NORDIC BAR: A COLD DAY FOR A BAD DOG

Believe it or not, the best Hot Dog I ate on my trip was not in the USA. not at Hot Doug's, not at The Weiner's Circle and not even more recently at Marty's in Los Angeles. It was a spectacular example of a sausage in a bun at a small harbour side stand in Reykjavik where, in the sheeting snow, I indulged in not one, but two dogs so good I could understand why Mr William Jefferson Clinton was a regular every time he came to town.

It was fantastic. Perfect bun, sausages that needed some bite to find a way through the casing, remoulade sauce and topped with crispy onions. I have been craving one ever since.

The Nordic Bar on Newman St offers up a menu of Scandanavian Hot Dogs including that oh so weird Swedish one topped with a dollop of mashed potato. So, when my craving could be controlled no more, I made my way through the crowds of Christmas shoppers and office workers to their little underground restaurant in search of memories of encased meat sandwiches past. Like my companion, I went for the Danish Polz, the closest to the Icelandic version on the menu and we added a side of a bacon sandwich, well just because we could.

What arrived was a disappointment to say the least. First of all, they had cut it in half. Who the hell says you should do that? Any right minded person knows that, if you cut a dog, you let all the flavour escape. Next, the bread. Just too damn much of it, so the sausage was hidden. The crunchy onions weren't, crunchy that is and the remoulade lacked the pre-requiste mustard kick. Add this to a portion of chips of the oven variety and our bill of £14 + tip seemed rather on the steep side. Serving only to remind me how really good those in Iceland were, as the bottom picture goes to show.

I guess we just have to mark down hot dogs as yet another thing we just can't do in this country. Ho Hum