I ate fermented shark so you don’t have to — here’s what it really tastes like

There are foods you eat and immediately want to evangelize. Then there are foods you try so you can say you tried them.

Fermented shark—hákarl—lives in the second category for me.

I’m glad I ate it. I’m also glad the portion was small.

What it is (and why it exists)

Quick primer:

Greenland shark is toxic when fresh because of naturally high levels of urea and trimethylamine oxide. Centuries ago, Icelanders figured out that if you bury the meat, let it ferment for weeks, then hang it to dry for months, the toxins break down enough to make it edible. Survival engineering turned into a national curiosity. Today it’s cube-cut, served in little tasting cups, and chased with a shot of Brennivín—Iceland’s caraway schnapps—because you will want a chase.

My server gave the classic warning: “Smell with your mouth closed.”

I thought he was being dramatic. He wasn’t.

The first hit: like opening a janitor’s closet at the beach

Imagine an ammonia cloud rising off the cube the moment it gets within range. It’s not “fishy” in the way bad fish is fishy. It’s sharp and chemical, like a cleaning product had a baby with low tide. If you inhale through your nose at the wrong angle, your eyes water a little and your brain files a polite complaint.

This is why locals tell you to sniff with your mouth — let the volatile stuff bypass the direct line to your limbic system.

I’ve worked around strong cheese, natto, durian, and 100-day egg. Hákarl sits in their neighborhood but keeps its own zip code.

The texture: surprisingly civilized

Here’s the twist: The mouthfeel is the least shocking part.

The cubes are firm at first bite, then give way to a squeaky tenderness—somewhere between well-dried scallop and a dense cheese curd.

No bones, no gristle.

If you’ve had salt-cod that was soaked and flaked, imagine the opposite: compact, elastic, tidy. You could spear it with a toothpick and it won’t fall apart. In a blindfold test, texture alone wouldn’t scare you.

It’s what happens next.

The taste: a three-act play you weren’t expecting

Act I: saline and faintly sweet. If you chew with intent and keep breathing through your mouth, you think, “Hey, not bad. Briny, a little nutty. What was all the fuss about?”

Act II: the ammonia climbs. Warmth unlocks the volatile compounds and they bloom at the back of your throat. It’s not a “rot” flavor. It’s more like a hospital hallway passing through your palate. Your tongue tingles slightly. Your brain flips through flavor memory and finds nothing to file it under.

Act III: afterglow and reset. The sharpness fades into a ghost of the ocean and pantry. Then the Brennivín lands—cool, herbal, clean—and suddenly the whole sequence makes sense. The schnapps doesn’t mask — it reframes. Caraway has a way of “editing” fat and funk. One sip and you’re ready to go again, even if you won’t.

What your body does (because bodies have opinions)

I felt two things simultaneously: “This is fascinating” and “We should not swallow this.” That little internal tug-of-war is common with hard-fermented foods.

Your prefrontal cortex knows the process is safe. Your hindbrain is yelling in caps lock. If you tense up, the ammonia wins. If you relax your jaw and think of it like very aggressive cheese, it gets easier.

I had three cubes. Each one tasted better than the last as my brain calibrated.

What it’s not

It’s not “spoiled fish.” That reads as sour, sulfurous, bitter.

Hákarl is clean in its own weird way—no slime, no rancid fat, no metallic tang. It’s also not a dare for locals; most Icelanders I spoke with treat it like a heritage taste you pull out for holidays and tourists, the same way some families bring out the oldest blue cheese at Christmas.

Respect with a wink.

If you want to try it, do this

Go small. Order the tasting flight or share a plate so you’re not wrestling a heap of cubes by yourself.

Pair it. Take the Brennivín seriously — it’s the best co-star. If you’re alcohol-free, chase with rye bread and unsalted butter. The fat softens the spike.

Mouth-breathing is strategy, not theater. Inhale through your mouth as you bite, exhale through your nose after you swallow. It blunts the ammonia and lets the mild sweetness show up.

Don’t stack bites. Give each cube its own minute. The experience gets worse if you pile them up; it gets better if you let your palate reset.

The closest comparisons

Think of the strongest washed-rind cheeses—Époisses, Taleggio—crossed with salt-cured seafood like bacalhau, plus a whiff of a chemistry lab.

If you’ve had lutefisk, imagine less gelatin and more bounce. If you know Southeast Asian fish sauces or Korean skate (hongeo), you’ll recognize the family tree: ocean proteins transformed until they read as power, not putridity.

Hákarl sits on the harsher end of that spectrum, but the “logic” is similar. Preservation first, taste acquired later.

Would I order it again?

As a learning moment with friends? Yes.

As a snack with a beer? No.

It’s one of those foods I’m grateful exists because it tells a story—about scarcity, ingenuity, and taste as a cultural muscle. You don’t have to love it to respect it. And if you do love it, you’ve trained your palate into a very small club.

What it taught me

A lot of the best things I’ve eaten started as solutions, not flexes. Humans took an animal that would’ve made them sick, invented a process to make it safe, and over time made that process an identity.

That’s how cuisine happens: need becomes method; method becomes memory.

Hákarl tastes like that lineage. Harsh at first. Then oddly elegant if you meet it halfway.

Also, never underestimate the right pairing. Without Brennivín, I would’ve tapped out at one cube. With it, I had three and caught myself considering a fourth.

Hospitality isn’t just about what’s on the plate — it’s about the context you build around it. This one needs its context.

Bottom line

Fermented shark tastes like the ocean after it borrowed a bottle of cleaner—shocking on the nose, firm and tidy on the tongue, and oddly satisfying once the caraway chaser lands.

You do not need to try it to live a full and meaningful life. But if you’re the curious type who collects experiences, this one earns its place.

Take the smallest bite, breathe strategically, and raise the little glass.

You’ll have a story worth telling — without pretending you want seconds.