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The morning started merely as a brightly overcast day but now there was a fine drizzle that went from a dense haze to something almost like raindrops. Rebecca, my wife, was a bit discouraged at the crappy weather, but I experienced a childlike glee at the opportunity to use the swank new rain jackets we got at REI for the trip. I'm sure I looked a little dorky trotting around in this thing, a lumpy black device that emphasized function over fashion, and no less dorky for the huge cheese-eating grin plastered all over my face.

It was my turn to pick something to do out of the guide book and I selected nothing more and nothing less than the traditional Icelandic hot dog. Iceland has spun their own interpretation upon this dish: hot dog vendors proliferate throughout Reykjavik but the Lonely Planet guide book insisted that the sine qua non was had at the local legend: Bjarins Beztu, which is short for "bjarins beztu pylsur," or "the best hot dogs in town." You walk from the commons down a back street through some tall, dark buildings that look like the kid brothers of castles, and then you turn down a side street and walk towards the ocean. It feels like you're making wrong turns all over the place and just wandering deeper into an industrial area where you don't belong. Next to a private parking lot, behind a building, is a small and colorful booth with one guy working over a simple boiler, fixing hot dogs. It appeared even more quaint and pathos-evoking in the rain, but nonetheless there was a line of a dozen people waiting to order! I gave Rebecca my camera to get some action shots of me waiting, too. The stand makes a big deal of the fact that former president Clinton once ate there; so did James Hetfield, but I didn't know that until I read it on Wikipedia while writing this.

The guide book suggested ordering one with everything, so I stepped up to the booth and carefully pronounced, "Eina me llu... did I say that right?" The vendor, a young man in his early 30s, laughed and assured me it was perfect, I was well on the way to mastering his language. Such generous flattery always discombobulates me and I giggled almost to the point of hyperventilation, which made it difficult to count out what I owed him. I was slightly off: it cost 170 kronur and I only had 150kr in hand, but he waived the last 20kr and called it a "first-timer's discount" and bade me welcome to the country. Would any Minnesotan vendor be as friendly to a foreigner struggling with English?

The recipe of the Icelandic hot dog is different not only in the consistency of the sausage, whose skin is a little more rubbery, but in the ingredients. Ingredients vary from place to place but as I recall "one with everything" entails this: hot dog and bun, a sweet variety of mustard, remoulade, a mysterious "hot dog sauce" (Rebecca thought it tasted like Miracle Whip), minced fresh onions, and a sprinkling of fried onions called "crispy onions." The idea of needing a remoulade is intriguing, and "hot dog sauce" was not unique to Bjarins BeztuI would later experience it at a gas station with a foot-long bacon-wrapped hot dog. The crispy onions were a feature I readily embraced. It made a fun tactile experience for the mouth, and it was awfully tasty besides. The last time I grilled for a group of people, I made a point of attempting to replicate the Icelandic hot dog experience as closely as possible. I hardly nailed it but I haven't surrendered the dream just yet.

Learn more about this author, Christian Fredrickson.
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