Fish soup, or fiskisúpa, in dozens of permutations, is one of the Icelandic staples. Served in waterside restaurants and mountain inns, with curry or tomato, langoustine or cod, buttered bread or cous-cous, fiskisúpa could be called the national dish (if the actual national dish wasn't, unfortunately, hákarl).
The version at Fjöruborðið is probably the island's most decadent. Chock full of tiny "lobster" tails (really, northern langoustines) and butter, it's fishy, extravagantly creamy and about the best thing I could imagine eating. We sat in awe as the North Atlantic crashed against the southern coast, seabirds wheeled and the steam rose from our bowls.
Fimm Fiskar, a small and tidy bistro on the Snæfellsnes peninsula, stocks their broth with bell pepper,* shrimp, lobster and cod. It's rich without being creamy. The spices give off a heady vapor that smells as much of the south seas as the north.
*Another unexpected but common fiskisúpa ingredient.
Also, fascinatingly, canned peach. "We use it to sweeten," the young woman said. "We also put in some of the syrup." The soup wasn't overly sweet, and had a raw seashore smell, something like kelp mixed with onions. Served with coarse, homemade bread, followed by a slice of rhubarb-outmeal tart, it was one of the best lunches we've had.