Èric Lluent: "In 1988 in Reykjavik we could have toasted with Catalan wine, but not with beer"

The journalist Èric Lluent (Barcelona, 1986) tries not to think too much about the distance separating him from his native Gràcia. Arriving in Reykjavík for the first time ten years ago, he is now preparing a podcast about the origins of modern terrorism, an interest that was already hinted at in La bomba del Liceu (Ara Llibres, 2026), his latest essay, which talks about the man who planted the bomb at the Gran Teatre.

What is the relationship between the author of the Liceu attack and wine?

— Shortly before the attack, Santiago Salvador opened a wine shop in Hostafrancs. It went badly for him, and from the failure of the business he moved on to smuggling and, in parallel, became radicalized in anarchist theories, leading up to the attack on November 7, 1893.

The Liceu bomb is a work written 3,000 km from Barcelona.

— I live in Iceland to be able to write non-fiction books in Catalan. These books require many hours, a lot of effort, and a calm mind.

Is life easy in Iceland?

— No. Because of the climate, above all, but also because of the culture. If you arrive alone, it's very hard. You can pay for rent and food, and still not have the expected quality of life; there are other factors that count for happiness and that are harder to resolve. I've been lucky enough to make Icelandic friends right away, but I know many immigrants who have a really bad time and are very lonely.

What is the relationship with alcohol in the country?

— Here they drink intensely one or two days a week: it's the way to socialize.

And what do you drink?

— The queen of drinks is beer. Then there are liquors, such as licorice, or brennivín, which is similar to vodka. Wine, here, has a certain classy image, sophisticated. Like cocktails.

Scare me. How much does a drink cost?

— A glass of normal wine costs around 1,700 crowns, between 12 and 14 euros. At the happy hour, a glass can cost 7.

And in the shop?

— A bottle that you would buy in Catalonia for 3 or 4 euros, here it costs 20.

Is it bought in normal stores?

— Only at Vinbúdin, state-owned shops with a monopoly on alcohol over 2 degrees. If you organize a dinner and have forgotten to buy wine after eight in the evening, the only option is to buy it in a restaurant, at 60 euros per bottle.

As a consumption prevention strategy, does it work?

— The scale of the problem is difficult to grasp from our perspective. Alcoholism, in Iceland – as in many Nordic countries – has been a pandemic: when you start to know families from here, you realize that in almost every home there is someone who has had or has this problem. And in a pandemic, measures must be taken. In practice, in a society with such a high economic level... But who knows what would happen if these laws did not exist.

Why this system?

— It all stems from a restrictive legislative approach regarding alcohol consumption. In the early 20th century, many men did not go to work because they were drunk, and there was a great deal of gender violence linked to alcoholism. There was a movement in favor of prohibition, led, above all, by women; a referendum was held, and the yes vote for prohibition won.

Was it a total prohibition?

— Yes, but in 1923 Spain pressured Iceland not to stop buying wine from it; otherwise, they would stop importing Icelandic salted cod, their key product. The law was reformed to allow the buying and selling of Spanish wine under 21 degrees. Beer, on the other hand, remained prohibited until March 1, 1989. Let's say that at the New Year's Eve party in 1988 in Reykjavík we could have toasted with Catalan wine, but not with beer.

How did they justify it?

— The politicians' argument was as follows: foreign alcohol is so expensive that people cannot get drunk every day; with beer, on the other hand, they could.

At what point do you remember drinking more wine?

— During the pandemic, and it's not quite clear why, we switched from beer to wine. We would go to a restaurant at five in the afternoon and slowly taste wines. Perhaps it was because we went out more calmly, without music. Perhaps it was also a way to connect with home.

What are you missing?

— At home, my parents still go down to the cellar, and they know the people who work there. Perhaps it's not the most exquisite wine in the world, but it's a good product, and while they serve it to you, you have a tapa. What I miss is this type of culture. I must say that my relationship with wine, especially when I go down to Barcelona, I link it a lot with gastronomy. For me, wine is a key element for cooking.

Better in the pot than in the glass?

— Perhaps it's sacrilege, but I'd say I even enjoy wine more when I reduce it – and it leaves all the aromas and depth in the dishes – than when I drink it. The moment the dish simmers and the alcohol evaporates but you smell the wine is one of the ways to transport me. That scent, that smell of home...

So, is it a nostalgic thing?

— Yes. It's a cellar, it's a wooden bar, it's familiar faces and smiles, it's Barcelona, it's the heat, the warm air you feel on your skin after months and months without having that sensation, it's Sunday vermouth, it's a break, it's pleasure. They are sensations that make me reconnect with my home. In Iceland, the island of the wind (Ara Llibres, 2023) I spoke about the great dilemma of the migrant: where is home?

Do you have an answer?

— I have two houses. But there is only one nest.