There is a reason everyone you know is going to Iceland. Yep, that’s right. Sandwiches. Geysers, hot springs and boiling pools of mud are cool and all, but when all is said and done – come for Mother Nature, stay for the sandwiches. 
Our plane landed at 5 am. First stop, Sandholt in Reykjavik. Oh, we might have dropped our bags at the hotel, but my memory fails me while musing on Sandholt’s bread. 
Sandwich. It’s what’s for breakfast. 
Sandwich. It’s what’s for lunch. Later the same day…
Bergsson‘s got the location location location thing tied up as well. Take a table on the rim of the room and gaze. Reykjavik harbor is beautiful. A harbor minus the giant paved parking lot and devoid of military flotilla. Particularly beautiful. 
They do seem to eat well in Iceland. Pure is the word that comes to mind. Mind you, we were there briefly, but did get into a mess of restaurants, corner stores and groceries. While the licorice assortment was breathtaking, the splendor to which Americans are accustomed in the packaged/processed/flavored/extruded/puffed/fluffed/syruped varieties was absent.
And, breathe.
The Lunch Encounter 