Basque Fed

My original idea for this – my final blog – was to talk about cheese. And cheese fairs. Unfortunately, that plan was foiled thanks to a failure of public transportation and a recently lost camera. It turns out that, like most places, buses run less frequently on the weekends. This I expected. The unwillingness of taxi drivers to drive me anywhere, I did not. And a lost camera, of course, means no new photos.

So I’ll bring Basque Fed to its unofficial[1] conclusion on a more personal note, something I’ve tried hard to resist. In fact, since I started this blog seven months ago I have endeavored to write informative, fact-based articles. Along the way, people encouraged me to change the tone of Basque Fed – to be more personal. But that wasn’t my goal. In fact, writing about my experiences, feelings, and food, while gallivanting through País Vasco was a role I wanted no part of. What I wanted was to write in a way that elevated the food and the people who make it, not me, the consumer.

Before I arrived here in Basque Country, I had little idea of what awaited. I knew about the many Michelin-star restaurants and avant-garde cuisine that have made Donostia-San Sebastián and Bilbao famous. But I quickly learned that this element of Basque gastronomy has very little to do with the role and importance of food in Basque people’s lives.

The market next to my apartment serves as a great example. Mercado San Martín is over two hundred years old. It’s not like your average farmer’s market either. Sure, farmers from all the local towns come everyday (except Sunday), but there are also over twenty butchers and fishmongers. Other vendors sell things like cheese, honey, and gourmet conserves. This market still exists because of the overwhelming demand for it. It also explains why there are only two McDonald’s and no Starbucks in this city. They abound in Madrid, for example, but not here.

Then there are the festivals and events. The first one I went to celebrated “goxua,” or sweets. The Feria de Alubias (Bean Festival), the Fiesta del Chuletón (Steak Festival), and the Días de Txakoli and Eguna (Txakoli Wine and Cider Festivals, respectively), among others, all followed. Between the festivals were the weekly, open-markets in Basque villages like Ordizia and Gernika. There were the sociedades gastronomicas (gastronomic societies), of which there are hundreds in Donostia-San Sebastián alone. I was lucky enough to be invited to a few – they are club houses where members gather with friends to prepare food in the society’s industrial-sized kitchen and to eat meals over the course of several hours.

These things – markets, festivals, and big meals – are not the stuff of special occasions, but often figure into daily life. Work revolves around food; celebrations revolve around food; socializing revolves around food. Without knowing it, I chose to live, work, and write about food in a food writer’s paradise. And this is not because the food is so good, which it is, but because of how important, but mostly normal, it is for Basques.

The normalcy of eating (and celebrating) such good food on a near daily basis will be difficult to depart from. But bringing Basque Fed to a close is bittersweet for another reason. It will mean saying goodbye to all the wonderful people who made this blog possible in the first place. I am forever grateful to the colleagues, friends, and countless individuals who helped me out and answered question after question. Without you, there would be no Basque Fed; I would know some things, but not half as much as I do now. For everything I’ve learned and for all the memories I have, thank you; gracias; eskerrik asko.

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[1] I’m hoping that Basque Fed is only “on hold” for now, and that someone who lives here and loves Basque food and culture as much as I do will volunteer to take it over.

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Last weekend I took the train thirty minutes south from Donostia-San Sebastián into the heart of Gipuzkoa.[1] A friend picked me up in Alegia and from there we drove to Altzo, a small town of 400 citizens located on the top of a hill. It’s like most small towns – there’s one main street along which the town hall, library, church, and ATM are all situated. And between the library and church is the town’s one and only restaurant, Arandia Jatetxea, which has presided as such for well over a hundred years.

Facing Arandia Jatetxea is a plaza, and beyond that, postcard-quality scenery of Basque mountains and farmland. It’s a restaurant that’s been passed down from generation to generation, and is now in the hands of Maixabel Arandia, the current owner and chef. She, with the help of her daughter and sister on the weekends, prepares food for a loyal crowd who expect familiar and nourishing dishes.

The Menú del Día, the three-course menu served on weekdays, and the à la carte menu, or “la carta,” which is served on the weekends, showcase Basque home-style cooking at its most traditional. Entry into the kitchen is further proof of this as a pot of alubias (local red beans) boil on one burner, while its “sacramentos”[2] of morcilla (blood sausage), chorizo, and berza (cabbage) simmer in a mixture of water and their own juices on the side. Meanwhile, Loli, Maixabel’s sister, prepares a variety of croquetas  (croquettes) in one corner, and Lorena, Maixabel’s daughter, stuffs pimientos de piquillo[3] with a house-made bacalao (cod) filling in another.

Within a month, however, the alubias dish will lose its place on the menu, a position it has enjoyed since November. The abundance of fresh spring and summer products will happily replace heavier dishes like this, which are best eaten during the winter. Instead, “menestra de verduras,” a thick soup of local spring vegetables, will feature on the menu for about 25 days between April and May, followed by a slew of seasonal summer salads.

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The relationship Arandia Jatetxea has with its customers is telling of the restaurant’s success. Maixabel, her family, and the close-knit group of waitresses who work there, greet everyone who enters the door like a member of the family. They answer questions with enthusiasm and lend a patient ear to requests and suggestions. What Maixabel and her customers have is “confianza,” or trust. It is a bond that supports communication between both parties – diners ask for the addition of a certain dish (more pasta for athletes and salads for dieters) or the elimination of another, and Maixabel will sometimes deliver.

This dialogue between the chef and her diners has offered many opportunities to play with the menu. Arandia’s ensalada de bacalao (cod salad), a tiered salad consisting of six distinct layers of vegetables and seafood, is a modern take on a salad which places equal importance on both flavor and presentation. Despite creative dishes like this, Maixabel and her staff don’t stray too far from the traditional. That’s why people visit Arandia Jatetxea after all. So that they can eat cogote, a traditional Basque dish of baked head of merluza (hake), if they so desire. But Maixabel offers another merluza option – merluza al horno con salsa de pikillo (baked hake with a piquillo pepper sauce) – for those who desire home-style cooking that is both beautifully presented and technically sophisticated.

Arandia Jatetxea is what some might consider an institution. And a rarity. It is a restaurant run by a family who likewise treat its customers as such. The food reflects the familiarity that exists between the establishment and its diners. It’s wholesome cooking that will warm you on a cold day and cool you on a hot one. You can meander about, drinking wine for hours before sitting down to your meal, usually shared with all members of the family. There’s no rush nor are there formalities. It’s not unlike going to grandma’s on any given Sunday, hanging out, and then sitting down when the meal is finally ready. That’s what the people do who eat at Arandia Jatetxea – fulfill their own traditions while breathing life into the tradition that is this restaurant.

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[1] Gipuzkoa is one of the three provinces that make up the Basque Country. It is the province within which the city of Donostia-San Sebastián is located. It is more or less the equivalent of a county within a state.

[2] Sacramentos refer to the sides that always accompany a bowl of alubias.

[3] Pimientos de piquillo, or piquillo peppers, are a type of red pepper grown in Navarra.

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When peppers arrived to Europe from the Americas in the 16^th century, they were quickly appropriated by the Basques who learned that in addition to trading, they could cultivate this highly valued commodity locally for themselves. Thus, peppers were introduced to the Basque soil and climate over 400 years ago.

By contrast to the dryer, hotter temperatures of Mexico, Central and South America, the Basque climate is wetter and cooler. The heat and spiciness normally associated with peppers is often lacking in guindillas, pimientos de piquillo, and other peppers, which adjusted to their new environment. As such, the peppers grown locally bear little resemblance to their American forebearers, having evolved into a uniquely Basque product[1].

Of the peppers that remain to be discussed, two of them are one in the same. The pimiento de Gernika, a long green pepper picked young and served fresh, fails to be labeled as such when it is left to pass through adolescence into adulthood. In this case, one finally arrives at the bright red pimiento choricero. Though theoretically the same pepper, here we’ll treat them separately due to their distinct and inimitable place in Basque cooking and manner of eating.

The pimiento de Gernika, or Gernika pepper, enjoys pride of place as the companion to the protein-laden entrée it usually accompanies. Served on a plate all their own, pimientos de Gernika are typically fried in olive oil with garlic until they’re shriveled and slightly browned. They are finally sprinkled with a generous hand of fat salt grains. Slightly bitter, these peppers are great with steak or on their own as a ración (small plate), eaten with a cold beer.

The pimiento choricero, on the other hand, is a red pepper utilized in cooking and the elaboration of sausages like chorizo. Coveted for its meaty interior, the pimiento choricero is typically sold dried. To use it, it must be rehydrated over the course of a few hours, after which time the flesh is scraped out. It is also sold in glass jars as a paste, in which case the flesh has already been extracted for you. Once obtained, the meat is employed in the preparation of stews and sauces, adding a characteristic red color and sweet or spicy flavor (depending on whether it is of the dulce or picante variety) to the dish.

Finally, there is the piment d’Espelette, a pepper cultivated in French Basque Land, or Pays Basque. Available fresh, dried, or as a powder, the piment d’Espelette is perhaps the most versatile of the Basques’ peppers. Fresh piment d’Espelette are used in piperade, a vegetable ragout served with eggs and/or cured ham. They are also blended into a purée – indeed, the spiciest form of this pepper – and utilized in the preparation of grilled meats like lamb and pork. In its dried state, the pepper loses a signifant degree of heat, its flavor becoming smoother. At this point, it can be ground into a powder. As a spice, the piment d’Espelette knows no limit, adding flavor to items like bread, sausages, mustard, ketchup, olive oil, honey, chocolate, ice cream, and even wine.

Whether served as a pintxo, cooked in a sauce, or used as a flavoring, peppers find their way into almost every aspect of Basque gastronomy. And the value afforded them exists on both sides of the Basque border. Spanish Basques have a selection from which to pick and choose, and French Basques boast one pepper with seemingly unlimited utility. But this is not a contest. National boundaries notwithstanding, the Basques are of the same mind when it comes to cuisine. Peppers, in this case, have a long history in the Basque Country, during which time the people have determined their ideal growing conditions and their best uses. Ultimately, we find that the  importance of peppers in Basque Land is based not only on their prevalence in the local gastronomy, but on the very qualified evaluation of their quality and elaboration by the governments that protect them and the consumers who would accept nothing less.

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[1] As pimientos de piquillo are grown in Navarra, a former province of País Vasco and currently a community of Spain, their status as Basque is contentious. Due to regional divisions, one can argue that pimientos de piquillo, for instance, are Navarrese or Spanish.

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What olive oil is to Meditteranean cuisine, pimientos (peppers) are to Basque cuisine. They permeate every facet of the local gastronomy, from the top down to the bottom, on its sides and in between. Literally. Pimientos are the garnish found on top of tortillas de patata (potato omelettes), the red of sauces, and are served as an accompaniment to steak. They’re grilled and in the sandwiches we eat. The list goes on.

Served in every bar and restaurant, and displayed by the hundreds on supermarket shelves, their omnipresence begs the question, “Do the Basques have an addiction?” The demand is obvious with little more than a fleeting glance at almost any bar counter. On skewers, they’re piled high forming pyramids. Or on pieces of bread, they’ll be stuffed with meat and placed side by side on trays.

Different pimientos serve different purposes, which also explains why there are so many kinds. For a region that is little more than the size of Delaware (it’s about 2,800 square miles), Basque cuisine employs the use of not one, not two, but five varieties of pimientos, all of which are grown locally. (For the purposes of this blog, we’ll explore two.)

Pintxos serve as the most visible showcasing of pimientos, and in fact, the vanguard pintxo – the pintxo to precede all pintxos – was the “Gilda,” a lovely combination of guindilla peppers, an anchovy, and an olive on a skewer. The guindilla is a thin pepper, picked early while it is still greenish yellow. Conserved in white wine vinegar and packaged tight like sardines in glass jars, they are tangy, with a spicy one creeping into the mix every once in a while. Chopped up, the guindilla pepper is added to alubias (red beans) for extra flavor and is sometimes eaten with a chunk of bonito and sliver of anchovy as a montadito (small sandwich).

Just as popular as the Gilda are “pimientos rellenos,” peppers stuffed with fish or meat. Served as a pintxo or even a meal in some cases, pimientos rellenos feature the most ubiquitous of the Basques’ peppers – the pimiento de piquillo. Impossible to miss, they are small, triangular peppers of the most intense red. Commanding nearly an aisle’s worth of space in the grocery store, the piquillo is certainly a beloved pepper among the Basques. This is likely thanks to their versatility and pleasing flavor.

First harvested by hand, the piquillo pepper is later roasted, peeled, and stored in glass jars or tins to be sold. Rare is there an occasion to buy fresh piquillo peppers. So it is once they’re conserved in jars that they are either eaten as-is or cooked. As pintxos, they’re typically stuffed with bacalao (cod) or sliced up to adorn montaditos. Sautéd with olive oil and garlic, they are also used to make sauces. Because it is a relatively sweet pepper, lacking any traces of acidity, it is not unusual to see it served with saltier foods like steak, tortilla de patata, or cheese.

Why talk about the guindilla and pimiento de piquillo? Because these peppers share something in common. Beyond the bar and restaurant, they exist as a household staple; the equivalent of peanut butter for Americans. They are also grown with the utmost care. The pimiento de piquillo, which is produced in Navarra (a region of Spain neighboring País Vasco to the east), is protected by the Denominación de Origen (DOE) label, which guarantees the quality and origin of any product bearing its stamp. The guindilla, grown in País Vasco, is protected by the Basque equivalent: the Eusko Label (“Kalitatea” in Basque). Certified to grow only in specific towns and harvested by hand, the guindilla and piquillo pepper are much more than peppers – they are the pride of the people who grow them and eat them. And they are the fruit of the land that, quite literally, would not be the same without them.

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Imagine a room, not too large, not too small, with high ceilings. At the far wall, three gigantic, wooden barrels are lined in a row. They’re the kind you might associate with wine fermentation. The floor gently slopes down from all directions to a drain. And around it and throughout the room are long tables and benches. It’s cold outside, and it’s also cold in this room. Through a door on the right a man rolls in a parrilla (grill) whose coal glows red and orange. Still, it remains cold.

Outside there’s a patio with a large barbeque grill built into the wall. It’s black with soot. There are other doors along a low-roofed building to the left, leading to still other rooms.

This building is a sagardotegi, the Basque word for ‘cider house” (in Spanish it’s ‘sidrería’). One can drink sagardoa (‘cider’ in Basque) any time of year, but traditionally the season of visiting sagardotegis and drinking cider begins in January. The apples are harvested between September and November. They then undergo a process of fermentation that can last from 2 to 5 months. So by January, the first cider is ready to drink.

Surprisingly, a trip to the sagardotegi revolves not around cider, but around the relationship between cider and food. The actions of getting up to drink and sitting down to eat are constant and characterize the entire experience of visiting a sagardotegi. The moment one settles down to indulge in a forkful of creamy tortilla de bacalao (a cod omelette) is likely the same moment the ‘txoko’ is announced.

Shouted out by anyone who feels like it – a friend at your table, the guy across the room, or even the owner – the txoko is a call for more cider. Oftentimes it means an exodus of diners to the sagardotegi’s cellar where spouts are opened and cider explodes out in a fast and steady stream. Though the taste of cider varies considerably from barrel to barrel, almost every gulpful has a chance at excellence depending on whether it’s been properly aerated. For this reason cider is always served, whether from the barrika or botella (barrel or bottle), from a distance and in small amounts. The contact with air affords the cider a fizziness that, if not drunk quickly, is soon lost while waiting in one’s glass.

After the umpteenth txoko, it is back to sitting down. With little more than a fork and a knife, diners share the food placed before them with their companions. The meal is always the same – it’s the menu served at all sagardotegis: first, tortilla de bacalao, second, bacalao con pimientos verdes (cod with roasted green peppers), a large chuleta (steak), an endless replenishment of bread, and a finale of queso, membrillo, and nueces (cheese, quince, and walnuts).

The enjoyment of cider requires the “perfect storm” of different elements. Cold weather, friends, and good food bring out the crispness of the cider that would otherwise seem flat in another environment. Bundled up with empty glasses in hand, the people rush en masse to the cellar and different rooms of the sagardotegi to help themselves to cider that is sometimes sweet, bitter, acidic, or smooth. The flavor of apple is its only constant. Savoury, home-cooked food waits on the long tables, its steam slowly disappearing into the thin air. The people return, sit down, and indulge. The cycle continues and still no one notices the cold.

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During the holidays in País Vasco and throughout Spain, there are so many dessert options available that even if sweets aren’t your thing, you’re bound to have a favorite this time of year. In continuation of “A Time for Savory and Sweet,” this blog covers two more desserts – one with transformative powers, and the other capable of bestowing luck.

Mazapán, or marzipan, is something between a candy and a cookie. Made of ground almond and sugar, it is soft, yet dense against one’s teeth and is very sweet. To some it hints of coconut or pistachio; others taste the almond. Year-round it is molded into bite-size spheres and is covered in pine nuts. It is also shaped into various fruits or little animals. By the end of November, mazapán begins to undergo a month-long transformation. Made into large, compact blocks, it serves as the foundation for many types of turrón. Mixed with an egg white, it becomes the “anguila de mazapán.”

The anguila de mazapán is everywhere packaged in festive boxes for gift-giving, mostly among adults. It is marzipan in the shape of an eel (‘anguila’ in Spanish), and despite its name it is a popular and beautiful dessert. After turning a golden-brown in the oven, the almond-flavored eel is decorated with white frosting and surrounds a constellation of colorful frutas escarchadas (candied fruits). The frosting seems unnecessary on an already sugar-laden dessert, but the candied fruits are a must. The addition of citrus, pineapple, or berries is just the “twist” of flavor that a piece of sugary mazapán will have you craving.

Though the anguila de mazapán is a sight for the eyes, the roscón de Reyes is the holiday season’s centerpiece. A dessert with special significance, the roscón is to el día de los Reyes Magos (Three Kings Day) what eggs are to Easter, what cake is to a birthday. It is a ring-shaped cake, bready in texture and sweet like a sweet roll, shared by family and friends on the Eve and day of los Reyes Magos. Its presence on these two days is a given, which might explain the craze for roscones leading up to the fifth and sixth of January.

The phones in pastelerías (pastry shops) start ringing the first week of December as people order large and small, plain and cream-filled roscones, each one for a different purpose. The small roscones are for the little ones awaiting gifts from los Reyes Magos. The custom is to place a shoe underneath one’s bed; by morning, a small roscón may be inside. The larger roscones are for family events. The plain roscón without any filling is saved for breakfast on the Eve of the los Reyes Magos. The roscón filled with whipped cream is eaten for dessert after lunch on January 6th, el día de los Reyes Magos.

While the eating of the roscón de Reyes is a Spanish tradition, the Basques like to add their own touch when making it. Whereas plain water is typically used in the baking process, Basques like to infuse it with esencia de flor de azahar (essence of orange-flower blossom). French Basques go a step further, mixing small pieces of dried fruit into the roscón batter and topping the cake with pebbles of sugar.

The roscón is the same, yet different everywhere. Despite its nuances from place to place, there is one thing that ties them all together. Hidden within every cake is a small figurine believed to give luck to the person who finds it on their plate (or in their mouth). In the end, however, everyone wins. The roscón brings an end to the holidays and there is little doubt that as much as we anticipate Christmastime and our favorite seasonal sweet, it is soon after their arrival that we look forward to their departure. A year may be long for the next anguila de mazapán or roscón de Reyes or whatever else, but it is worth the wait. And our stomachs will surely be grateful.

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In País Vasco, where every celebration or event revolves around the act of dining together, it’s not unusual to hear locals bemoan this “tradition of eating,” oftentimes beyond capacity, and in the same conversation happily resign themselves to it. Eating quality food around a table with those closest to you is an inextricable part of Basque culture, and one that features in their daily lifestyle. The holidays are no exception, testing the limits of one’s stomach at every turn, offering up some savory and a whole lot of sweet.

December 21st marks the official first day of the holiday season in País Vasco in what is known as el día de Santo Tomás (The Day of Saint Thomas). This day has nothing to do with Saint Thomas, nor does it have any religious connection. It is a celebration of two foods – txistorra[1], a sausage historically eaten during the winter months following the November matanza, or “pig sacrifice,” and talo, a corn bread not so distinct from the soft tortilla found in the Americas.

In the cities of Donostia-San Sebastián and Bilbao, el día de Santo Tomás is actively celebrated on the streets and in plazas and cafés. In Donostia, people crowd the Plaza de la Constitución in the Parte Vieja, the oldest part of the city, where food stands line its periphery. Behind the stands, txistorra is grilled by plump, old men, while women roll, pound, pat, and finally grill the flat, circular pieces of talo. Served warm, it is wrapped around the txistorra. Other stands serve sidra[2] (cider) which spews from its barrels into plastic cups for 1 euro, and is in fact the only way to wash down txistorra with talo.

People here love txistorra followed by a shot of sidra. It’s a flavorful sausage with a mild spicyness. Sidra, an alcoholic beverage, is bubbly and refreshing, with a distinct apple flavor that is at once sour and vaguely sweet. In large amounts, this combination can awaken one’s sweet tooth, which is satisfied by the stands selling pastel vasco (Basque tart) and artisanal chocolate cake by the piece.

A celebration of food and drink, el día de Santo Tomás is also preparation for even more eating. On la Nochebuena or Christmas Eve, Basques unite with family for dinner, and come together again on Christmas Day for a large lunch. New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day follow the same format. While there is little agreement on a typical meal with regard to these celebrations, one item is consistent on almost every holiday dinnertable – dessert.

Mantecados, polvorones, and turrón are the sweets of las navidades (Christmas holidays) in País Vasco and throughout Spain. Indeed, if there is one thing that unites Spaniards gastronomically, it’s their love of postre (dessert) and there is no better time than the months of November, December, and January to enjoy what only Christmastime brings.

Mantecados and polvorones at first sight look like cookies because of their round shape. Often wrapped in paper and twisted closed at the ends, they are both made with flour, lard, sugar and cinnamon, in differing quantities. Mantecados contain more lard, while polvorones contain more flour, thus proving extremely brittle to the touch. Some people opt to smush them between the palms of their hands so they maintain their form. Others simply open them and pick up the pieces. The most popular mantecados and polvorones are made with ground almond and are eaten with their cousin, the turrón.

Turrón is perhaps this country’s favorite dessert, a statement that can be corroborated by many sources. Turrón, like mantecados and polvorones, is unique in the world of sweets. There are two types – the hard kind and the soft kind – which are cut into thick bars. Golden brown in color, the original turrón is made with four ingredients: almonds, honey, sugar, and egg whites. Nowadays it is easy to find it made with chocolate, caramel, or walnuts, for example. Though these variations satisfy different cravings, the original is worth a first try. The soft kind has a rich almond flavor similar to that of almond butter. The bar has a smooth texture accented with crunchy bits of nuts. A thin layer of honey and oil glaze its exterior, adding a degree of moisture and sweetness otherwise lacking in the dry, nuttiness of the bar itself. This is the perfect dessert to have with milk, coffee, or tea.

The way Basques celebrate their holidays and special events can be likened to the way Americans celebrate Thanksgiving. Whatever the event may be, it is always associated with a particular food just as turkey is always associated with Thanksgiving. Cheese in September, alubias (beans) in November, txistorra on el día de Santo Tomás, sidra in the winter, and so on. The holidays here bring us a day of savory, but they revolve around sweet. In supermarkets, grandmothers and children alike fill bags by the kilo-full of mantecados and polvorones, and quickly move on to the tables of turrón. Everyone has their preference. And still some decide to wait because the season of sweet is not yet over. On January 6th, el día de los Reyes Magos (Three Kings’ Day) arrives, which can only mean one thing: the cake named in their honor, the roscón de Reyes, is finally set upon the table.

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[1] A sausage, similar to chorizo, made in the Spanish regions of País Vasco and Navarra.

[2] An alcoholic drink made from fermented apple juice served year-round, but available at the most authentic sidrerías (cider houses) from January to April.

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Food is particularly good here in the Basque Country. To be honest, it is particularly good throughout Spain. That said, this week’s blog breaks a rule – it goes beyond its Basque bounds and briefly into La Rioja. Not to would be a shame, and since rules are meant to be broken, so they will be.

Good food is easy to come by whether in the seaside city of Donostia-San Sebastián, the mountain town of Tolosa, or in wine country’s unofficial capital, Haro. Discerning, however, between good food and its delicious counterparts is not a passive act. It’s a deliberate search for what’s in-season in these parts; it is a matter of knowing and choosing wisely, whether in a restaurant or at the market.

December and its fellow winter months stand up to the challenges of cold, wet weather offering up what cold, wet weather does best – hearty vegetables and the wares of caza (hunting season). It’s also impossible not to see “setas” and “hongos” (wild mushrooms) on every menu, a holdover from the recent fall forage. They often take center-stage marinated and/or grilled as an appetizer or accompaniment to a big piece of meat.

In the Basque Country, there are many local, winter delights on offer. In an effort to learn about and experience them trips, festivals, and a fair amount of consumption was required. After visiting countless pintxo bars, restaurants, and tastings, it became clear that the following dishes composed the ultimate in-season meal.

Entrante (appetizer): Alcachofas con almejas (artichokes with clams)

The Blanca de Tudela, a variety of artichoke that is small and elongated, is grown locally to País Vasco’s south and east in La Rioja and Navarra.¹ Currently at the top of its game, the vegetable is everywhere often paired with jamón, Spain’s famous dry-cured ham. At El Rincón del Noble, a restaurant in La Rioja, they serve the local specialty with seafood. They’re marinated in a thick, emerald olive oil, grilled top-side down and served with steamed clams. The soft artichokes, creamy on the inside, crunchy where grilled, and glazed with a strong olive oil on the outside, followed by salty and slightly chewy clams, achieves a balance of textures and a subtly of flavor best suited for whetting the appetite.

Segundo plato (entrée): Magret de pato con setas y salsa de castañas (duck breast with wild mushrooms and chestnut sauce) vs. Chuleta de Buey con pimientos del piquillo (ox steak with roasted red peppers)

A tie between duck and steak can only mean one thing: the duck must taste like steak. It’s served raw, sliced thick, and presented on a plate surrounding a heap of wild mushrooms. With a cast-iron pan set on the table over a small flame, you can grill the duck to your liking. It’s a lean meat, but the layer of fat on the outer edge of each slice provides just the right amount of moisture, not to mention flavor, to grill the duck and mushrooms to personal, juicy perfection. The large crystals of salt sprinkled on each slice bring out the meat’s depth of flavor. It doesn’t have that typical gamey taste; it’s like red meat with a twist. Paired with a wild mushroom and dipped lightly into the chestnut sauce, the bite is complete – it is lent a smokey, woodsy flavor with a final touch of sweetness.

Yet, the chuleta de Buey con pimientos del piquillo is tough competition. The chuleta, weighing in at a kilo, is meant to feed two people (about one pound per person). It is served rare, without the option of requesting otherwise, and lacks the crude, chewiness with which we often associate juicy red meat. Served with bright red peppers, roasted and skinned, the combination is dramatic. A piece of sweet, slightly acidic pimiento atop a chunk of juicy meat is a burst of flavors that both contrast and compliment one another. More than sweet meeting salty, it is the intensity and strength of both that proves unforgettable.

Postre (dessert): Idiazábal con membrillo y nueces (Idiazábal cheese with quince paste and walnuts)

Idiazábal con membrillo y nueces is a typical ending to any Basque lunch, an event that can last hours. It is the kind of dessert offered almost anywhere, but Oquendo, a restaurant in Donostia-San Sebastián is great at transforming traditional dishes into art. Organized in three neat rows, this dessert is a beautiful display of the Basque Country’s wintertime fruits. Idiazábal is strictly the product of Latxua and Carranzana sheep, a breed native to the Basque Country, and is ready to eat by the fall and winter after having cured over the summer. A hard cheese, it is surprisingly low in intensity – a little salty, a little sweet, with a bite at the end – and yet it subdues the concentrated sweetness of the membrillo. Followed by a crunchy walnut, there is no dessert that incorporates these light, delicate flavors better after a long meal.

These dishes exemplify the variety and quality of seasonal meals served in and around the Basque Country. Indeed the presence of seasonal fare exists across a spectrum of menus in this region – from the avant-garde to the traditional – and necessarily means encountering similar food from place to place. This repetition can only mean one thing – menus reflect the desires of the people ordering. Basques love their land (they spent centuries fighting for and defending it), and above all, appreciate what it is capable of producing. They also seek to consume that which their fellow Basques have labored over and created. Finally, Basques seek the best, and since December is capable of what August is not, and vice versa, they choose wisely.

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What better way to begin this blog on none other than two gastronomic events of great significance to both locals and the international community alike. In Tolosa, a mountain town thirty minutes outside of San Sebastián, the “Feria de la alubia” (Bean Festival) took place this past weekend (November 19-22), overlapped and followed by the “Congreso Internaciónal de Gastronomía” (International Gastronomy Convention) in Donostia-San Sebastián (November 22-25).

Two events that exemplify the versatile nature of Basque cuisine, Tolosa’s alubias festival is a celebration of a bean, its past, and its presence in traditional Basque fare, while San Sebastián’s Congreso Gastronomika is a forum dedicated to the discussion and exploration of Basque cuisine and its future, without borders or limitations.

Perhaps the best thing about events like these is the ability to see (and taste!) the two very different sides of the regional gastronomy. “La nueva cocina,” inspired by France’s nouvelle cuisine, has given way to “la alta cocina” (the equivalent of the kitchen’s haute couture), now the subject of this week’s Congreso Gastronomika. Basque and Spanish cuisine have reached such heights thanks to a strong base from which to build. And Tolosa’s alubias are a perfect example of that base (one of many), and its festival a showcasing of it.

While San Sebastián’s Congreso Gastronomika opened its doors with a day of tastings, talks, and classes to the public, the next three days carried a 350 euro price tag to share meals with the best of the best chefs from around the world. In the end, Tolosa’s Feria de las Alubias proved a more accessible option. Over a two-day period, Saturday and Sunday, Tolosa’s alubias festival was a mix of txapela (beret) and pintxo[1] contests accompanied by the sounds of marching bands and what seemed like all the town’s people in the main square. Saturday was a day for Tolosa’s alubias producers as they competed to win the prize for the best alubia. Sunday brought together nearly two dozen chefs from around País Vasco to prepare the award-winning bean to win the prize for the best alubias recipe.

As 21 chefs swirled their pots in preparation for the final tasting, assistants handed out pintxos of morcilla (blood sausage) and txistorra (locally elaborated chorizo), and glasses of red wine. Five elderly men assembled themselves, spoons in hand, and tasted each pot. The winners cheered and drank shots of cider in celebration. The event culminated in a grand lunch, as most normally do. Rows of tables were topped with bottles of wine and plates of sliced hams and pates; a baguette was placed beside every plate.  An unlimited supply of alubias served with the typical sides – berza (cabbage), morcilla, txistorra, tocino (bacon), and costilla (ribs) – all thrown in the same bowl and mixed together made for a hearty autumn meal. Dessert was the icing on the cake, as rice pudding accompanied Tolosa’s very own tejas and cigarrillos – sugar cookies elaborated with almonds and butter.

While a meal with the stars would have revealed a lot about where Basque cuisine is going, this weekend (and this blog) was about an adopted staple and a tradition. The bean is from the Americas, but the Basques made it their own, and the Tolosans make it the best. Once a year, just after the harvest, they celebrate the care with which they take to make a great product, display it for all to see, and eat it together as one large community-family. A celebration of a bean, it turns out, is a celebration of the Basque way – it is an appreciation for that which nourishes the body, shared and experienced with others, always around a table.

Look for my next blog on Wednesday, December 9. Thanks!

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[1] The local name for ‘tapas.’

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Dear Readers,

I apologize for the delay. This blog will officially “take off” on Monday, November 23rd with the posting of my first blog.

Until then, thank you for your patience!

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