Icelandic Hot Dog

I was flying home to Boston after spending ten days in France and Belgium, first for a work trip and then to meet my friend’s new baby. I had a short layover in Frankfurt—just enough time to grab a bratwurst, I thought before boarding my first plane—before hopping on the final leg of the journey. Then, a delay in getting off the ground in Belgium. A panicked attempted dash to the next gate. The realization that I had, in fact, missed my connection. A long wait in the Lufthansa line to get booked onto a new flight.

I could not get a direct flight from Frankfurt to Boston, it turned out. Instead, I was being rerouted through Reykjavík, a city I’ve always wanted to visit. Annoyed as I was about my inconvenient new itinerary, I was undeniably excited about going to Iceland, even if I didn’t actually have time to leave the airport. My only regret was the fact that, in the chaos of getting my flight changed in Frankfurt, I had not had enough time to grab the bratwurst I had been fantasizing about.

The flight from Frankfurt to Reykjavík was the most turbulent I had ever experienced; the chorus of frightened screams that occurred at multiple points in the journey did nothing to calm my nerves. But nonetheless, as we touched down in Iceland, I found myself starving. I wasn’t going to get my bratwurst, but I had to eat something before boarding my next flight.

Imagine my joy as I encountered a hot dog stand conveniently placed before passport control in the Reykjavík airport. The smell was intoxicating, and there was no line. This, I decided, was my chance. The employee working the counter asked me if I wanted “everything” on my hot dog. I didn’t know what this meant, but I said yes, happy to gobble down basically anything at that point.

Not knowing what an Icelandic hot dog entailed, I expected ketchup, mustard, maybe even some pickle relish—you know, an average American hot dog. What I got instead convinced me that Iceland is, in fact, the spiritual home of the hot dog.

Unlike hot dogs in many countries, Icelandic hot dogs are not primarily composed of beef or pork but lamb, with a small proportion of beef and pork mixed in. Lamb, as it turns out, is the perfect meat for a hot dog; its slight grassiness and earthiness offer a more complex bite than beef or pork alone. The natural casing provides that snap you look for in a particularly good dog.

But it’s not about the meat alone; the condiments play an important role in this symphony of sausage. First of all, Icelandic hot dogs highlight onions in two forms: The first, punchier variety is the raw white onions, and then the milder and more texturally interesting fried onions play a supporting role. Ketchup is next, followed by a type of brown mustard called pylsusinnep, which may be the best mustard I’ve ever tried. Finally is the remoulade, which adds a fatty, herby note to the dog. When it all comes together, it’s simple perfection.

I scarfed the hot dog before making it halfway through the passport control line, and once on the other side, I was delighted to find yet another hot dog stand, where I ordered one more.

I may not have gotten the opportunity to explore Iceland yet, but an Icelandic airport hot dog convinced me that this is a country that takes one of my favorite foods—the hot dog—more seriously than I ever could have imagined. I can’t wait to go back; I know where my first stop will be.

Samantha Maxwell is a food writer and editor based in Boston. Follow her on Twitter at @samseating.

The Icelandic Hot Dog That Made My Very Inconvenient Missed Flight Connection Worth It