In Which I Eat the Shark

At the end of our last Folk Tales lecture, our professor brought out an assortment of Traditional Icelandic Food. And by Traditional Icelandic Food, I mean, Things Preserved In Questionable Ways (Except For The Bread Which Is Actually Delicious). He provided us with flatkökkur (flatbread), laufabrauð (fried flatbread), and Rúgbrauð (rye bread)—all tasty—aaaand then there was the meat. Hangikjöt (smoked lamb) is pretty normal, and excellent on flatkökkur. Sviðasulta (jellied sheep's head)—less normal—looks and sounds alarming, but really tastes about the same as the hangikjöt.

This is sviðasulta...

Hákarl (putrefied shark), on the other hand, mmmmmmmm weeeellllll...

It's poisonous when fresh, so it's subjected to a lengthy process to make it "safe." This involves being buried in the ground for 6-12 weeks, then hung up to dry for several months, all of which gives it a stomach-turning odor of ammonia. As I held a cube of it between my fingers, its slimy exterior glistened with menace. And then I ate it. The hákarl has an unsettling, rubbery texture, but the taste is, um, NOT THAT BAD. Now, don't misunderstand me—it is, quite literally, PUTRID, and I'm not about to put it in my mouth again any time soon. However, I'm also not prepared to declare it the worst thing I have ever tasted. Mostly it was just salty. I mean, there was definitely some saveur de rotten shark, but the primary taste was salt. I may have felt a little queasy for a while afterward, but I DID NOT PUKE, which at the very least means I am more manly than Gordon Ramsay.