The Holy City of Food - Pilgrimage to San Sebastian
Look up San Sebastian, or Donostia as the Basques call it, online. It is considered the food capital of Europe - if not the world. On social media food bloggers rave about tiny bits of bread topped with mysterious toppings, ramble about cheesecake and gesticulate wildly with shellfish. Apparently they have more Michelin Stars per head of population than anywhere else, we had to visit.
Getting to this hallowed ground was not a simple task. There is no usable airport, so pilgrims travel to Bilbao or Biarritz and on. After landing in a sleepy modern terminal the bus to San Sebastian was still nearly two hours away. At the bus stop a Polish man briefly accused a couple of being Russian. They were Dutch, heading to start the Camino de Compostela. The Polish man had done it five times already.
We waited in the sun; dark clouds were coming closer. The bus was late. A small boy in a poncho was fascinated by the comings and goings.
The bus station is universally bleak anywhere I have been. They are grimy, busy and usually somewhere you watch your wallet. San Sebastian was no different. We emerged and entered the city. The architecture was grand and ornate, but dull following the downpour. The signs were all in Spanish and Basque. The language is not like anything else in Europe, full of hard consonants, X’s and k’s. We had seen a few Basque Country flags, which look like an inverted Union Jack, but nothing more overtly political in this highly political region.
The old town of San Sebastian is not big, but immediately you can see why this city is such a food hot spot. Eating is probably the only thing to do here, especially in the colder months. The beach is beautiful, but the clear Atlantic water is icy cold. There is hiking in the hills and one or two museums. But really, eating is the star attraction.
The tiny Pintxos bars have little space inside, so they spill out onto the streets. You can spot them a mile off by the groups standing with tumblers of wine and little plates of food. First stop was the famous Bar Sport. This seems to be the most well known Pintxos bar in the town, and the customer base is universally foreign. Groups of Spanish weekenders in expensive raincoats up from Madrid, English couples checking their iPhone notes for what to order and the ubiquitous Australian backpackers in faded shirts and baggy jeans.
Walking into these bars is chaotic, the queue is five deep and everyone is vying for the barman’s attention. Behind glass on the bar is variety of cold dishes, mostly on baguette slices. At the back is a chalk board with inexplicable dishes in Basque, lots of Xs. Wine poured from a great height are being passed to eager customers. Amidst the apparent chaos there is a system, and it seems to work. Once you get the barman’s attention they will concentrate on you, even getting their attention isn’t difficult, and they always seem friendly and genuine amongst the melee. Within a few minutes I had ordered a glass of Txakoli for Mrs Eats and two Gildas to try. Txakoli is the local varietal of Basque Wine as is universally poured from a height, varying from a few inches to two feet depending on the bar. They spill a lot of it. Sometimes it’s served in wine glasses or stout tumblers. The Gildas were anchovy, spicy peppers and olives impaled on a small skewer. The combination of spicy, sour and salt makes this the perfect bar snack and allegedly the first pintxos. The inside of the bar was retro chic without meaning to be. Light wood panels, grey tiles and old pictures littered the back of the bar. The sign looks like it hasn’t changed since the day it opened.
In the next bar we ordered some hot pintxos. The stuffed pepper with mushrooms came quickly and the barman assured me mine was coming soon. It never did, they’d sold out before I ordered.
The pintxos crawl continued into the night as we moved from bar to bar. Some handed you what appeared to be a colouring in sheet to order on arrival, complete with coloured felt tip pen. If your items need heating they go into the microwave, with no attempt to hide the reality.
The following morning was damp and cold. The beach had a few middle aged Wim Hof enthusiasts bobbing about, but the promenade was empty. I associate European towns and cities with large and interesting markets. San Sebastian’s is in a shopping centre attached to a Zara. It was very regimented and a bit clinical, but the produce looked great and the fish selection even included four different types of Squid.
San Sebastian has a number of “must try” spots. One of them is Bar Nestor, which has carved out a niche in two things – scarce tortillas and huge steaks. The bar makes two tortillas a day and (tourists) queue up before they open to be added to the list for a slice. We joined the queue far too late. After a short interlude, more pintxos, we rejoined the queue for the steaks. The charismatic maître de told us to come back in an hour for the steak. We weighed up joining the queue for Ganbara, of Antony Bourdain Fungi fame, but decided against it. On our third visit to Nestor, we got inside. I was presented with a huge marbled raw steak. Mrs Eats doesn’t eat meat so this was going to have to be for me. Whilst it was cooked, we got a plate of tomatoes drenched in olive oil and flaked with salt. These were the tomatoes I had seen earlier in the market, with pinched ends like a dim sum. Then scorched padron peppers, more salt. The steak arrived on a sizzling cast iron plate. The man beside me looks over and laughed. He realised I was eating it myself. The steaks are made from old dairy cows and have had a much longer life than most. This means they are full of fat and flavour, but are also much tougher. The added bite was worth it for the flavour. There were no added extras here, just beef, fat and salt. The perfect trinity.
After a siesta we emerged into a different city. The sun was shining, and everyone was out. Where had they been during the rain? The beach was full, as was the promenade. Men were selling helium cartoon balloons, a man dressed as a bear was posing for photos and a Mexican in a sombrero was singing light opera. A well-dressed man with a mohawk bummed a cigarette from a young couple. The sunlight had transformed the city into a picture postcard holiday town, complete with Victorian beach pavilion.
At the far end of San Sebastian beach is a small hill with a funfair. You can walk or take a hundred year old funicular. At the top a wooden wheel pours water into a tiny manmade river which a boat floats around. Children play ring toss and pester their parents for ice creams. This is a spot for wholesome old fashioned family fun. On the way down a man sat beside us, carrying a chihuahua in a bag under his arm, with a t-shirt saying “ I’m not unfriendly, I’m socially selective.”
Next on the iPhone checklist of bars is Ganbara. Its signage is almost Celtic, and there’s always a queue. The corner store beside it had a sign, only in English, saying “please do not touch the fruit.” It was doing a good trade in cans of beer for those waiting, no one touched the fruit.
Ganbara was comparatively opulent inside; the staff wore white shirts and took orders from the table. Everyone was gathered round a small plate of mushrooms. Within a few minutes our plate arrived with four types of mushrooms and a bright yellow egg yolk. No frills, no sauces, just fungi and yolk. I have never been a big fan of mushrooms, but these were not the atomic bomb shaped button mushroom that taste like mould. Each type had a distinctive but still earthy flavour and combined with the egg was worth queuing. Whilst eating it I pictured the mushroom chef in the tiny kitchen, cooking his 200th plate that day, cursing Anthony Bourdain. I admired the audacity of the bar, which charges 10 times the price of normal pintxos for this simple but delicious dish.
Evenings in San Sebastian pass quickly. No sitting at a table, discussing with your partner whether you should repaint the living room. This is dining on the move, almost a sport. A pilgrimage with no end point. Onto the next bar, more slightly mysterious pintxos, more vertical wine.
One quiet street had no tourists. It felt more political than the rest. Palestine flags hung from balconies; cartoons of Donald Trump, captioned in Basque, stencilled on shutters alongside Anti-Fascist graffiti. It struck me that we never saw any police – not one - even with hundreds of tourists wandering the streets. This gave the streets a care free almost anarchic feeling. A man in a dark jacket wander past me, quietly offering “coca.” I politely declined.
Our final morning started with more drizzle. After visiting a craft bakery for some pastries, we watched people from a damp bench on the promenade. Venturing back to Bar Sport just after it opened, we found a very different bar than before. It was quiet and you could easily sit at the bar. Many of the customers were actual locals and greeted the staff in Basque – “Kaixos.” Sunday morning was full of elderly men in the peculiar Basque beret, pulled forward at the front like a cap. They all clasped a Basque language newspaper under their arms and looked distinctly un-Spanish. They’d easily fit in in a pub in Ireland, maybe without the beret.
We revisited a bar we enjoyed the night before. Again, it was populated by Irish looking men, speaking in the guttural local language drinking wine from tumblers. Previously the tortilla here had been excellent. We had another and praised it to the barman, he said it wasn’t to his taste. Shortly after I watched him take a pre-packed tortilla from a fridge into the kitchen. Sometimes it isn’t best to see behind the curtain.
Leaving San Sebastian, we trudged across the city in the rain. At the ramp to the bus station into it the man with the mohawk was sitting on the floor, drinking a beer. The bus left on time, back to Biarritz. As the bus driver left, he shouted back a question to the bus. “Neuf?” Another passenger turned around, counted and shouted back “Oui, neuf.”
As the nine pilgrims left the Holy City I scribbled in my notebook. Something about this place was special. Nowhere did my life change after a single bite - but maybe it didn’t need to. Had we just been had by the place – herded from bar to bar, blessed with communion wavers of pintxos and holy Txakoli? The truth lives in the experience, the rare moments when food is the whole purpose. And for that San Sebastian is worth every second queuing in the rain
