An International Non-Sequitur Announcement: Flatey is good.
Have you ever eaten something and known in the moment that it was the best version of that thing? Every bite takes you further away from ecstasy and closer to the grim fact that after it's gone, nothing will ever make you feel as whole as you do in that moment. Once, while traveling in Amsterdam, I experienced such a mournful meal. I had a plate of ribs that can only be equaled, never beaten. It was the top of the pyramid; the finish line; a gift from a heavenly power. I think about those ribs almost every week of my life. Every sad, worthless sandwich I ingest simply to stay alive reminds me that I knew true, unbridled flavor for one moment in my life, and then it was gone.
That is, until today. Today, at the behest of a very talented tattoo artist, I visited Flatey Pizza in Reykjavik, Iceland. Now, Iceland is a bizarre place, in that they actually seem to enjoy Americanized food, and wish to mimic it. A quick stop in their grocery stores showed me a frozen pizza that simply said "American Style" on the box. I don't even know what that means, but I doubt it would've been something we, as Americans, should be proud of. If I had had an apparatus capable of cooking it, I absolutely would've, for I am nothing if not devoted to my craft. Alas, Iceland does not have more chickens and cows than people, so trying to produce American food always falls a bit short. Why am I talking so much about American cuisine? Well, Pizza is about as American as you can get. Yeah, sure, there are regionally-specific Italian variations, and its root is deeply Italian, but when you open a box of sloppy pizza from your local delivery joint, you're not looking at something that could only be produced in the hills of Napoli.
And speaking of Napoli, that's the very specific type of pizza that Flatey reproduces. In fact, looking at their site, it appears that they actually import their tomatoes and cheese from the greater Napoli area, WHICH MAKES SENSE. I can't tell if it's a wood fire oven or not, but it's one of those places that just cooks it fast and hot, as God intended. Now that I'm at risk of losing your attention, I will simply say this: this was the best pizza that I have ever had (and probably WILL ever have) in my life. After the first bite, I wanted to cry out with elation, misery, anger, sadness, loss, and grief, all at once. I knew I would never sample a finer pizza. I knew that this pizza would eventually be gone. That the moment would be gone. How do I keep living knowing that I can't go back to that first bite? This might actually be my super villain origin.
The pepperoni, perfectly seasoned. Not too hot, not flavorless, not using poor quality meat, and cut to the exact thickness they all should be (side note: nothing on pizza is more American that Pepperoni, which is a local creation). The sauce and cheese ended up blending together in this thick, rich lava flow of brilliance. The crust, so chewy and fresh you can still taste the oven's breath on it.
I'm including the photo I hastily took to remember the moment, not that I would ever be able to forget. And I suppose all I really came here to say was: this pizza is worth the plane ticket to visit Iceland. Come here, eat this for every meal, leave, and wander the Earth for eternity, in search of forbidden flavor you can never have again.
This place…well, they go to 11.
