Den Danske Kro ( Danska Kráin )

Vic Jun 2026

Unbelievable - I’m a local; I live here - I don’t speak Icelandic, but I was joking with my drink order and ordered a Guinness in Danish (I speak Danish). The first bartender (a blonde woman) was the rudest I’ve ever met, even when I tried to lighten the air. Rude and grumpy to the core. Then I tried with a second bartender (dark haired woman) on my next order - almost as rude. I don’t care if they don’t like the Danish language or Danes, the place is called Den Danske Kro, and is decorated completely in Danish trivia. Regardless, NO bartender, in any language, should be so terribly rude to a customer. Don’t come here if you’re a Dane, and in fact, don’t come here at all.

Ted Gautsch Mar 2026

A Danish-style pub that feels like someone turned a cozy living room into a place to drink good beer. The walls are lined with mismatched frames—old photos, liquor brand imagery, and the occasional portrait of someone who probably owned a mustache more impressive than the bar itself. The floor is a work of vintage carpet that looks like its traveled more than most of the patrons. Their colors are a little faded but still comforting, like they remember every spilled pint fondly. Soft cushions are tucked along wooden benches, encouraging you to sink in and stay longer than you meant to. The bar is gloriously overprepared: rows of aquavit, local craft beers, and bottles with labels in languages you’re not entirely sure how to pronounce. Copper taps gleam under soft amber lighting, and the artist behind the bar seems to know the drink you want. They serve an excellent Old Fashioned that sits low and solid in a heavy glass, the ice a single clear cube that clinks softly when the bartender sets it down. The color is deep amber—warm and glowing in the pub’s soft light, like polished honey trapped in glass. A twist of orange peel rests on the surface, its oils faintly misting the drink with a bright citrus scent the moment it’s served. Near the back wall, the dartboard is the unofficial center of gravity. A small crowd gathers there most evenings, pints resting on a narrow ledge, jackets slung over chair backs. The darts thud into the board with that satisfying tock sound, followed by gentle heckling from the regulars who’ve been playing together for years. It feels less like a bar and more like a shared living room for the neighborhood: a place where stories are repeated, nicknames stick forever, and the dartboard has quietly witnessed more friendships, rivalries, and exaggerated victories than anyone could count. This pub is loved by all and one of the many hearts of Reykjavik. Cheers!