Basque in glory
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Two curious envelopes on the table at Mugaritz offer a choice. On one "150 min... rebel!" is typed; on the other "150 min... submit!" Inside "rebel", a card says: "150 minutes to feel embarrassed, flustered, fed up..." It sums up our mood on arrival at this gracious restaurant, supposedly 20 minutes' drive from San Sebastián, after getting horribly lost despite ringing twice for directions. Ninety minutes late, we eventually pull up at a stone farmhouse surrounded by fields full of haystacks shaped the way Monet loved to paint them. As a result of our tardiness, our meal in the spacious and slightly rustic dining room is a truncated version of Mugaritz's usual 11-dish parade, but we choose to submit and let the humour and cleverness of this remarkable restaurant lift our spirits.The two words - submit and rebel - sum up the Basque spirit: fiercely independent and free-spirited, yet practical and politically savvy. Basques would opt for both. The region, which straddles the French and Spanish borders, has been seminal in shaping Europe's worldview and the world itself. Indeed it was a Basque navigator, Juan Sebastián Elcano from Getaria, a fishing village west of San Sebastián, who fulfilled explorer Ferdinand Magellan's vision to circumnavigate the globe.
San Sebastián, the capital of the Basque region - Pais Vasco in Spanish, or Euskadi in Basque - has been a thriving seaside resort since the 19th century when Queen Isabel II made sea bathing fashionable here. It is still immensely popular as a summer playground - Playa de La Concha is one of the world's most beautiful city beaches - and as host to an annual film festival whose 57th edition takes place in September. Known officially as Donostia-San Sebastian (Donostia is its Basque name), this city of 200,000 people is also regarded as the culinary capital of the world, boasting more Michelin stars per capita than anywhere else. On this trip our sightseeing is of the gastronomic kind - we have come to eat and eat some more - and Michelin star-gazing is top of the list.
But a bowl of warm stones? The first offering at the two-star Mugaritz is a witty conjurer's trick that sets the tone for an astonishing meal. We bite into the softer pebbles, avoiding the marble ones they sit beside, and the crisp shell, made of a special clay that is said to aid digestion, reveals a creamy potato core. Chef Andoni Aduriz blends tradition and symbolism with the latest culinary techniques for a meal of surprise and delight. Aduriz, 37, was an apprentice to Ferran Adrià of El Bulli, regarded as Spain's - and the world's - best restaurant, however he injects more soul into the food than his mentor. The next course, 'vegetable' carpaccio, is also an illusion. It mimics the Italian raw meat dish, but is actually watermelon - not that you know from the indeterminate taste - with a scattering of pine nuts, baby leaves and shaved Idiazabal, a local sheep's milk cheese. Our meal wends its way from roast baby pig on nutty quinoa (a high-protein grain) with fermented leaves to three desserts, including chocolate cake beside a cocoa bubble bath. When what looks like a mint appears, we try to eat it before the waiter can arrive to pour hot tea over it. The lozenge expands, metamorphosing into a hand towel to conclude the meal. We won't rebel again.
The genesis of San Sebastian's golden culinary age can be traced back to the time of dictator Francisco Franco's death in 1975. The Basques opposed fascism before the rest of the world understood its grim meaning. They paid a heavy price with the 1937 bombing of Guernica. For the next four decades, Franco suppressed Basque culture as well as Euskera, the Z, K and X-laced native language that makes the region bilingual and defines its people. Through its struggle to survive, the Basque country has thrived.
In his compelling book, The Basque History of the World, Mark Kurlansky attempts to understand the region's mindset, describing Basques as mythical, with an ancient culture, yet unflinchingly progressive. They lay claim to pioneering everything from democracy to free trade, workers co-operatives and salt cod. Then there are the bragging rights to one of the world's greatest buildings, Frank Gehry's Guggenheim Museum at Bilbao, a previously listless industrial port transforming into a thriving cultural centre. Creativity and regeneration underpin Euskadi.
In 1975, 12 apostles of modern Basque cooking gathered to reassert their cultural identity through food. They included Juan Mari Arzak, Pedro Subijana (of the three-star Akelare restaurant) and Luis Irizar, the movement's patriarch, whose cooking school, now run by his daughter Visi, continues to train both amateurs and professionals alike. Inspired by France's nouvelle cuisine, the group met monthly for special dinners that gave a contemporary energy to traditional recipes. Modern Spanish cuisine was forged in passionate debates over these tables. The master of nueva cocina, Ferran Adrià, is a descendant of this time.
Juan Mari Arzak's culinary heritage is remarkable. His grandparents opened a taberna in San Sebastian in 1897. His daughter, Elena Arzak Espina, is the fourth generation to ply the family trade on this site. For 20 years, their eponymous restaurant, on a road climbing through the suburbs, has held three Michelin stars. It ranks in the top 10 of the World's 50 Best Restaurants. Dad's imagination continues to fire in Arzak's test kitchen, where a library of 1000 ingredients is re-invented in new forms. Elena, 39, is his collaborator and heir apparent.
In a crisply masculine space of black walls, we're seated upstairs, where the sommelier marches past like a testosterone-laden toreador. Arzak's waitresses, dressed in designer pinafores, bear the warmth. We opt for the degustation with enigmatically poetic dishes such as 'meat on frost', 'fade away' and 'lunar sweet'. It begins with a series of clever amuse bouche, including a vegetable 'fossil', lotus root sandwich with fish mousse and a black alabaster plinth - of golden nuggets of mushroom and rice that explode in the mouth like pop rocks. Five visually striking savoury dishes follow including a black plate of lobster claw on a white olive oil powder with a saffron sauce; sole with edible clay; and pigeon breast with Chinese wolfberries, plus tomato and potato, reshaped into puzzle pieces. The theatrical highlight is a dessert of baked pineapple with a volcano of 'bubbling rum'. Pina colada is poured into a tall glass of dry ice creating a 45-second eruption across the plate. Elena Arzak is a gracious host and visits her diners for an amiable chat, explaining the intricacies of her food and championing her father's legacy. It's been an intelligent, fascinating and impressive meal, yet we feel strangely unmoved. Perhaps it's just too clever.
Back on our first night in San Sebastian, we sought tradition at Saltxipi restaurant, a short walk from our plush boutique hotel, Villa Soro. Chef Ana Mari Añorga is the second generation of her family to cook there, while her son is on the floor. The food is straightforward and delicious, with classics such as lightly fried Gernika chillies - more sweet than hot, but watch out for the occasional surprise - salt cod tortilla, gelatinous kokotxas (hake cheeks) with white parsley sauce and baked clams in wet, lemony rice. Saltxipi's specialty is txangurro (spider crab); the sweet, splintered flesh is woven into salads, fried in croquettes or boiled. It's an honest, well-priced meal.
Our days begin to take on a particular rhythm: mornings exploring the city and region, lunch in a smart restaurant, a siesta, a stroll along the waterfront promenades at La Concha and Ondarreta beach, where a fine children's playground is set in the beach sand. Then in the late evenings we trawl the downtown tapas bars.
For lunch one day we weave through a latticework of streets on the city' suburban outskirts seeking Martin Berasategui's eponymous restaurant. The chef has kindly marked the way with his distinctive logo of a toqued chef's profile inset with a ladle.
The buildings stop suddenly to unfurl a splendid rural setting. Berasategui's royal-blue flagship restaurant is awash with black-clad waiters and the trappings of fine dining: padded stands for handbags and toothbrushes in the bathroom. The menu is filled with molecular wizardry - gels, foams, dehydration, Miro-like squiggles of sauce and puree - amid some heavenly combinations. Every dish is petite, so even dining à la carte is a mini-degustation. The 'Great' degustation is 13 courses, starting with a vibrant peach gazpacho with cockles and txakoli, a quirky, spritzy Basque white wine. Roast red mullet with crisp fish scales is an extraordinary new dish, with a saffron-scented fish broth and what appears to be an olive but is a liquid gel filled with concentrated olive flavour. Celery ice-cream with a smear of beetroot, celery sprouts, mango and an eau de vie granita initially confounds then intrigues. His menu declares "I propose that you allow me to seduce you". The chef appears to say hello to all his guests. H e seems shy, moving on quickly, yet the memory of his cooking lingers.
Pintxos is the Basque word for tapas, although the locals claim they were first on that front too. Every evening, San Sebastian's Parte Vieja (Old Quarter), the waterfront neck leading to Monte Urgull, - between the river and La Concha, comes alive with revellers moving from bar to bar, grazing on small morsels. Across the river is the Gros quarter, where pintxos take on a more modern hue. There, the likes of Alona Berri add nueva cocina razzle dazzle to its nibbles, such as brandada - potato and salt cod - in a clam-like pastry shell.
Tonight our guide is Gabriella Ranelli de Aguirre, an expat New Yorker who fell in love with the region and a Basque man a decade earlier and now runs Tenedor cultural and culinary tours. She counts San Sebastián's galaxy of star chefs among her friends. The legendary must-visit is Txepetxa, where vinegar-cured anchovies star in a kaleidoscope of combinations. The check-shirted barmen, slightly insouciant, shout orders to the kitchen through a microphone like a ship's captain bellowing orders to the engine room. Anchovies with olive purée appear, crab on bread and skewers of anchovy with pickled chillies. The barman theatrically pours txakoli from a great height. It's fresh, acidic and lightly fizzy. It's all fast, furious and fun.
At Casa Tiburcio we tuck into pig's ear, pig's trotter and beef cheek with apple sauce, before moving onto La Viña. It's not the Parte Vieja's best-looking bar, but the boys standing under the foil-capped jamons have quick smiles and a twinkle in their eyes. The chorizo a la sidra (in cider) and still-warm tortilla are delicious, but it's the tarta de queso (cheesecake), wantonly rich with an oozing creamy centre, that is like a siren song. O ur final stop is Bar Txurrut in Plaza de la Constitución for a nightcap of patxaran, a crimson Basque liqueur made from wild sloe berries and anise, served in a brandy balloon on ice. The square was historically used for bullfighting. The numbers on each balcony are a reminder that no matter who resides there, the traditional family owners retain the rights to view the action from those balconies. You can almost hear the ghosts, but it could be the patxaran speaking.
By day, Parte Vieja is full of small joys to discover: La Koxkera, the salt cod shop; San Jeronimo, where you can watch - la señora hand-make potato crisps, then buy a bag; the delicatessen Zapore Jai, with its range of Bellota (acorn fed) hams, lomo (cured pork sausages), cheeses and wines. You can even find a txapela, the beret many regard as French, which is truly Basque.
The next day from our rustic agroturismo at Monte Igeldo, high on the cliffs overlooking the lapis-lazuli-coloured sea that can transform to slate-grey as the weather changes its mood, we set off towards Bilbao for Asador Etxebarri. It has no Michelin stars, but last year made the World's 50 Best Restaurants and counts Australian star chef Neil Perry among its fans. As we climb into the mountains, graffiti proclaims it as ETA country. The once-feared, violent independence organisation called a ceasefire in 2006, but their patriotism continues.
Etxaberria means "new house". It's a wry joke that also plays on the Basque notion of the house as family identity. Chef Victor Arginzoniz, a man as painfully shy as he is brilliant, restored this 18th-century stone building in the village square 20 years ago. Jagged limestone peaks encase the setting. His octogenarian father grows most of the vegetables, while his wife, Patricia, runs front-of-house. His sous chef, Lennox Hastie, is a Brisbane boy, passing through, who stayed.
Arginzoniz's food is simple and straightforward, yet carries its own drama as it lets great produce prosecute its merits. Everything is exquisitely perfumed with smoke from la brasa, the charcoal grill, or wood-fired oven. We start with a wedge of pungent, hand-churned sheep's milk butter, covered in sulphurous volcanic salt. The sublime parade includes wild mushrooms, a single prawn - pulled live from a tank, just before cooking - smoky from oak wood, and an elegant take on txipirones, the Basque classic of baby squid and onion, before the most exquisite dish: a bowl of earthy, baked purple congo potato with smoky, creamy egg yolk, is capped with shaved white Alba truffle. It is prince and pauper in one. Then comes steak on the bone, wonderfully charred and flavoursome, from a 20-year-old grass-fed dairy cow, Hastie explains later. After apple tarte tatin with smoked sheep's milk ice cream, we understand why he couldn't leave. Asador Extebarri is a rare gem.
For our final lunch, we head out to Getaria via the slow, winding backroads that twist and cling to the river valleys. The vibrantly painted fishing fleet plies its trade daily from Getaria's small harbour. Fittingly, the village restaurants all feature outdoor wood-fired grills for cooking fish. Beside the 14th-century Gothic church where Juan Sebastian Elcano was baptised is Iribar, a small restaurant and hotel. The cheesy nautical decor doesn't look like it's been updated since the local hero went a-roaming. We order whole lupia (sea bass),which appears (with the fishhook still in its mouth) wonderfully smoky, with crisply charred skin. In between, we've been entertained by txipirones in its own ink and roast octopus with paprika and honey as shafts of sunlight rake slowly across the church.
Amid such history, and such pleasure, there is no choice but to submit.
Article provided by Travel + Leisure Magazine.
Photography Javier Salas