more people drink. The Mediterranean-dwelling French and Italians cannot comprehend our drunken behaviour. We tend to treat alcohol like a very dear friend. "Let's go out and get absolutely lashed," is something we British say with relish. And off we go to down pints or bottles of wine with the express intention of losing control.
In eastern Europe, the drinking culture is fashioned still more explicitly around the notion that one drinks to get drunk: shots of vodka are downed after a ritualistic sniff or bite of something strongly flavoured, such as gherkin, to ensure that the rough liquor can't be tasted. So, heading three hours north towards the dour climate of Iceland, I wasn't sure what to expect. Beer was fully legalised there - after being prohibited for 74 years - in 1989, and alcohol remains strictly regulated. As everyone knows, prohibition serves only to drive people to alcohol abuse. In fact, the price of alcohol in Iceland is - like everything else - so high (a pint of beer or a glass of imported house wine in a restaurant can set you back £6) that it virtually prohibits embarking on a bender. But the hip and laid-back Icelanders are becoming famous for their partying instincts. Every weekend, during the summer at least, hundreds of us migrate to this unlikely destination for a two-day clubbing extravaganza.
Fittingly, the local spirit - Brennivin or, to call it by its rather more telling name, Black Death - is fearsomely strong. A transparent, caraway-seed-flavoured aquavit made from potatoes, it is drunk straight from the freezer, either as a straight shot or over ice and a slice of lemon. It's not at all bad, and is the cheapest thing to drink while out. Yet no one I speak to seems particularly proud of it. In Kaffibarinn - the Reykjavik bar partially owned by Damon Albarn, who has taken a shine to the laid-back Icelandic night scene and spends a lot of time there - I ask disingenuously for "something Icelandic". I have to persist before the Brennivin is reluctantly brought out. "You might not like it," caution the bar staff.
Earlier, I had been advised to steer clear of Brennivin and to drink instead the Norwegian equivalent. Such fussiness seems at odds with the very inclusive Icelandic attitude to diet. Icelanders quite happily eat any beast that swims, flies or runs across their horizon, from shag to puffin, from dolphin to shark. But I think that Icelanders are too comfortable now to seek perpetual alcoholic oblivion in the form of Black Death. Now they drink simply to enjoy themselves. And they have an intriguing little anti-hangover recipe to share. It is perfectly simple. All you do is take one Greenland shark. Bury it. Yes, bury it, underground, and leave it to rot for up to six months. When it is done, the cyanic acid that makes the shark poisonous will have leached out and you can cut the flesh into lots of pungent little cubes. Icelanders think that these are simply delicious, and they eat them, not only as a special treat for their taste buds, but also because they believe the meat to be good for the stomach. In particular, shark is considered to assist in balancing the effects of strong alcohol, so it follows that Icelanders wash it down with - yes, you guessed it - Brennivin.
My personal experience of rotten shark is that it helps in one way only: its foul taste prevents your stomach from holding down anything for several hours after eating it - which might, I suppose, be useful when it comes to keeping the bloodstream clear of alcohol.
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