When I said I was vegan he started maniacally chortling me and hit me with a pork chop. After wholloping him with a spatula, that I keep within my satchel for special occasions, I left and returned home, away from this hedonistic hoven of trickery.

Initially, when hearing that myself, my wife and my two young children were vegetarian, the owner acted jubilant and happy, asking questions, explaining how his Hindu traditions ensure that he is similarly vegetarian in certain aspects, particularly with animals such as cows, and how occasionally he spends entire days only eating rhubarb pie and tofu.

Delighted at meeting a non judgemental and wholly respectful waiter, we quickly ordered two vegetarian pizza's for my young lads, and a veggie burger for my wife and I. The food was lovely, the drinks were passable and the mixture of Hindu and Faroese music evoked the impression that this was an authentic Faroese restaurant, allowing us to feel immersed in the countries culture. After around half an hour, he sauntered out of the kitchen to collect our plates, and inquire if our meals were good, to which we responded with empathically and enthusiastically. He then began entertaining my young uns, asking if we'd seen any wild highland sheep on the road, and about how coarse their fur is, which delighted the wee ones. He then asked if, for eighty Krones more, they'd like to see a real sheep in the flesh. Seeing how my boys have grown up around farm animals, in the remote countryside of Northern Wales, and respecting the amiability of the owner, I wholeheartedly agreed. For sheep are like family to me, and I adore them, alongside all sentient creatures immensely.

After paying him in cash, he exited out of a side door and in around five minutes he brought out a real life, adult sheep.

For several minutes my lads doted and fawned over the beast, however, it all went awry when the owner asked if we'd like to be immersed further in Faroese culture. Foolishly we agreed, keenly anticipating a history lesson of the highest caliber. Yet instead all we envisaged was mania. Quickly, without hesitation, he took out a carving knife and slit the sheep’s throat, which didn’t slaughter the animal immediately, but instead made it screech a terrible song of agony. To subdue it, he then began stabbing it repeatedly with his knife, until its brown fur become matted and blemished with crimson pools of a blood red ichor.

I won't go into anymore depth, because already I am struggling to calm my nerves and because of the word limit, but safe to say it wasn't a pretty sight. It was grisly, sadistic and inhumane.

I'm not going to purport that this happens all the time, but once is too much.

I have a very sensitive palate. It's entirely dietary related, but because of it I can't dine on half the things I did in my youth. For example chocolate makes me hallucinate and froth at the mouth, duck raises my blood pressure and paisley leaves me with a resounding pain in my shoulders. So that's why I try to eat as warily and prudently as possibly, not straying far from what already established foods.

And I understand how difficult I can be as a client, so I always make sure to notify the waiter and inform him about my dietary requirements, just to make sure no unnecessary problems occur. Normally there's no problem though, and if it's a good I've eaten before like sliced cucumber or a veggie burger, I don't even worry since I've eaten them hundreds of times without when a grumble from my tummy tim.

So when I ordered the veggie burger, and found out to my chagrin that it had bits of chicken, some fork of garlic, chips and a single slice of bacon in it, I was gravely disappointed.

If you don't have vegetarian orders, or aren't willing to sell them, then don't delude your customers into believing otherwise.

The owner and staff were very insistent that I try and sample their dishes, all of which contained some form of meat, from chicken to pepperoni and so on. When I refused, informing them that I was vegan, the owner exclaimed "Don't worry saar, I have the cure just for you" and then rummaged through his apron, until he fished out several jagged looking accoutrements, which best resembled a spoon, spatula, fork and rolling pin. He then said that he was going to perform a "Brainal cleansing" whatever that means, and started ominously clapping his gadgets together while menacingly striding over to me. Naturally my courage balked and I fled before he could get his blighted claws on me. Call me a craven, but I believe I acted prudently. Anyhoo, I'd advise everyone not to visit if you are a vegan, lest you bear the brunt of mania driven veganphobes.

Stop vegan hate!

Just a heads up to anyone thinking about eating here. There's a guy who frequents the parking lot of this establishment, dressed up as a giant loaf of bread. If you pull over at the cafe, he either bangs onto your window until it cracks and shatters, or you roll it down, or he waits until you exit your vehicle, before attempting to purloin your keys and accost you until he sells a batch of scones of a dubious quality. On some occasions, I've seen him blocking wannabe patrons from entering the venue, unless they purchase a basket of scones, at an inflated price.

And the owner of Cafe Zorva does nothing to prevent this. In fact, I believe this occurs solely by his whim. He's a shrewd conman who comprehends that people shun obstacles, that the competitive drive of the European compels them to overcome any and all adversity. Thus, if they are rebuffed once from entering the venue, then they will inevitably return, only to be rebuffed and coerced into purchasing scones in this perpetual, conniving cycle of avarice.

And why is this done you ask? It's so people don't understand that the vittles sold here are sub par and even worse than the scones! In fact, if you look past the botted reviews, made by family members and Indian sychophants, you'll realise that this cafe isn't so mystical after all. Instead, it's insidious, wholly sinister and extolling the tenants of an order of Saracen like brigands and thieves!

If you don't believe me, then go to the cafe between 8am and 4pm. At 7:40AM, the man is let out of a sewer grate by the owner of this cafe to peddle his goods, he takes around 20 minutes to be given his basket of scones, and to don his garments and then he works for 8 hours, as previously mentioned. Afterwards, the owner herds him back into his pen, likely doing so to avoid the ostentatiously snooty businessmen who will complain and Faroese mobsters who will roughen him up for slighting the Islands reputation of Faroese hospitality.

Idk what’s going on in the reviews here, but like 5 of them are racist dog whistles. This place is great - they have a vegan burger and a vegan pizza (the only vegan pizza I’ve been able to find in Faroe so far). The staff are all really nice and helpful as well. It’s also right by the airport, so a good option for when you first arrive. Highly recommend!

Edited to add: turns out the racist reviews are one person with multiple accounts who has a weird vendetta against this restaurant. Some have been removed (like the one with AI images of Indian stereotypes), but a couple are still up, and they’ve posted two more in the last few days.

Updated from previous review on 2024-09-24

I read a few reviews online, and I was pretty satisfied after seeing that Cafe Zorva was unanimously positive reviews. And with a vegan friendly tag affixed, I knew I'd be in for a treat for coming here. Yet what I didn't anticipate was being harangued over my weight.

When I walked through the doors of this cafe, I was ushered to a seat by a waiter bearing nowt but a loincloth, and showed a selection of meals, all of which resembled relatively edible food. What I did notice though was a tangible paucity of vegan and vegetarian options. In fact, most of the dishes seemed to repeat themselves, with pepperoni pizza being listed four times, albeit with varying hues and prices. For reference, the blue pepperoni pizza was priced at the equivalent of 20 Euro's, whereas the pink pepperoni was only 14.

When I called a staff member over, who introduced himself as the manager and public spokesperson of the business, I inquired as to why no vegan friendly dishes were available. And to that, he began spluttering at the maws and mocking me, saying that no wonder I'm eating healthy because I'm so fat and am no more than a bulbous slug, with a gaping black abyss for a mouth.

Now for the record, I am average weight, and am not substituting eating meat for a weight loss plan, and to have a man who is a bit portly and a chubby chubster himself assert otherwise is frankly just arrogant and rude. I came here to eat a healthy meal, not be harassed for my dietary choices.

Just to preface this, I'd like everyone to know that DerekSparky is either the owner of this business, or affiliated with the cafe. I know this because he asked me to show proof that the owner was prejudiced towards Muslims and Pakistani's, and when I did, attaching images of some vitriolic and racially charged comments the owner of Cafe Zorva sent, I immediately had my review removed for being off topic, and received a gloating message from DerekSparky, typing in a similar manner to how the owner of Cafe Zorva typed.

Ignoring that unpleasant affair, I would not advise anyone to come to this cafe, lest they be mocked for their culinary preferences and be prejudiced against.

When I was served a punnet of strawberries, I inquired to the owner if the bowl and berries themselves were Halal. At this the owner began raving and ranting belligerently about how I was decrepit and maniacally inquisitive Muslims such as myself are not allowed into his store. Afterwards he struck me with a brook and I fled, with my derriere sporting several red welts over this Indian man's wanton and callous cruelty. Never again will I venture to this den of iniquity, for it is clear that his provender is not designed for a refined palate such as mine!

Ever since I duelled the flesh piercing, fanged mutant of the Romanian caves, I have exclusively dined on a mixture of grapes, breads and vegetarian foodstuffs, particularly garlic, in order to ward away the Vampiric vermin who seek to drain the very ichor from our pores. In fact, my fixation on garlic is so intense that I will not proffer my services to an establishment that bears a distinct paucity of garlic.

Cafe Zorva fell into that category. No garlic, not even a picture of garlic oil anywhere in sight, in sooth it was wholly suspicious! I bear, on a reasonable suspicion, that the owner of Cafe Zorva is a cape wearing, saliva dripping vampire, who we would rather espy the blood of a newborn secrete from his jowls, than serve garlic.

Fatigued from a long flight from Kansas to Copenhagen, followed by a brisk Jet ski trip to the Faroe Islands, I crawled through the door to this establishment, my clothes in tatters, eyes clearly and tummy grumbling. Looking for a traditional Faroese meal, I ordered the Indian themed tater tots and celery sticks, which were fashioned into the shape of an elephants and promiscuous Hindu belly dancers.

The aesthetic of these meals was extraordinary and evoked a passion and ardour rarely felt for exotic, diminutive cultures. Yet unfortunately my entire meal was completely cold. All of it! Not even a miniscule edge of the lowliest tater Tot was heated. In sooth it was an outrage.

And what's worse is that when I sauntered up to the counter to pay, I espied the owner himself hunched in a corner, tucking into some marginally better grub. He was just hunkered down, sitting on an upturned crate, and in his hand he held an African pygmy by the throat, an elusive beast that was scrambling to escape, and then after snapping his neck he just bit into it, and not into it.

Being candid here, it really infuriated me. I'm here being given peasants rations, and the owner of this establishment gets to act as though he's the high King of the whole lace, eating the finest meals. If this was America I wouldn't even give him a tip, but since it isn't I'll merely resign myself to a negative review.

Updated from previous review on 2024-11-08

After paying in advance for my meal, my vittles were delivered, alongside a knife and fork. I was eating a traditional Faroese leek and turnip pie, which according to the clearly Indian owner was derived from a traditional Faroese recipe.

Unfortunately the pie must have been pre heated or something, because it was incredibly hard and chewy. This predicament was then exacerbated by the dull cutlery I was given, which could hardly cut into the softest, most supply butter, let alone a pre heated pastry of misery, whose only yearning is to besmirch and sully the culinary world.

Whilst I was hunched over, grappling with the pie and hacking into it as a sawbones does with human bone, I swiftly reached the epiphany that the plate was too small for the pie, meaning that whilst the pie slid and squirmed as I dug into it, a portion of said pie constantly dangled along the precipice of the plate and the floor, or my shirt per say. Resultingly, whenever I dug into the pie, causing gravy and leek juice to spurt out, the pie occasionally fell onto the table, or my shirt, causing myself to be saturated by a tidal wave of the pies unenviable and wholly dubious juice.

After around ten minutes of grappling with my provender based adversary, I was incensed. Yet instead of having a tantrum like a wee bairn and hollering to the waiter, I calmly stood up from my seat and maturely sauntered over to the waiter and stabbed him with the butter knife, and pilfered through his pockets to legally withdraw the money I gave him, as he lay, keeled over on the floor. Then I exited the establishment, vowing never to return and be blighted by these culinary sadists.

Updated from previous review on 2024-11-18

So I was sitting 'ere, eating me dinner with me favourite son, when the owner of this establishment lumbered up to us with an unseemly gait, withdrew a red button and pushed it, causing a crane to emerge from the ceiling and pluck my son, who was midway through eating his burger and leave him screaming and in distress, as he dangled haplessly from the rafters.

Now obviously I told this brigand to unhand me boy at once, lest I go tattletale to the police. The owner just giggled like a schoolgirl and began square dancing, as I fumbled with my phone and quickly realized that I don't have any reception in this country, with all the WiFi networks available being password protected.

The owner, sensing my frustration, offered to provide a phone, but only if I ordered another beer and burger, which I reluctantly obliged to do, as I love me boy, and someone needs to do the manual labour back home.

After my order, and one quick meal later, the owner then handed me a 20 year old phone, of which I will provide a photo of, and told me to go and call for help.

As I began attempting to work this archaic relic of a bygone era, he then began locking my ear, taking a special interest in tonguing my earlobe. Eventually, after failing to work the damn thing, I hurled this peculiar device at a wall and trundled out of the cafe, my right ear and Tufts of hair completely drenched in his saliva. I would recommend that if you are in a similar situation such as mine, that you do not, under any circumstances, be cajoled into ordering an additional meal in exchange for temporary use of a phone, as the owner telling disgruntled patrons to call for help is little more than a hastily veiled ploy to acquire greater revenue.

Lastly, I would like to mention that my son is still stuck, dangling from the ceiling of this business, so if anyone stops by, I would greatly appreciate you freeing him from the mechanical claw that holds him captive and return him at once. If you have him just send me a message, I'll even drop me busy schedule for the lad and take him off your hands, free of charge.

With intent to go for a quick jaunt along the Faroe Islands, I travelled 450 metres from the airport. Eventually, I located a certain cafe with a brazen yellow title and an Indian flag affixed to the black steel walls. Foolishly, I sauntered into the daunting building and was greeted with the most underwhelming atmosphere I had ever witnessed transpire in a restaurant!

There was a scarce amount of humans scattered upon decaying tables, a fair amount of rats and cockroaches had resided within the musty floorboards. However, My overpowering desire for low-quality victuals had quelled the foul miasma of curry. I persevered and plopped my desirable body against one of the frail booths, awaiting someone to serve me.

A small Indian man arose from the depths of one of the back doors, startling me. He waddled up to my table and initiated a conversation with me. A vivid feeling of abhorrence and qualm curdling through my body. Just as I was about to stand up and scramble out of there, the man (who I assume is the owner) heaved me back into my seat, persisting the conversation and proceeded to hand me the off-white menu he was clutching.

Alas, I was forced to choose one of the vittles’ to indulge in. Despite the website CLEARLY STATING they served appealing viands, the only options I observed were traditional Indian cuisines of curries and roti breads. To decide my fate, I closed my precious Islamic eyes and waved my finger around the menu... Bad idea!

To my chagrin, I had chosen a dish which embodies several types of harsh spices, vomit, and “mystery meat”. I gulped down the intense uneasiness to prepare myself for the meal to arrive in due time!

You see, I was unaware that this “mystery meat” was PORK! I had presumed that it was chicken, given that this is an Indian restaurant that serves butter chicken! When I expressed my concern to him, he scoffed and threatened to boil me into his next curry, as my fiery insides would make for a tender, well-seasoned curry.

My desire to evacuate this hell hole grew. The ill-evoked anguish exacerbated my heart rate to an alarming pace. With my eyes drooping and my cheeks inflamed, I shoved that Indian dude out of my way. Nonetheless, his grubby hands adhered to my hip, attempting to pull me back to the booth.

With a devious smirk plastered on his face, he belligerently exclaimed, “Now where do you think you’re going?" Subsequently, I shot him a look of utter disgust and pushed him away from me, never to return again.

So I popped by this humble little place last week, and while I cannot arrest to the taste of the meals, I can affirm that this business allows their meals to be served with hair in them. And no just that, but pubic hair! That's right folks, you heard it here, Cafe Zorva not only indifferently permits, but condones their chefs rubbing their crotch over meals, before they are served, and then when confronted justify their actions.

Yet it appears I am too swift for my own good. While my claims may seem outrageous, ridiculous and nonsensical, I will tell you my story and allow you to be the judge.

After viewing Cafe Zorva's Facebook, and noting how users, who are presumably locals, had left incensed comments claiming that the business was obscuring negative reviews, had disabled their Facebook reviews section and were abusive to customers of Islamic origin, I decided, as a proud Northern Irishman, to go see for my myself.

So I went to this diner and after ordering a vegetarian pizza, I waited. After 30 minutes of idly lazing on my chair, an Indian man, in what he dubbed a tradition Faroese kaftan, emerged from a side door, bearing my meal, which was held atop of a How To Train Your Dragon themed platter, featuring the live action negress, who is to be playing the flaxen haired Astrid from the movies.

Before I could so much as tuck into my meal, I noticed that it was coated with singular strands of hair of varying sizes, and all the distinct colour black. Immediately, after noticing that no one was in the main dining area, I got up off my seat to locate the manager and complain. Yet what I envisioned as I passed the first door, which led to the kitchen was a grisly sight indeed.

Four Indian men, wearing puffy French chefs hats, red scarves, high heels and white buttoned shirts, were standing, without pants, over plates of food that were destined to be served to the patrons. What they were doing to these plates was inconceivably, incoherently insidious. They were rubbing their genitals over and over the vittles, doing it swiftly and persistently enough that they must have gotten carpetburn from the act.

Afterwards I ran back to my seat in a rage, and loudly proclaimed to all the customers in the room that their provender was contaminated by pubic hair. At my hustle and bustle, the manager finally scurried out from his burrow, and asked me what the matter was. When I explained he claimed that the practice was standard in India, and it improved the flavour.

I'll say it succinctly, don't eat the food. When I was served my meal, it was brimming with dubious black hairs that seemed to dubiously belong to a man's nether region. I essence my meal was tarnished by prolific and thoroughly inserted pubic hairs.

Serving up the traditional Faroese curry that this hovel sadistically serves, to a prisoner of war, would be considered the most deprave and insidious of warcrimes to ever be conceived by man. Even countries that baulk at the prospect of human rights, from the sinister Venezuela to the lowly India, would be aghast at witnessing [censored] splotched captives, mired in the gaols grime, fed this incomprehensibly abhorrent slop, that would be unethical to nourish an animal with, let alone a living, breathing man.

Not even the fact that half the bowl is an assortment of spices, mangled herbs, deodorant and fragments of weathered boots can guise the rancid odour that the bowl of Cafe Zorvas curry emits. It is as though the excrement, discharged from the bowels of all the Indian staff at this establishment have interlocked as one putrid, disturbingly pungent aroma, a maleficent, eldritch aromatic abomination, that is a blight to any with the misfortune of having a sense of smell and who foolishly trusted the near unanimous, botted Google reviews for this business. Unfortunately I fit both of these categories, and even though I fled the premises, screaming after catching a whiff of the steaming pile of dung laden, curry filled apparition that they peddle, I am scarred and still unable to wholly comprehend what the loathsome Hindu sorcerers were able to manifest in that tormented bowl.

And to contemplate that not only do these Stygian rats feed us what can only be described in the culinary world as inedible, they have the audacity to charge us for being fed their venom as well. Truly the sheer disdain their owner shows is enough for me to consider him to be the bane of the Faroe Islands and my palate as well. I consider the grubby, corpulent syndicate of shirtless Indian men who operate in this establishment to be worse than even the most duplicitous and sanguine of femme fatale harridans, who slaughter men out of an unhinged desire for lust. In sooth, do not enter this area, and most significantly do not dine here, lest you wish to be subject to the most inhumane of crimes that can befall a mortal man.