The molto fab bit about staying in an apartment/hotel is that you can have meals in. Like breakfast. Most mornings, all I really want is half a garlic bagel with just a schmear of herb and chive Tofutti or a maybe a nice cookie. Or, possibly, half of one of those mini spinach quiches from Daniel’s Bakery in Brighton Center. Fer instance.
Some morning’s though, I want/need/MUST HAVE MORE. Luckily Jen’s like this too.
On our second Reykjavik morning we decided to try Grái Kötturinn on Hverfisgata 16a. I’d read a few reviews on line and it sounded perfect.
Grái Kötturinn turned out to be a tiny, very cozy place with a warm vibe -- I was psyched. The waitress came over, gave us menus, saying she’d be back in a moment.
That moment stretched into multiples. Jen and I figured ‘eh, we have a different sense of time’ (for us, instant gratification is nowhere near fast enough). So, despite not having hot caffeinated bevs in front of us, we went into ‘chill mode.’ We began inventing stories about the other restaurant patrons.
Across the alcove from us sat a quartet -- an older (mid 60s maybe) man and a woman with two girls, possibly in their early 20s. Jen quickly determined their various relationships.
This was a second marriage for the older couple -- they were def a couple. They looked tremendously happy/cozy/comfortable together. Not sure how Jen came to the assessment of second marriage-ness but, she’s usually right, so...there we go.
The girls -- not sisters. One was the daughter of the man and the other was the daughter’s girlfriend.
She was beginning to lose me there. Why aren’t they sisters? Oh, they’re holding hands and being all new-relationship-affectionate. OK. Jen, as usual, is spot on.
What she couldn’t sort out was why the older couple spoke English with Icelandic accents and the young girls had American accents.
Oh, that’s easy peazy, I says!
You see, Magnús, from Garðabær, Iceland lived in the US for eons, most of his adult life actually. Never lost his accent and never wanted to. He and his first, American, wife Mary from Cleveland, settled in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn. They’d met cute in the Carroll Gardens Library while reading about Central Park glacier deaths.
Their child, Frida, was a happy and ridiculously healthy child. She began school at P.S. 58 and went on to LaGuardia Arts with the intention of fulfilling her Broadway dreams.
Mother Mary fell disastrously ill, dying quickly from a terminal case of oyster poisoning. (Foul play NOT suspected)
Devastated, Magnús was barely able to function. Luckily his daughter was there to share his pain and lift him out of despair.
Frida was, by this time, studying at NYU and rarely home. She was a young woman with life sitting in front of her like a big, gold foil wrapped present on Christmas morn. New York was her home and theater, her world.
Magnús decided to return to Iceland. He’d get a job at Borgarbókasafn the Reykjavík City Library.
He did. This is where he eventually met his soon to be second wife, Gudlaug. They were, ARE, happy as big ass sunflowers on sunny summer mornings.
Frida and her girlfriend Jean, from Cheboygan, came over to meet Gudlaug and raise toasts to both couple’s happiness.
This being, of course, why the older couple had Icelandic accented English while the younger did not.
of course.
Meanwhile, our waitress hadn’t reappeared. I was now going into caffeine withdrawal (never pretty) so we booked on outta there.
*Schweigt Stille, Plaudert Nicht -- Be still, stop chattering. AKA The Coffee Cantata
On our second Reykjavik morning we decided to try Grái Kötturinn on Hverfisgata 16a. I’d read a few reviews on line and it sounded perfect.
Grái Kötturinn turned out to be a tiny, very cozy place with a warm vibe -- I was psyched. The waitress came over, gave us menus, saying she’d be back in a moment.That moment stretched into multiples. Jen and I figured ‘eh, we have a different sense of time’ (for us, instant gratification is nowhere near fast enough). So, despite not having hot caffeinated bevs in front of us, we went into ‘chill mode.’ We began inventing stories about the other restaurant patrons.
Across the alcove from us sat a quartet -- an older (mid 60s maybe) man and a woman with two girls, possibly in their early 20s. Jen quickly determined their various relationships.
This was a second marriage for the older couple -- they were def a couple. They looked tremendously happy/cozy/comfortable together. Not sure how Jen came to the assessment of second marriage-ness but, she’s usually right, so...there we go.
The girls -- not sisters. One was the daughter of the man and the other was the daughter’s girlfriend.
She was beginning to lose me there. Why aren’t they sisters? Oh, they’re holding hands and being all new-relationship-affectionate. OK. Jen, as usual, is spot on.
Oh, that’s easy peazy, I says!
You see, Magnús, from Garðabær, Iceland lived in the US for eons, most of his adult life actually. Never lost his accent and never wanted to. He and his first, American, wife Mary from Cleveland, settled in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn. They’d met cute in the Carroll Gardens Library while reading about Central Park glacier deaths.
Their child, Frida, was a happy and ridiculously healthy child. She began school at P.S. 58 and went on to LaGuardia Arts with the intention of fulfilling her Broadway dreams.
Mother Mary fell disastrously ill, dying quickly from a terminal case of oyster poisoning. (Foul play NOT suspected)
Devastated, Magnús was barely able to function. Luckily his daughter was there to share his pain and lift him out of despair.
Frida was, by this time, studying at NYU and rarely home. She was a young woman with life sitting in front of her like a big, gold foil wrapped present on Christmas morn. New York was her home and theater, her world.
Magnús decided to return to Iceland. He’d get a job at Borgarbókasafn the Reykjavík City Library.
He did. This is where he eventually met his soon to be second wife, Gudlaug. They were, ARE, happy as big ass sunflowers on sunny summer mornings.
Frida and her girlfriend Jean, from Cheboygan, came over to meet Gudlaug and raise toasts to both couple’s happiness.
This being, of course, why the older couple had Icelandic accented English while the younger did not.
of course.
Meanwhile, our waitress hadn’t reappeared. I was now going into caffeine withdrawal (never pretty) so we booked on outta there.
*Schweigt Stille, Plaudert Nicht -- Be still, stop chattering. AKA The Coffee Cantata
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