Last Saturday, I was invited to the first jólahladbord of the year—the festive buffet Icelandic companies treat their employees to in the pre-Christmas season, where friends and family members gather to get themselves in the mood for the Christmas holidays.

(Popular venues are booked out months in advance even in times of financial crisis; in fact, the jólahladbord is now more popular than ever, Morgunbladid wrote a couple of days ago.) 

Traditionally, offerings on the “Christmas pile-table” include a variety of Icelandic specialties such as flatbraud (flat bread), hangikjöt (slices of smoked-cured leg of lamb), purusteik (crispy pork) and medlaeti (side dishes), namely candied potatoes, green beans, pickled red cabbage, a selection of creamy fruit salads and béchamel sauce.

The jólahladbord my colleagues and I attended in Blönduós on Saturday, however, looked very different. There was no pile-table to begin with—people were served at their individual tables. And the food was Italian.

Not that this was a surprise, really. After all, we chose the venue, Hotel Blönduós, because it had advertised something unusual, something exciting, something exotic: “Italian Christmas Buffet, Buon Natale!”

When you live in Blönduós, this small, quiet, chilly town in the north of Iceland, you fancy a bit of excitement and unusualness, a bit of Italy every now and again. Or do you?

“How odd to be served at the table!” my colleague Edda whispers in my ear as the starters, the antipasti arrive: melon wrapped in Parma ham, crostini, salami and olives. Why, enjoy! Who likes standing in line for ages?

Next, home-made tortellini in chicken broth is served, la pasta, fantastica. Stefán looks a bit worried: “Will there be a meat dish later on?” Indeed, there is: glazed pork loin with carrots, potatoes and sugar snap peas, la carne, deliziosa—not that un-Icelandic after all.

But there seems to be something wrong with the sauce. It isn't béchamel. “Wouldn't you enjoy a bit of white sauce with this dish?” Gudrún asks. Our colleague Sverrir nods in agreement. “I do miss a dollop of fruit salad as well,” his wife contributes, “pears, pineapples, cream, a touch of mayonnaise… that would do the trick!”

I'm not terribly fond of salads made of tinned fruit and mayonnaise. Although a fresh Waldorf salad can be quite delicious. Apples, celery, crunchy walnuts… gustosissima!

But yes. Obviously my co-workers aren't enjoying the Italian meal as much as they could. It simply isn't Icelandic enough.

To make things worse, a local band is taking the stage, belting out “The House of the Rising Sun” and The Strangler's “Golden Brown,” folk songs that are neither Icelandic, Christmassy, nor Italian, for that matter.

“How about playing a Frostrósir-CD?” Edda says, referring to a hugely popular collaborative project of singers, musicians and choir performing Christmas concerts in the Hallgrímskirkja Cathedral every year. I can see how some festive music would have been nice.

But dessert is tiramisu and biscotti (cookies), the coffee is nice and strong, and everyone is served a glass or two of Italian lemon liqueur at the end of the meal. I really enjoyed the food.

My colleagues (looking a little worse for wear after all those bottles of Italian wine and shots of limoncello—I'm not drinking, my baby is due on Christmas Eve. No, really!) are discussing traditional Icelandic Christmas dishes (there are several), and whether rack of lamb, ptarmigan or hamborgarahryggur (smoked pork) are the real deal. But more about that some other time.

The bottom line is, Icelanders prefer their jólahladbord to be Icelandic. My Blönduós colleagues anyway. Fair enough. Italian pasta, carne and dolci can happen elsewhere.

How about a proper Italian food festival next summer? (No need for belt-tightening on all fronts...) I would appreciate it. Decisamente!

Katharina Schneider – kath.schneider@googlemail.com

Katharina is filling in for Mica Allan.