El Camino de San Sebastian

There's a famous pilgrimage in Spain called the Camino de Santiago. People from all over the world spend weeks walking hundreds of miles along Northwest Spain to arrive at one of the holiest sights in all of Christendom.

Muslims have Mecca. Christians have the Camino. For many it is the most important religious experiences they’ll have in their lives.

In September 2022 I was in Spain for my own pilgrimage. But I wasn't here for the Camino de Santiago. I like walking, but not that much. Besides, I wasn’t interested in such self-indulgent individualistic trivialities.

I was in Spain for a different pilgrimage.

For too long I've watched humanity's slow decline into culinary degeneracy.

I've witnessed friends and family subsisting off pre-packaged grocery store swill. Cooking skills amounting to microwave button smashing. Celestially-hubristic chemically-laden factory slop, fake milks, debased boiled-chicken steamed-broccoli diets, godless macro-nutrient-optimized laboratory gruel. Worse, decency offending dining establishments peddling "family style tapas".

We has strayed too far.

Within Spain I suspected a key to redirecting mankind away from this tasteless dystopia.

Out in Spain’s Northeast corner is the mysterious semi-autonomous Basque Country. They have their own distinct history, dramatic isolating topography, and a language - Euskara - that might as well be Dothraki in terms of age and comprehensibility.

They’re known for world class ciders, and an eating style called Pintxos. It’s home to dozens of Gastronomic Societies.

What triggered my alarm bells were it’s Michelin stars.

Michelin stars, if you aren’t aware, are the culinary world’s designation meaning “big fucking deal”. A single star for most is a career defining achievement. Three stars signals one has ascended to culinary Mount Olympus.

I wanted to go to culinary Mount Olympus.

The Basque Country, a region smaller than Puerto Rico, has a combined thirty-four. NINETEEN of which are concentrated in the small city of San Sebastian.

This is madness.

This puts the Basque Country on a similar plane with the food world’s global powerhouses of Tokyo, Paris, and New York.

The Basque’s have transcended earthly confines into a realm previously unknown to mankind.

I saw a beacon of light in a depraved world. I had to find out what was going on here. Humanity depended on it.

I heeded the call and donned the mantel of duty.

There I ventured. I sacrificed my time, abandoned my professional responsibilities, drained my energy, and sampled it’s many delights. I brought myself near the edge of oblivion.

I discovered the truths needed to divert mankind away from a bleak tasteless future.

Join me for my Camino de San Sebastian.

Bilbao

As with any good pilgrimage, I didn't start at the end.

My first stop was the Basque capital Bilbao.

On the train from Madrid I saw Spain's classic arid brown terrain morph into lush green mountains accented by foggy skies and sprinkles of light rain.

I had no idea what to expect in Bilbao. I kept hearing words like industrial and commercial. My mind's eye conjured images of bleak factories and drab office buildings.

It took only a minute of walking out of Bilbao’s train station to realize the what I had in mind was dead wrong. It was obvious I was going to love this city.

I see classically ornate European apartment blocks and aristocratic palaces. Public signs bear the Euskara language. Zazpi Kaleak signals Old Town. The river and surrounding mountains give it a distinct topographic charm.

Dramatic structures like the Guggenheim, pedestrian bridges, and the enigmatic Azkuna Zentroa give the city a distinctly classic-yet-hypermodern taste. I smell notes of Stockholm and Barcelona.

Unlike it's more famous Spanish counterparts, Bilbao lacks the cartoonized tourist-shop debasement version of itself. This region is wealthy on it's own. It doesn't need me or my pilgrim dollars.

Circumstances permit me a criminally short half-day here. I was going to make the most of my time.

I rush to my hostel, drop my bag off, and begin my mission.

Like the rest of Spain, Basque dining isn't about restaurants - but bars. Where Spain does tapas - small food portions. The definitely-not-Spanish Basques do Pintxos. (Note: TX is pronounced CH). The wooden skewers allow for creative ingredient engineering.

A pintxo bar looks like any ordinary bar lined with liquor shelves, beer taps, and stooled tables. Because this is/isn’t Spain, giant jamon iberico legs hang from the ceilings. The main difference with these pintxo bars are the long glass counters full of skewered delights ready to be pointed at and devoured.

The sight is glorious.

I see breads topped with a rainbow of variations. Brie cheese with roasted red peppers. Sliced jamon iberico. Sardines with seaweed. Cod croquettes.

This pleases me.

But beyond the glass counters is a blackboard with options even more decadent than the those from of my eyes.

Steak frites. Foie gras. Quail eggs. Truffles.

Eating abroad is a precarious affair. I can walk, listen to music, and see sights all I want. I cannot however, eat forever. Stomach capacity is limited. I cannot afford to occupy my valuable gastric real estate with petty nonsense.

Every bite is precious - a testament to decision making. Bad choices. Bad Food. Mission Failure. Civilizational Decline. Good choices. Good Food. Successful Mission. Gastronomic salvation for mankind. I must venture into the unknown and choose well.

I begin.

Red Rioja wine. A tiny pot of Foie gras, sautéed mushrooms and quail egg yolk, Squid in sweet onion marmalade. Cod croqueta.

Every bite is immaculate. This is white-table-cloth dining at an ordinary neighborhood tavern.

The bill makes me feel like I committed larceny.

Belly half-full, I walk next door to another bar. More pintxos. More colors. More combinatory wonders. I see things I've never seen before nestled on bread.

Txangurro (Crab meat) & scorched potato purée. Morcilla (blood sausage) coated in peanuts. Seared tuna & seaweed, tomato with anchovy & brie cheese. Squid ink blackened potato puree & roasted squid.

I order a beer, morcilla, crab and squid. I blush.

This can’t be real.

Belly full-full I continue exploring the city. I rue the short time I have here. Bilbao warrants return.

Laga

After Bilbao I head to Laga, a small seaside town far from any tourist radar. I learn the Basque country isn't just a culinary marvel, but one of Europe's prominent surf meccas.

No pilgrimage is complete without the right allies.

Here I meet with my old roommate and Texas-native Brice. Destiny looked kindly upon him and joined him with his girlfriend Mireia, a sweet and spicy Catalan woman nearly as food-obsessed as I am.

For dinner she cooks us her variation of the classic Spanish tortilla taught to her by her father. Hers includes eggs scrambled with green peppers, onions, and manchego cheese. It’s pan-cooked into a round pie and served pizza style.

They too are on a pilgrimage - a surf pilgrimage. In the morning I make my stand-on-water attempts and in return get a breakfast of humble pie in the form of mouthfuls of salty sea-foam.

For lunch Mireia takes us to a local seaside fishing joint. We start with cider.

Long before Americans were drinking diabetically sweet apple water, Basques and have been turning their abundant orchards into the world's best ciders.

Basque cider is light, crisp, acidic, a tad sour and fresh with apple flavor. Glasses aren't poured like beer or wine, but jet-streamed from a barrel, or distance poured it from the bottle so that a frothy head forms on top of a small liquid base. Part function. Part show.

Food here is simple. Fresh sea-stuff. Fresh land stuff. Fire. Salt.

We start with late-season white asparagus soft enough to be spoon eaten. After come grilled sardines and tuna collar steak spritzed in lemon. The cider pairing elevates everything.

For dinner I draft a Parisian-Ukrainian women to our dining team after hearing her rant about food for a half hour. More allies. More food. Mireia takes us to a fancy-pants sit-down restaurant along the seaside town of Mundaka. Cooks mount fresh fish atop charcoal grills.

Cider. Txangurro (crab shell stuffed with spiced crab meat). Grilled Salmonettes. Seafood stew. More Cider. Fried squid & sweet onion jam. Pulpo a la Gallega - boiled & roasted octopus drenched in olive oil misted with sea salt and smoked paprika. More cider. Dessert of fried milk and Basque cheesecake.

I am pleased.

The next day was for adventures. I wander Ibarranguelua, a valley town where locals gather for a funeral. A hostel-mate recruits me and the Parisian to visit Gaztelugatxe, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen and stronghold of House Baratheon known more commonly as Dragonstone.

The winds are furious as the waves are violent. Sun and rain switch every routinely. The thousand year old castle is situated in such a way that I imagine it's workers would have preferred death.

Post-hike we re-visit Mundaka. Surfers dance on it’s a legendary waves. We grab pintxos of crab salad, jamon iberico, foie gras, morcilla, olives croquetas de jamon, anchovies, and fried calamari.

My Basque appetizer was over. I part ways with Brice and Mireia and bus towards my main course and magnet of my curiosities - San Sebastian.

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San Sebastian

The route there is serene. Our coastal road twists through verdant mountains and quaint beach coved villages. From the bus I take poorly framed pictures.

San Sebastian, also known as Donostia in Euskara, sits pincered between the Bay of Biscay and the mountains Urgell & Igueldo. The mountains behind it isolate it from the rest of Spain.

For a moment I feel like I was accidentally dropped off in Paris. I’m flanked by gorgeous rectangular blocks of tastefully multi-styled aristocratic buildings accented by ornate iron balconies. The streets are dotted by Victorian era lamps and lined with bright palms. Even the bridges are dressed up to point of decorative absurdity. I walk passed aged gothic cathedrals, spired mansions and palatial hotels.

Beauty is not an accident.

San Sebastian is the perfect size. Large enough for urban vibrancy, but too small for a glass high-rise pocked financial district.

I drop off my bag and commence the final chapter. I find a quiet neighborhood bar and monopolize the bartender. Knowing what I have in store for myself, I start slow.

Vermouth. Seared tuna with soy and seaweed. Confit artichoke and red pepper. Foie gras with duck liver atop toast drizzled in balsamic and honey.

Exquisite.

The next day I tour with a local historian. Donostia, as my Basque guide calls it, has a thousand year old fishing culture. Whalers would venture deep into the Atlantic to hunt. The nearly 800 year Moorish presence in Spain only lasted a few decades here. The Basque native Juan Sebastián Elcano was the first to successfully circumnavigate the globe on the Magellan expedition.

In the early 19th century, it was the first city Napoleon captured en route to conquering Spain. The French held it for years before an Anglo-Spanish coalition expelled them in a violent city-immolating battle. The scars are still present.

French proximity has it's advantages. Aquitaine, the Southwestern French region bordering the Basque country is renowned for it's foie gras (which explains it's ubiquity), black truffles and duck.

Bullet holes from the Spanish Civil war pock the famous Hotel Maria Cristina.

I learn Basque soil produces not only great food, but also members of the notorious bomb-exploding terrorist separatist group known as ETA.

Given my surroundings I’m not sure how anyone could be angry.

After the tour I continue exploring. I summit the cannon-lined moss-covered fortress mounting the Urgull mountain peak. From on high my eyes feast on topographic delicasies. Mountains. Hills. Coved Beaches. Craggy cliffs and violent waves.

Wet-suited surfers tackle the eastern Zurriola beach. Tourists, topless women, and old fat banana-hammock-sporting men leisure at La Concha. It is tastefully devoid of garish umbrellas, loud music, or garbage peddling street merchants.

The water is too cold for those with fragile constitutions, but perfect for the mildly-masochistic like me.

Like the rest of the Basque country, sun and rain tag-team the days. A pleasant breeze pairs nicely with the late September sun. Evenings warrant an extra layer.

Mid exploration I muse on a something my historian mentioned. During World War I there was another French invasion. Not by an army, but by wealthy aristocrats fleeing chaos. They brought their money, architectural knowledge, but most curiously to me….their chefs.

Interesting.....

If you've ever watched Chef's table on Netflix you'll notice the same story repeated.

Chef leaves home country, trains professionally in France, returns home and makes a world's-best restaurant.

*Cue fancy music*

In San Sebastian this was inverted. French chefs came here. Then they hired and trained local Basque cooks.

I hear the satisfying click of puzzle pieces locking into place….

Take a multi-thousand year old fishing and agricultural society, add a dollop of Spanish influence, French proximity, a spritz of Moorish influence, bountiful vegetation, well fed countryside animals.

Now add a flood of the greatest culinary minds high-society has ever produced.

This was the moment Thanos acquired the final Infinity Stone and unleased a force never before seen in gastronomic history.

*Cue Chef's Table Music*

PintxO’Clock

The sun set, and off I set for the most important event in my pilgrimage - The Pintxo Tour. My goal was to dive into the belly of the beast and see how ordinary locals ate. I wasn't going to idiotically stumble around town aimlessly. I am a professional, so I hired a professional.

Luis is an older Basque gentleman. He's the jolly scarf wearing bon-vivant European in your mind's eye. Short, scruffy, highly opinioned, intensely proud of his culture, and more importantly, a member of one of San Sebastian's oldest gastronomic societies.

He is my guide. My shaman.

A few honeymooning Americans bolster our numbers. More people. More food. More enlightenment.

We start at a wine cellar where he schools us on the local white wine - Txakoli. It's light citrusy mineralness make it a perfect seafood pairing.

What grows together goes together. I remember hearing once.

Luis confirms a suspicion. The best food isn't the skewered-stuff-on-bread sitting behind the glass counters. It's good, but the best food is listed handwritten on blackboards. It's the not-so-secret menu amateurs skip over.

Luis takes us to his favorite stops and orders the greatest hits. This is why I hire professionals.

Stop 1 - Bar Txepetxa - Txakoli White Wine, Scallops in a herbed almond cream. Grilled foie gras bedded atop pear puree glazed in balsamic.

Stop 2 - Borda Berri - Yzaguirre Reserve Vermouth. Risotto in buttery Idiazabal sheep cheese. Seared Tuna drizzled in olive oil and sliced onions.

Stop 3 - Bar Nestor - Light Keller Lager. Spanish Tortilla. White asparagus. Braised veal cheek atop sweet garbanzo hummus

Stop 4 - Cuchara de San Telmo - Rioja Crianza Tempranillo. Braised Pig ears tartlet with chimichurri. Sweet onioned morcilla bedded on sweet tomato compote.

No bar had the same menu. Each had their own specialties. However, the pintxo format was the same. There were no distinct appetizer/entre/desert items - only portion options.

For example. you'd see Morcilla with tomato compote - $9/$13/$21. This correlates to small, medium, or large portions. Eating was more like buying T-shirts.

This meant we could....get this.....order small portions of the restaurants greatest hits. This isn't just brilliant. It's practical. According to sciency people, flavor enjoyment begins to fizzle after the third bite. Bites 1-3? Glorious. Bites 4-7? Great. Bites 7-20? Next please.

Pintxo-ing means living in the peak-honeymoon phase of a dish’s flavor before bites settle into complacent irrelevance. It is polyamorous dining with all the pleasure and none of the baggage.

What a radical concept.

And get this. We were in the touristy part of town. These “traps” would have been unreservable in any other city. Even in a small town, we'd only scratched the surface.

Many emotions surfaced during this tour.

Ecstasy. Few times in my life have I eaten so well in such a dense period.

I was full. Anymore and you could have carved out my liver and served Foie Gras de Alexander (ideally with black truffle shavings, Maldon sea salt and raw quail egg).

My curiosity was satiated. I am beginning to understand the magic.

My imagination was incensed. Foie gras with pear glaze? Morcilla with tomato compote? Braised pig ear with chimichurri? What brilliant madness! So many possibilities!

Don't even get me started on the wine pairings.

But as the rush faded and the digestive process began, another emotion overcame me.

Incandescent Rage.

WHY THE FUCK ISN'T ANYBODY DOING THIS. IT'S NOT THAT HARD WORLD. MAYBE I DON'T WANT A THOUSAND CALORIE MEGA BURGER OR 3 DAYS OF LEFTOVER SIZED PASTA. MAYBE I JUST WANT SOMETHING....YOU KNOW.....SMALLER. PUT TASTY STUFF ON BREAD.

I DON'T NEED SERVICE. BE MEAN TO ME. TELL ME I'M UGLY. GIVE ME WELL PRICED DRINKS AND TASTY 3-5-BITE SIZED MORSELS AND BE DONE WITH IT.

HOW FUCKING HARD CAN THIS BE.

My dear reader. Do not confuse this simple assertion with the celestially-offensive self-styled “tapas concept” abominations who justify $20 for three pieces of dolled-up chicken tenders by calling it family style.

That's not tapas. That's extortion.

To wrap the tour Luis takes us to the Cofadia Vasca de Gastronomia. It is one of San Sebastian’s oldest gastronomic societies which he belongs to.

As a former fraternity member, the inside was immediately familiar. It has that old stuffy hunters lodge vibe devoid of any feminine design sensibilities. Hung on it’s walls were color-faded group photos with funny dressed men. Aside them were placards with long lists of names going back decades. Unlike my fraternity, many of these names had Michelin stars.

Deeper in the building we pass the commercial kitchen where members cook, a dusty bottled wine cellar and walk in fridge.

I was in familiar territory. Replace racks of 30-can Natty Light boxes and frozen hamburger patties with honey-combed shelves of dusty wine and cider bottles, and infant-sized cans of foie gras and my old stomping grounds could have been a Basque gastronomic society.

We conclude with locally grown figs, honey, cheese and cider.

I stuff the idea of starting my own gastronomic society in my back pocket.

Mugaritz

The next day I was to ascend culinary Mount Olympus and collect my long anticipated Michelin stars. I haven't been this obsessed with star chasing since Mario N64.

Weeks prior to my arrival I booked Andoni Luis Aduriz' Mugaritz - a 2 Michelin starred restaurant. The words I hear are modernist, avant garde, magical, experimental, and most curiously, polarizing.

People seem to love it or hate it. I wanted it.

Polarize me, baby.

Minutes outside the city center, Mugaritz is more of a rolling countryside estate than a restaurant. Outside horses and cows roam happily. Gardeners water fruits and vegetables. It is quietly serene.

Michelin level dining is a different experience. It’s not a meal, but an edible Cirque du Soleil performance.

Nothing is accidental. Everyone - the chefs, cooks, servers, sommeliers, are the top echelon of their craft. The maître d is a Japanese women fluent in English and Spanish.

No move is wasted. Everyone knows what, when, and how to do it. Maintaining it's stars, it's reputation, and ultimately it's survival depends on perfection at all levels. The collective dance is hypnotic.

My only decision is wine. Not if, but which pairing. Skipping a wine pairing at a place like this is unconscionable. It is a parallel and necessary experience to the main show.

Don't like wine? Don't drink?

Today you do.

My options are greatest regional wines, or the greatest wines in the world.

The price on the global option made me flinch. I go regional.

Wine at this level is the difference between a middle school piano rehearsal and a Beethoven. There is no comparison. It makes me, a mere amateur, understand why people dedicate their entire lives at mastering it's nuances.

The first dish...isn't a dish. It's a cardboard folder with locally picked wildflowers taped inside. Inside is an edible sheet of mock-papyrus made from leeks and sage. Next to it is bow-tie wrapped white asparagus, herb butter, and a rosemary branch dipped in a sticky orange saffron paste.

Paint with it, my server tells me. I draw a happy face because I am happy.

For the next two hours I'm paraded with dishes tight-roping the sincere, the absurd, and the sublime.

Creamed cuttlefish. Spiny lobster. Octopus gummies. Banana bone-marrow crème brûlée. Mollusks with sea fennel. Sake handkerchief. Three iterations of white tuna. “Animal cake”. Each wine pairing makes me disassociate in olfactoral pleasure.

A ceramic face blindfolded in fruited leather with caviar in it's eye sockets.

Lick the face, I’m told.

I obey.

However some dishes, like the finger shaped carrot with blue cheese puree, miss the mark.

It was a glorious experience.

For what might be the most pretentious sentence I'll ever pen, I understand why Mugaritz is merely a two rather than three Michelin star restaurant. Stellar, but no Alinea.

The Cider Tour

What Bordeaux is to wine, the Basque Country is to cider. A tour was necessary.

We drive away from the city center and into the countryside. Within minutes the dense city blocks transform into something easily mistakable for the Alps.

Verdant green hills, dense forests and large peaks span the horizon. Horses roam. Sheep mingle. Happy countryside cheese-commercial cows nibble on grass and discarded apples.

Little villages sit inclined along valleys. Lodged higher up are farmhouses, country mansions, and low fenced villas. Rows of apple orchards wait patiently to become cider.

Our cider house is old. It's staffed by past, present, and future cider masters. Trophies line the walls. It’s operational scale is large enough to be professional, but small enough to feel familial. I learn cider was invaluable for the region's sailors. It was cleaner than water, and prevented them from getting scurvy. We jet-stream samples straight from massive wooden barrels.

We end with a meal. Cod scrambled with eggs - combination beyond even my peculiar imagination. We refill cider frequently. After comes a T-Bone steak from neighboring apple-munching cows.

It's cooked how all steaks should be cooked - blackened sear on the outside, deep blue-purple in the inside, and finished with flaky sea salt. Yellow-tinted fat marbles it's edges. It's flavor is surreal. I didn’t know steak could be so…..sweet. I cry a little.

All cows should eat apples.

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A Peak Experience

With my pintxo party, cider tour, and two newly acquired Michelin stars under my belt, I had completed my main pilgrimmatic objectives.

But I had a few more days to explore. I wasn't going to leave San Sebastian until the peaks of pintxo skewers were popping out of my pores. That meant exploring more so I could eat more.

I walked San Sebastian’s streets, surfed it's waves, hiked it's peaks, browsed it's museums and leisured it's beaches.

A casual lunch at Bargara turned into a seven course extravaganza.

Rioja red wine. Duck, calvados liquor, onion in puff pastry. Mushroom risotto with foie gras. Mushroom, king prawn, creamed cava over puff pastry. Seafood Noodle Paella. Fried anchovies skewered in piquillo pepper, quail egg. Monkfish, prawns, leek soup with txakoli white wine. Puff Pastry stuffed with grapes and foie gras.

I laugh at the bill.

I funicular up to Monte Igueldo for one of the oldest amusement parks in the world. I ride a roller coaster and circumnavigate it’s peak in a small boat. Yes, they put boats on mountains here.

I am amused.

At night I roam town for my final pintxo bonanza.

Yzaguirre Vermouth Reserva paired with olives skewered by anchovies and peppers. Squid ink risotto. Grilled prawn. Txangurro (Crab) Salad. Morcilla. Mussels steamed in Txakoli white wine. Tempranillo Rioja Red Wine. Seared tuna. More Foie gras. Cider. Mushroom & jamon iberico croquetas. Roasted octopus. Razor clams

I end with La Vina's famous cheesecake.

I’m accelerating passed buzzed and stuffed beyond reason. I feel a pang of guilt. Despite the inherently selfness nature of this quest I felt a need to repent my transgressions to a local priest.

Forgive me Father for I have dined.

I was not done however.

My timing here couldn't have been better. The annual San Sebastian Gastronomika happens to be commencing. Think SXSW or Cannes Film Festival....for food. World famous chefs, food and wine purveyors, vendors, media, and pilgrims like me flock from all over the world and collide in a three day orgy of culinary glories.

Time permits me a single day, but it's all I need.

Breakfast is a six-course spread from my ancestral Canary Islands. The convention is a highlight reel of the regions' greatest hits. I sip ciders and wines from all Spanish corners. Purveyors serve me morcilla, jamon iberico, wagyu beef, smoked tuna belly, manchego cheese, and cava paired oysters.

I am pleased.

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Conclusion

The promised land surpassed all expectations. In the Basque Country I found ageless urban beauty, serene vistas, leisurely beaches, adventurous waves, powerful allies and a powerhouse gastronomic society elevating food to unimagined heights.

I found what I came for. Knowledge. Wisdom. Pintxos. And most importantly….hope.

But I was at the end of my rope. I sacrificed precious mind body and spirit for this noble quest. I could not suspend reality much longer. I had nothing left to give. Venturing further would have risked annihilation.

My pilgrimage was complete. It was time to return home.

Here I part by spreading the good news.

The keys to humanity’s culinary salvation are simple and readily attainable.

Below are ten simple commandments.

Study them. Implement them. Spread the word. Divert tasteless damnation. Usher in a new dawn.

1. Serve small, varied and tasty portions of well priced food and drinks.

2. Construct dense neighborhoods suitable for many bars and restaurants.

3. Have direct access to seafood bearing oceans.

4. Raise happy well fed heritage breed livestock.

5. Grow world class ciders and wines.

6. Educate the masses to demand Michelin-star quality restaurants.

7. Foster local gastronomy societies which meet regularly.

8. Acquire mountainous terrain, lush forests, fertile soils and a populace with deep agricultural knowledge.

9. Leverage wisdom from local multi-thousand year old culinary traditions.

10. Import world class French chefs to train the masses. Ideally, by enticement. Coercion is permissible.

I have done my part. The rest is in your hands and mouths.

You’re welcome.