I realised that I was going to need help when I walked into a bar in San
Sebastián’s old town and couldn’t figure out how, or what, to order. I’d
expected a familiar landscape: upended barrels doing double duty as tables;
dusty hams dangling from the rafters, and, at the bar, the usual array of
tapas — fat green olives stuffed with almonds, anchovies drowned in olive
oil, patatas bravas smothered in hot sauce. Instead, I was confronted
with the alien, the unidentifiable, and, I feared, the inedible.
Before me was what looked like a miniature hedgehog, rudely spatchcocked and
placed on a piece of toasted baguette. All down the bar-top tentacles
protruded from canapés; crustacean tails poked out of dollops of mayonnaise;
deep-fried strips of squid were bound with undercooked bacon. The food
seemed as spiky and strange as the Basque language.
Sheepishly, I reached for the least intimidating item I could find — a
sundried tomato on top of a wedge of Camembert on toast — and contemplated
my strategy. If I was going to get anything out of my time in the culinary
capital of Spain, I’d clearly need a crash course in the glossary of Basque
gastronomy. I had left a message with an expert in the matter, and set out
to explore the streets in an effort to build up an appetite before our
appointment.
It was immediately obvious that two cities co-existed on the same stretch of
Atlantic coast. There was San Sebastián, the wealthy resort town with the
highest property values in Spain. Popular with French holidaymakers, San
Sebastián was like a peninsula Biarritz, a belle epoque bijou
whose palmstudded beachfront boardwalk was bedecked with a carousel,
fountains and grand hotels.
Then there was Donostia, as the town is known in the Basque language, where
picketers protest outside the María Cristina Hotel, and ETA, the violent
separatist movement, pastes the walls with gruesome posters of martyrs
beaten and tortured by the Civil Guard.
The one place San Sebastián and Donostia seem to coalesce is in the Parte
Vieja, an eight or nine-square grid of five-storey buildings. And the one
thing the inhabitants of these coincidental cities seemed to agree on —
perhaps because it was the only safe topic of conversation — was food. The
Parte Vieja was like a French Quarter for foodies: a densely packed grid of
narrow, pedestrianised streets full of dozens of the best tapas bars in the
world.
Except, as Peio Amiano was quick to inform me, tapas weren’t tapas here: the
Basques called them pintxos. I’d first come across Amiano’s name in
his weekly restaurant column in the newspaper El Diario Vasco, and
flipped through a copy of his lavishly illustrated book La Alta Cocina
Vasca en Miniatura (Basque Haute Cuisine in Miniature). Stocky, with an
ample belly, Amiano chain-smoked Ducados and spoke with a kind of doleful
awareness that his mission of championing the minuscule and apparently
frivolous might appear laughable to the uninitiated.
We’d met in a bar in the Parte Vieja, and he agreed to show me the rituals of
the txikiteo, which is the Basque word for roaming from bar to bar,
leavening one’s alcohol intake with tiny portions of delicious food. Pushing
the limits of my Basque vocabulary, I entered Txepetxa, a bar renowned for
its marinated anchovies, with an attempt at a resounding “kaixo”.
Gratifyingly the bartender replied with “Berdin!” ( “same to
you!”), and made a great show of filling unstemmed glasses from a bottle of
what looked like white wine held at arm’s length over his head.
“This is txakolí,” Amiano explained. “It’s naturally fizzy,
a bit like cider or cava, and pouring it that way brings out the bubbles
even more.” I took a sip: served cold, it was tart and fresh, reminding me
of a Portuguese vinho verde, and promised to be the perfect accompaniment to
the seafood-orientated pintxos spread on the counter before us: there
was txangurro, cooked spider-crab flesh, stuffed in tarts, and
silver-backed anchovies interlaced with papaya strips on toast. Plunging in,
I took a plate of erizo de mar — literally, “hedgehog of the sea”.
“Here and in Catalonia,” explained Amiano, “we eat sea urchins raw, a few
hours after they’re taken from the ocean. They’re very flavourful.” Torn
between revulsion and fascination, I scraped a bit of the gravy-hued flesh
from the quilled black carapace. The taste was a concentrated burst of
saline, mitigated by the winey, umami flavor of the plankton-infused flesh.
I reached for my txakolí, happy to have something sweet and cool
to rinse my distressed palate.
It was in the first three decades of the last century that cuadrillas,
or squadrons, of revellers started their pub crawls. San Sebastián had had a
tradition of txokos, or gastronomic societies, going back to 1843, in
which men would gather in private clubs to cook elaborate dishes, sing and
drink. Naturally, the revelry had a tendency to spill over to local bars,
and the wives, grandmothers and sisters of the bar-keepers covered the
counters with potato-and-egg tortillas, and bits of chorizo, morcilla and
other sausages. As a strategy to curtail drunkenness, it made sense.
I mentioned to Amiano that the people of Seville claim tapas were born in a
bar called El Rinconcillo. Amiano, showing a streak of reflexive Basque
nationalism, responded with a grimace of disdain: “They would say that! But
if they say it goes back to the 19th century, we’ll say it goes back to the
15th. Andalusia has its tradition, but it’s never been up to the level of
ours. When the idea of the pintxo was born in the Basque country,
people in Madrid and Barcelona, all over Spain, started copying us.”
An example of what Amiano liked to call “bonsai cuisine” could be found in La
Cuchara de San Telmo, a hole-in-the-wall decorated with steel beer steins
and corn husks hanging over a wooden bar. Its two young chefs hurried back
to the kitchen to prepare our orders and watched, beaming, as we sipped a
creamy garlic soup in a shot glass. Tepid, chunky, almost glutinous, it was
at once refreshing and challenging. Next came bacalao, salt cod,
fried Tempura style, crispy and salty on the outside, flaky on the inside;
flanked by sun-dried tomatoes and covered with a romesco sauce, it
was almost Japanese in its presentation.
Pausing for swigs of txakolí, we confronted a plate of lightly
fried foie gras, stacked with smoked eel and caramelised apple. I was
already reaching my capacity; but Amiano was just getting started. “This is
nothing. Normally, a cuadrilla has between five and 15 people, and
they’ll visit at least five bars,” he said.
Settling up is an honorable negotiation between host and client. When a
bartender recited what I had ordered over the past half hour, I said: “What
a memory!” He’d responded by simulating a throbbing head with his hands,
lamenting: “You need it in this job!”
Taras Grescoe is the author of The Devil’s Picnic: Around
the World in Pursuit of Forbidden Fruit, which will be published by
Macmillan in spring 2006. He lives in Montreal.
Best Pintxos bars in San Sebastian
A good place to start for traditional pintxos is Juanaenea (formerly Gaztelu),
near the Plaza de la Constitución (31 de Agosto, 22). Try deep-fried gambas
(shrimps), bonito tuna and anchovies on baguettes, and seared foie gras.
Pintxos start at about £1.
Chefs Alex Montiel and Iñaki Gulin offer salt cod fried in beer batter, shot
glasses of tepid garlic soup with Idizabal cheese, and foie gras swimming in
a parsley sauce at La Cuchara de San Telmo (31 de Agosto, 28). The average
price of a pintxo is £2.
Bar Bergara (General Artetxe, 8) is a ten-minute walk from the centre of town
in the barrio of Gros. Sample the bikote, a mix of vinegar and oil-marinated
anchovies and chillies on a toasted baguette. Pintxos start at £1.
Known for its mushroom pintxos, Bar Ganbara (San Jerónimo, 21) also offers
tarts stuffed with onions, carrots and txangurro (spider crab), and two-bite
mini-croissants stuffed with jabugo ham and smoked salmon. Pintxos cost
between £1 and £2.
Txepetxa (Pescadería, 5) is the place for anchovies marinated and served with
sea urchin roe, black olive paste or even papaya strips, all on slices of
baguette. It’s also one of the best places to sample la Gilda, San
Sebastián’s signature pintxo of anchovies, chillies, and olives on a
toothpick. Anchovy pintxos from around £1.50.
BEST RESTAURANTS
Juan Mari Arzak’s Michelin three-star Restaurante Arzak (Avenida Alcalde Jose
Elosegui, 273) is a family affair. Sample strawberry gazpacho, roast lamb
covered with a coffee veil, and pigeon over a vinaigrette of flowers. From
£60 a head. Details: 00 34 943 278 465, www.arzak.es. Closed Mondays.
Chef Pedro Subijana’s two- Michelin star Restaurante Akelare (Paseo Padre
Orcolaga, 56) is set on a hilltop overlooking La Concha, a ten-minute taxi
ride from the Parte Vieja. Tasting menus include boneless milk-fed lamb
served with three-pepper skins, and warm foie gras covered with a crispy
layer of herbs. Tasting menus start at £70. Details: 943 311 209,
www.akelarre.net. Closed Sunday evenings and Mondays.
