Hákarl: The Arctic Delicacy That Dares You to Try It
Hákarl wafts into your life long before you see it. The scent wanders across a Þorrablót buffet like it owns the place, giving you a polite tap on the shoulder before punching you straight in the nose. Icelanders take this as a point of pride. Visitors glance around for the nearest exit. That’s the thing about hákarl: it doesn’t pretend to be charming. It just arrives with all the subtlety of a chemistry experiment gone rogue and waits for you to deal with it.
The story starts with a creature that looks as though it slipped out of prehistory and forgot to stop growing. The Greenland shark drifts through the Arctic in slow motion, ageing so leisurely that some of them outlived entire European kingdoms. Scientists estimate lifespans of nearly four centuries, which makes you feel slightly rude chewing on anything that old. But the shark has a quirk: it carries urea and trimethylamine oxide in its flesh instead of filtering waste through kidneys like a normal fish. It swims serenely in freezing waters while secretly marinating itself in substances that could make a human very unwell. Icelanders, being Icelanders, refused to let that stop them.
Their solution required patience, nerve and a willingness to trust that burying a poisonous shark in gravel would somehow work out. They hauled the shark onto land, hacked it into manageable slabs, and dug it into the ground. Stones went on top like an improvised press. Weeks later, they retrieved the pressed slabs, hung them in open-air sheds and let the wind and cold dry them into something edible. At some point in the process, a hard crust formed. That crust was cut away to reveal the pale interior. By then the toxins had mellowed, the smell had blossomed into its signature bouquet, and the shark was reborn as hákarl.
Icelanders classify the result into two moods. One is glerhákarl, the darker amber-hued version that looks slightly translucent around the edges and carries a sharper kick. The other is skyrhákarl, whiter, softer and friendlier to beginners. Experienced locals eye the two types the way wine lovers consider a tannic red versus a fruity white. Tourists, meanwhile, discover that their eyes water regardless of category.
The first encounter usually happens in a small cube. Someone hands you a toothpick, you try not to inhale too vigorously, and you give it a go. The aroma leaps forward like it has been waiting for this moment. It hits with notes best described as bleach flirting with blue cheese. You swallow, attempting to look nonchalant, and immediately reach for a chaser of brennivín. The Icelandic schnapps steps in like a friend who knows you’ve made a questionable life choice but supports you anyway.
It’s tempting to imagine that hákarl emerged from a Viking dare. The reality is more pragmatic. In a climate where sheep and fish carried people through brutal winters, you didn’t waste protein, especially something as massive as a Greenland shark. Fermentation transformed danger into sustenance, and Icelanders developed a cultural resilience around foods that could sit patiently for months until the next storm passed. Today, that history lingers behind every tiny cube on a buffet table. It whispers that the country survived by coaxing nutrition out of whatever the North Atlantic provided.
Modern life has tidied up the ritual a bit. Fewer people bury sharks in literal holes these days. Producers now rely on controlled curing facilities where temperatures, ventilation and sanitation behave themselves. But they still honour the essence of the process. The meat cures, presses, dries and waits. It doesn’t need fancy packaging because Icelanders know exactly what they’re getting. They grew up with it. Some will admit, with a grin, that they only eat it once a year at Þorrablót, and maybe under mild duress. Others swear by it and defend it fiercely whenever a visiting celebrity chef tries it and theatrically gags on television.
Television, in fact, birthed a whole new chapter of hákarl’s fame. The moment someone like Gordon Ramsay reaches for a bucket after smelling it, the internet applauds. Icelanders, meanwhile, raise an eyebrow and point out that this is precisely what happens when people treat the cube as a stunt rather than a food with history. They’re not offended. They simply find the fuss mildly entertaining. They grew up with weather that could blow your house sideways, so a robust shark aroma hardly registers.
Discussions about sustainability occasionally drift through the conversation. Greenland sharks live slowly and reproduce late, which doesn’t always mix well with modern fishing practices. Many Icelandic producers rely on bycatch rather than targeted fishing. It’s a delicate balance, and the country knows it. But hákarl remains a cultural anchor. It exists not because anyone’s trying to create a bestseller at the fish market, but because the tradition matters.
Every culture has at least one dish that raises eyebrows abroad. Iceland simply won the lottery for “most likely to make your eyes water before it gets anywhere near your mouth.” Surströmming in Sweden competes honourably, producing an aroma that escapes tins like a mischievous spirit and settles into fabrics permanently. Alaska offers stinkheads, Egypt serves fesikh during spring celebrations, Korea pushes boundaries with hongeohoe, and Japan has kusaya, a dried fish with a reputation so ferocious that neighbours once complained about the smell during production. Hákarl fits snugly in this global family of culinary extremities, where preservation techniques met necessity and ended up creating legends.
Despite its dramatic reputation, the taste surprises people. After the initial shock, it settles into a surprisingly mild flavour with a soft, almost creamy texture. The strongest part is the smell, which tends to do most of the heavy lifting in shaping opinions. Once you push past it, hákarl behaves more politely on the palate than your nose might suggest. Icelanders know this and watch visitors carefully to see whether they make it that far.
There’s also an unmistakable pride attached to it. Not the loud, flag-waving sort, but the quiet, knowing pride that comes from surviving centuries of harsh living conditions and making do with what the landscape offered. Serving hákarl isn’t about proving anything. It’s a reminder of perseverance. It joins smoked lamb, rye bread baked in geothermal ground, and dried fish as part of the catalogue of things that kept people alive when luxury foods were a faraway dream.
You can spot the drying sheds in some rural areas, where chunks of shark hang from wooden rafters like peculiar ornaments. Visitors find them irresistible photo opportunities. Locals barely glance up. For them it’s like passing a farm where haystacks sit in the field: completely ordinary. The sheds stand as small monuments to the craft, humming quietly in the wind that does part of the work.
Travellers who want to try hákarl often do it for sport. They add it to their bucket lists, up there with volcanic spas, whale watching and standing on a black sand beach pretending they’re in a moody Icelandic drama. Guides play along, offering samples with straight faces. They know what’s coming. The reactions never disappoint.
Still, every now and then someone genuinely loves it. They surprise themselves and everyone around them. They buy a tub to take home and then spend the next two weeks explaining to airport security that yes, it smells like that on purpose. It’s a rare outcome, but the kind of enthusiasm that keeps the tradition’s momentum going.
Hákarl represents a particular Icelandic quality: an unflinching relationship with nature. When life hands you a giant toxic shark, you bury it, press it, hang it up and wait until the universe says it’s ready. Then you serve it with a small piece of rye bread and a wink. It’s not meant to be glamorous. It’s a story in edible form, a reminder of how humans adapt, innovate and occasionally terrify unsuspecting visitors.
Maybe the secret is accepting hákarl on its own terms. It doesn’t need rebranding or modern gastronomy spin. It sits comfortably in its position as one of the world’s most infamous foods, appreciated not for its elegance but for its honesty. It carries the sea, the wind and the grit of a people who endured more storms than anyone deserved. Iceland didn’t make hákarl to impress. It made it to survive. Anything beyond that is a bonus.
By the time you’ve finished a serving, something curious happens. The scent stops feeling aggressive and starts becoming familiar. You catch a faint hint on your fingertips, shrug, and carry on. You don’t quite love it, but you respect it. You suspect Iceland planned this all along.
Photo: Chris 73 / Wikimedia Commons