Cast your mind, if you will, to San Sebastian, Spain, where, very sadly, during the first week of May, the weather was nowhere near summery, but it almost didn't matter. San Sebastian isn't big, but it is action-packed and full of insanely good food. Our first stop, after dropping off the rental car in the world's most poorly-marked Sixt location and checking in to our fancy-pants hotel right on the (freezing cold) beach was dinner at Arzak, a three-Michelin-star restaurant, longtime entry on the list of the world's 50 best restaurants, and a place I've wanted to go ever since I saw it on 'No Reservations' (which also convinced me that the entire culinary scene in San Sebastian was mightily worth a trip, some magical day...).* More important to me, though, was its concept as a family restaurant--the current head chef, Elena Arzak, is the fourth generation of her family to cook here, after having worked alongside her father for many years! And also that it's somewhat unique in the rarified atmosphere that is the 50-best list in that they serve approachable, local food, at the absolute top of the game. I'm in. As it turns out, the restaurant is also quite intimate--no grand, wide-open spaces that generally intimidate you into sitting up straight and speaking only in whispers. The atmosphere is quite comfortable and cozy, so that there was a certain warm level of conversation and joviality at all times--also a rarity in a restaurant of this reputation and high standard. What a joy and an absolute privilege to dine there. A few highlights:
Because I'm utterly addicted to vegetables, I started with the seasonal veggie plate. Mixed in there are fresh peas, favas, asparagus, mushrooms, radishes, edible flowers, and house-made tofu. Gorgeous and sublime.
My "grouper with its own collagen enhancing its texture and beauty." Which, frankly, sounds a little icky, but was stunningly tasty.
The lovely chocolates served with our coffee at the end! The flavors included curry, cinnamon, and avocado and raspberry, and they're in the shape of wee froggies to honor this species of San Sebastian frog that almost went extinct, but is making a slow comeback. (Swoooooon.)
Even though it wasn't Mike's actual birthday, they still brought him a birthday treat. ("Zorionak" is "congratulations" in Basque.)
Our menu for the night. We didn't each have all those courses (thank heavens); where we had choices on the menu, Mike and I each got a different item so that we could try it all. (And also, we added in cheese as well, because cheeeeeeeeese.)
OH YEAH, and while the food was genuinely awesome, the high point of the night was getting to meet chef Elena Arzak herself! We got to speak with her twice! What a lovely and accomplished and interesting lady, and so gracious to come out and greet all of the guests. (Yeah, yeah, I got a little starstruck. Like I said, I've been thinking about this place for 11-ish years now.)
The next morning, my intrepid (and, possibly, slightly stubborn) husband did something unexpected: I'd told him about the existence of this tortilla espanola at Bar Nestor in San Sebastian that has been regularly voted one of the best tapas in Spain or something along those lines--but they only make two a day, and in order to get a coveted slice, you have to get to Nestor a couple of hours before they opened and to put your name on a list. So Mike, my "I don't wait in line for anything" husband, went and stood in some rather chilly wind for two hours to get his name on this list, and ended up being first in line.
While, I meanwhile, slept in a bit and then faffed around taking some photos in San Sebastian's lovely little historic center.
Pretty.
Just prior to our return to Bar Nestor, we stopped at the marvelous (and, luckily, next-door) Txepetxa to try out their famous anchovy pintxos. We tried their no. 1 seller, anchovies with crab and creme Anglais (left), and anchovies with chopped and marinated peppers and onions. Really ridiculously so good!!!
And then, at 1:00 PM sharp, we claimed Mike's prize: not one but two slices of the most heavenly tortilla ever. (I know it's just olive oil, potatoes, onions, and eggs, but this thing was surreally creamy. An unbelievable texture.) Apparently, being first in the tortilla line has its privileges: one of the waiters kicked some people off of the end of the only (6-person) table in the place, and we got to sit and be as leisurely as we wanted. And so, not pictured: the tomato/olive oil salad, the pimientos de padron, the gilda skewers, the small cheese plate, and the massive hot-stone steak that we also shared. (Because those items are the only things Bar Nestor does, and they do them well.)
Heh.
After our ginormous lunch we decided to walk it off a teensy bit at the San Telmo Museum of Basque Society and Citizenship (a rather grand name for an excellent and approachable museum).
The museum is an interesting blend of old and new: a very modern building was added in about 2012-ish to the historical museum already existing in a 16th-century convent.
The main church contains some gigantic canvases by Jose Maria Sert, commissioned to create the paintings for the museum's move to the convent buildings in 1932. (Amazing fact: Sert is the same guy who did the murals in 30 Rock!)
These things go all the way around the interior with the exception of the back wall. Stunning.
Above the paintings in the apse are some 16th-century frescoes rediscovered during renovations.
Among other fascinating exhibits in the museum proper was this display on traditional Basque countryside headdresses; many of these styles could indicate, for example, one's birthplace and socioeconomic standing. Hilariously--well, now, but probably not so much at the time--these were banned by the church in the 17th century for their perhaps-somewhat-phallic shape.
Just look at the variety in those things, though. So elaborate.
There were also exhibits on Basque craftsmen and their trades; Basque manufacturing; music; and plenty of art.
Looooove that graphic design.
Interestingly, there was also a temporary exhibition on death and funerary culture. I believe these grave stelae are part of the permanent collection, but I think they brought in extras for the special exhibit.
There were also a few of these tatted shrouds, which, in the 16th century, were usually the finest and most intricate items included in the linens a woman took into her marriage.
Yes, this is a terrible photo, but this was my favorite part of the death exhibit: beehives and candles. I will reproduce the caption of this portion verbatim: "In the past, it was customary to inform the bees of the death of a family member to get the bees to make was for the argizaiolas (funeral candle holders)." Two things here. First, just FYI, the argizaiolas are those flat things in the background and foreground of that photo, and the stuff wrapped around the middle is said beeswax. Second, I know someone's losing a loved one, but how weirdly cute is it that you'd notify the bees?**
Back outside the museum, we wandered into this church (with the largest gilded altar I've ever seen) where a really excellent men's choir was practicing for an upcoming concert. So, naturally, we set up camp to listen for a few minutes. Sadly, my video captured more of the echo than the beautiful music, so wah-wahhhhhh, no video for you.
Next, because it was lovely and sunny outside (for once), and because it wasn't so far away, we decided to hike up Mount Urgull to check out its views and fortifications.
Neither of which are too shabby. (Look at that beach! I bet it's glorious--if packed--during the summer heat.)
This mountain is topped with a smallish castle and honeycombed with all sorts of paths and stairways and ramparts and battlements and miscellaneous fortifications, but for me, the most interesting part was what they call the English Cemetery.
It's a handful of tombstones for British soldiers who were sent in the 1830s to support Spain's reigning queen regent against her brother-in-law Carlos's claims to the throne. (...Well, that's more or less what it was about; as with any civil war, it's far more involved and I'm just not into writing a historical essay on it right now. You're welcome.)
Clearly, these overgrown, crooked tombstones and their position overlooking the sea are very romantic and ripe for photograph-taking, but mainly I found it terribly tragic that these poor men died so very far from home in such a seemingly inconsequential conflict. (Seemingly inconsequential at the time, that is. The outcome of the First Carlist War did help create the Basque nationalism movement, from which arose the ETA, eventually, so one might argue that, at least, in this part of the world, it was very consequential. But these guys and their families didn't know that.)
Post-hill climb, it was time to make our way towards dinner at Casa Urola, a center-of-downtown restaurant with a sterling reputation. And while I can say that the food was really good...
Yup, I'm a sucker for a plate of seasonal vegetables. (Not pictured: the excellent grilled octopus we shared as another starter.)
...the service started out decently and then went precipitously downhill. Our wines and waters went unfilled for a good while, and then it took us a half-hour to pay, which sort of thing I've never understood. PEOPLE, I'M TRYING TO GIVE YOU MONEY FOR THE SERVICE WHICH YOU'VE JUST PROVIDED, AND I WILL PROBABLY OVERTIP YOU, SINCE I'M AMERICAN AND DO THAT ROUTINELY. TAKE MY MONEY. TAKE IT NOW AND LET ME GO HOME, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.
Ahem.
The next morning, we had the absolute best yeast donut I've had on this continent (...and maybe another exquisite pastry or two...) at Argitan bakery, then took one last stroll through the old town to stock up on some foodie souvenirs...and, of course, to eat some more pintxos, because it just can't be helped.
Ughhhhhh, not when you see this sort of vision through every doorway! (And look how long that bar is. The food here is near-infinite.)
Must...eat... (That thing in the back that looks like a sandwich made of zucchini slices, in fact, was one, with ground, seasoned pork in the middle and cheese melted on top. Want again right now.)
Afterwards we hopped a little commuter train north to the French border, where I'd given us an hour between train connections because borders. Turns out, in going from Hendaia, on the Spanish side, to Hendaye, the French side of the train station, takes all of 30 seconds. So we sat down at the only cafe nearby and ate some more. (Mike's pot au feu with chicken and chickpeas was quite tasty.)
Kinda fun to look down the street and see signs in French, Spanish, and Basque.
Then, we caught our fancy-pants TGV train still further north to the bourgeoisie finale of Mike's trip, and the destination that had inspired all of this excess: Bordeaux.
That's what's up next.
*RIP, Bourdain. The world misses you.
**I envision something along the lines of "Grandpa's gone to Heaven, our little winged friends. Please and thank you for the beeswax you're about to provide." I also kinda think telling the bees would make for some excellent, and very deep-South-sounding, last words: "Judith, tell the bees it's time. I'm goin' home." Ugh, so irreverent, I know, but will someone please tell the bees when I kick off? It's just such a lovely gesture.
