The Basque Country: On The Border of Great Taste
When Roxy calls me one morning in early June, I tell her that I’ve been thinking about a summer trip to the Basque Country, There is dead silence on the other end of the phone. Sensing that this isn’t the trip she had in mind for us, I scramble a bit. “It’s a gastronomic region on the border of Spain and France. Everyone says the scenery is beautiful and the cuisine is off the charts. There’s lots of culture and history, too.”
In the fall, Roxy will be starting her first post-college-grad job at Creative Artists Agency (CAA), and it strikes me that this could be our last mother-daughter adventure for a long time. My goal is to create memories that will last a lifetime and what better way to do this than centering our trip around food? Afterall, great food has been a focal point of our travels. It’s how we relate to each other and the world.
Bilbao, Spain
It’s late in the evening when Roxy and I arrive in Bilbao, the gateway city to the Basque Country. The sky is black, and the rain is falling hard when we check into the Gran Hotel Domine Bilboa just across the street from Frank Gehry’s masterpiece the Guggenheim Museum. We can see the iconic building from our hotel room window along with Jeff Koons’ Puppy, an enormous wire frame sculpture of a dog covered with plants and flowers in full bloom.
In the morning, Roxy drags herself to the lobby to meet our guide, Anna. Her espresso-eyed curiosity is still asleep as we walk through the Old Town of Bilboa. The area is closed to vehicles during the day, but we are early enough to witness small trucks delivering fruit, vegetables, staples, and goods to centuries-old restaurants and retailers. As the place comes to life, it’s filled with a cacophony of church bells ringing, pigeon wings flapping, steel doors rolling up to expose storefronts, and shop owners pulling their signs onto the street to welcome customers.
As we walk toward our destination, Anna tells us about the people who live in Bilboa and their initial apprehension about the museum that now defines the city to the world. “It was a battle to get it built here on the riverfront, but, in the end, the Guggenheim is a singular attraction that has helped Bilboa, and the entire Basque region to prosper,” she says.
When the Guggenheim comes into view, Roxy starts taking pictures of the façade, which Anna tells us is made of steel and covered in fish scales of titanium. By the time Roxy gets to the front door of the museum, she is humming that cute little tune that lets me know she’s happy. Immediately we are taken with Richard Serra’s work. Anna points out the concrete floors that had to be reinforced to withstand the artist’s undulating and circular shapes. Magnificent in scale and size, Anna encourages us to walk through the smooth waves of steel to really experience the piece and hear the echo of our voices. “This is way bigger than Serra’s installation at LACMA. Like three times the size,” Roxy says. We are both awestruck by the ambition and raw beauty of the work.
Next to the Serra is a gallery featuring a floor-to-ceiling Jenny Holzer piece. LED lights give the illusion that the words from a poem the artist had written about friends with AIDS are running up and down the poles. In fact, they are actually flashing. Roxy is mesmerized as she watches the words light up and disappear, just like the people the poem inspired.
Over a three-course lunch at the museum’s bistro, we talk about the pieces inside the museum and the large-scale installations outside: Jeff Koons’ Puppy and Tulips; Tall Tree & The Eye by Erika Ede; and Roxy’s favorite, the Ujiko Nakaya fog sculpture that mysteriously rolls in from the Guggenhem’s moat.
Later, after a much-needed siesta, we stroll down Main Street towards Casa Rofo, an old, established grocery and carniceria. When we arrive at 7:30 p.m., the place is empty. “It’s Spain. I forgot that everyone eats here late,” I say, a bit embarrassed. While we wait for the place to come to life, we drink from a bottle of juicy Rioja. It doesn’t take long for the restaurant to fill and our sizzling, Flintstone-sized T-bone steak, crisp green salad, and luxurious foie gras to arrive.
“This place reminds me of Roscioli in Rome,” Roxy says, taking a picture of our meal. “Yes, it had a deli case, too,” I remember fondly. “That’s where we ate fried artichokes the summer before you left for college. And here we are four years later as a new chapter in your life is about to begin.” We click glasses and dig into the steak. And with each bite, we sigh a little.
San Sebastian, Spain
It’s raining when we meet our guide, Veronica. She is a teacher during the school year and a tour guide in the summer. Like her mother, Veronica is also a trained chef and an expert on the Basque region’s gastronomy. From her cute bangs and round, black glasses to her sensible walking shoes, large waterproof tote bag and umbrella, this young woman appears to be small and mighty all at once.
Unlike us, Veronica is prepared for the weather. She is wearing an olive-green, belt-less, snap-front raincoat that runs down to her ankles. “This is my uniform. I got it at Zara. I love it. You never know what the weather is going to be like here,” she says. Don’t Roxy and I now know it. Reluctantly, we leave the warmth of our hotel and open our umbrellas to the unrelenting rain that is now torrential. We press on.
As we try our best not to slip on the slick sandstone streets, Veronica shares that the area we will be exploring over the next six days has magnificent beaches. On the French side of the border, Biarritz is the birthplace of surfing in Europe. The city of San Sebastian features a crescent beach, lined with fashionable apartments and hotels. Many of the by-the-sea towns in the Basque Country are located at the foothills of the Great Pyrenees. This combination makes the landscape lush and beautiful, and the produce, beef, pork and seafood are known to be exceptional.
Trying to soak up every word about San Sebastian, we stick close to the adorable Veronica who takes us to the city’s central market to view the gorgeous produce as well as pork in every configuration imaginable—legs hanging from hooks, hoofs and all; thinly sliced, traditional cold cuts in clear packages; and rich pates.
At the poultry counter, we meet a handsome man named John. A good friend of Veronica’s, he invites us to his gastronomic society. Veronica speaks to him in Basque, an ancient language without known origin. Everyone here speaks Basque and Spanish, but John tells us in English that he is planning to make lunch for his son’s birthday. Roxy and I accept his invitation, and, with serious hesitation, we leave John and the shelter of the market behind to once again brave the rain.
Veronica lifts our spirits with a visit to her favorite cheese shop. The bubbly female purveyor gives us sample after sample of her lovely local cheeses. Creamy, salty, and utterly delicious, we are transported by the flavors into a new realm of foodieness. The cheesemaker pairs it with the region’s effervescent wine, which is young and fruit forward. Feeling a bit fizzy, we are ready for the next experience.
“You see this square?” Veronica asks. “This is where we celebrate our independence from France. The French invaded us twice and occupied our country. The English ‘freed us,’ “she says with air quotes. “We don’t speak French, but they burned down our city.” Veronica pulls out her phone to show us pictures of the annual independence celebration. In the photo, she is smiling with her friends who are dressed in chef whites for the celebration. “Why do you dress like chefs?” Roxy asks, curious as ever. “Because cooking is what survives and defines us as Basque,” she responds proudly.
On the way to see John, Veronica explains that in the Basque Country, men join gastronomy societies and invite women to eat what they cook. The tradition comes from a time when they would embark on long fishing expeditions, leaving their wives and girlfriends in San Sebastian far behind. Away at sea, these sailors would learn to cook from the women they met at different ports. To avoid the question of “How did you learn to cook this?” these men of the sea formed societies, or safe havens where they could be free in the kitchen to create whatever their appetites desired. All without women intruding and giving their opinions on how much salt or oil or other ingredients to add into the pan.
John’s gastronomic society was established in 1889. It’s located in the Old Town of San Sebastian on two floors. When we open the door, our host rushes to greet us, wiping his hands on a towel tied to his apron. Inside, the walls are made of large stones and the floors, worn wood. Tables and benches line the room in a banquet-style. It’s homey and warm—a welcome reprieve from the relentless rain.
Below is the kitchen with an enormous wood-burning grill. At the top of the stairs, we see a composite with small pictures of the all-male membership and their names underneath. John points out his picture and tells us that new members must be recommended by current ones. Every man must be honest, and once admitted, swear not to speak about politics or religion while visiting the society. “I love the idea of men cooking together, but if I lived here, I’d want to join a society. Are women allowed?” I ask. “Many societies welcome women,” John says. “Veronica is hoping to become a member at one of the most sought-after in San Sebastian.”
Next up, Veronica brings us to the main event--and the reason so many people flock to San Sabastian. Pintxos are the Basque version of tapas, created to fill the bellies of its citizens so they wouldn’t get too drunk. Veronica hands us our very first pintxo--a thin wooden skewer holding olives, pickles and anchovies. The trick is to eat the ingredients in one bite. After Roxy slips the three ingredients into her mouth she says, “That’s so good and salty enough to make you want another glass of that effervescent wine.” Veronica tells her that there’s a lot more where that came from and pays the tab.
We walk outside and dive into a sea of umbrellas. Along with the masses, we crawl from one bar to another where more gastronomic delights are in store. Among them: a single fresh oyster immersed in almond cream, topped with finally shredded seaweed and a coffee sauce that mimics the taste of truffles; a dish of garlic-infused roasted razor clams; and another tasting of crispy pork belly. On a matte black plate, we sample warm foie gras topped dried, sweet polenta. The perfect glass of red wine complements the earthiness of the pintxo. At the last stop, when we tell Veronica that we can’t fit in one more morsel, she presents brioche soaked overnight in cream and eggs, gently steamed, and topped with raspberry cream. Heaven.
We’re still stuffed when we return hours later to the old part of San Sabastian to have dinner at Casa Urola. After eating pintxos there, we have high hopes for dinner. Our hopes fall away in the small ordinary dining room. The service is slow, the wait staff is rude, and the octopus tough. Rather than happily humming, Roxy is pulling at strands of her hair. Even the starters are forgettable—so much so that we leave the restaurant without our shopping bags. I lose sleep that night knowing that there is no way to retrieve the treasures we bought on the way to dinner. The owner is going on vacation in the morning, and the restaurant will be closed for the next ten days.
Biarritz, Hendaia, Bayonne and Saint Jean de Luz, France
Olivier arrives the next morning to collect us for a day-long tour of the French Basque Coast. It’s 9:00 a.m. and, you guessed it, it’s raining. Roxy is bleary-eyed and wishing we didn't have to start our tour so early. With a warm smile, Olivier quickly erases her concerns by promising a lovely day exploring his favorite French towns.
On the way to Hendaia, he tells us that he lives in London part of the year with his fiancé Lawrence. They are trying to get married in England, but there are visa problems. “That damn Brexit,” he laments. Roxy laughs, and I can tell she likes him. At the end of our trip, she will reveal that he was her favorite guide.
As we walk Hendaia’s long promenade that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean on one side, and the Neo-Basque architecture of the village on the other, I’m struck by how safe, pretty, and peaceful it all is. It hits me that I don’t want to go home to a country that’s growing more violent and divided. I also don’t want to be separated from my daughter. But that’s what is happening right before my eyes, and there’s nothing I can do to stop any of it.
I’m distracted from these thoughts in Bayonne where Portuguese Jews settled after fleeing the Inquisition in the early 16th century. Once here, they established the country’s first chocolate factories. The region’s residents quickly learned the trade, and, by the 17th century, the Jews would be evicted again from what had become France’s chocolate capital. Along with a rainbow row of buildings on the river’s edge, chocolate shops are everywhere in this sweet town.
Surrounded by temptation, Roxy nudges me. I raise my eyebrows quizzically and then catch her drift. “Olivier, is lunch on the menu soon?” I ask. He takes us to Brindos Lac et Chateau, an elegant and sprawling hotel and spa that overlooks a beautiful lake, dotted with lily pads and floating lodges. We are seated in a grand room with floor to-ceiling windows and views of the lake. Every spoonful of cold pea soup with edible flowers and a raw oyster; every bite of flaky grilled hake transports us to exciting new realms of flavor.
“Roxy, what do you think of San Sebastian?” asks Olivier. “You know it feels like Florence to me. It’s like very Americanized, overblown, very touristy. Personally, I think it’s fun for the pintxos, and that’s about it. One night there is enough. I like it here on the French Coast better,” she responds.
I’m surprised to hear Roxy’s assessment, which is so different than mine. I had always thought that we felt the same about our experiences, and now I’m seeing my daughter in a whole new light. I feel proud of her and at the same time, separate from her, which I’m starting to see as essential for her in leading her own life. How to let go and let love? Although the transition is painful for me, I know it’s time for Roxy to follow her own gut instincts, to shine in her own light of what makes her so her.
We gather ourselves and head to Biarritz, the surfing capital of Europe. We walk over a stone bridge that connects the land to the sea and watch surfers brave the enormous crashing waves. Feeling a chill, we enter Miremont Pâtisserie Salon de Thé for hot chocolate and whipped cream. Now cozy and warm, Roxy relaxes into a Louis XIV raspberry-pink velvet chair and gives Olivier and I her assessment, “There’s a cool mix of surf culture and high-end culture that sort of collides here. It’s like a European version of Malibu. An intermix of laid-back and bougie vibes. It’s very cool, actually, very beautiful, but sadly, misty.”
We finish the day in the seaside resort and fishing port of Saint Jean De Luz. I like it right away. Maybe it’s because this village was once the rendezvous point for Basque pirates, or it could be the charming blend of Moorish and Spanish architecture. For Roxy, it’s the macarons. The very first macarons were created here. Roxy and I sample the original sugar, almond flour, and egg white cookie without the fussy cream-stuffed sandwich aspect, and it’s simply divine.
“Roxy, this is my favorite town so far. What do you think?” I ask. “Absolutely. It’s really great. Definitely one of the highlights of our trip. It would be fun just to stay at a historic home here, or where we just had lunch and rent a car and drive around. Go wherever we like. ”She’s right. That would be the way to go and I wish I would have thought of it. Next time.
Getaria, Spain
John is the head honcho at Basque Tours. He grew up in one of the small towns dotting the hillsides of San Sebastian, and he’s excited to show us the country life of the Basque people.
It feels good to have sunshine after so many dreary, grey days--and to be in the mountains where my heart is naturally happy. We climb into John’s Mercedes van and drive higher and higher into the hills above San Sebastian. After a short while, the scenery starts to look like Switzerland, which is pretty crazy when you consider that we’re in Spain.
How civilized, how European to find a wooden hut that serves coffee on a trail seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Pictures of men wearing berets and suspenders, standing proudly in front of their flocks of sheep, cover one wall of the hut. “Maybe I’ll trade my new job in for this life,” Roxy says wistfully.
“Sheepherding is no picnic, but it certainly would be easier than the mailroom at CAA,” I say, knowing full well that she’s only a few months away from launching her career. Roxy will become an elite entertainment executive in training. A reality where I’ll be left behind. Roxy’s days, nights, and weekends no longer her own, I imagine that my daughter will soon be unable to plan a vacation or tear herself away at all from such responsibilities. I tell myself to be here and be present.
We leave the nestled feeling of the mountains to visit Getaria the birthplace of celebrated Spanish fashion designer Balenciaga. He was born in the same small town as Juan Sebastian Elkano, the first man to circumvent the world. “I know what you’re thinking. Magellan has been credited with that accomplishment,” says John. “But he was killed and never finished the voyage. Elkano did. This year marks the 500-year anniversary of that triumph, and the city is celebrating.”
John takes us to lunch at Elkano, named after the explorer. A white table-clothed establishment with stone walls, it boasts the requisite Basque-style outdoor grill and a lovely view of fishing boats in the harbor. With such close proximity, we know the fish be fresh and delicious, and we order a whole sole to share. While it’s grilling, our trio each have a beautiful scallop with its coral in the shell, accompanied by a tomato salad with tuna and avocado purée.
At Museo Cristóbal Balenciaga, we view a collection of the designer’s remarkable dresses. There is little said about the man himself within the museum. Roxy and I conclude that although his designs are incredibly brave for the time, even avant-garde, he must have been very humble, someone who let the clothes speak for themselves. The breakthrough quality of the pieces on display seems to be the only characteristic that resonates with the edgy brand Balenciaga is today. The day ends with creamy gelato from Johnny, John’s childhood friend. His shop, Horacio, has won the award for best sorbet, and the mango with chili marmalade is a singular experience.
By 8:00 p.m., my daughter and I are hungry again and head to Asador Portuetxe for traditional Basque dishes. A fire is burning outside, the grill is going, meat is roasting, and random people are drinking beer. It’s a welcome site and a good sign of things to come. Roxy lets out a little hum when a plate of large porcini mushrooms, sliced and grilled with raw egg on top is put between us. It’s not to be believed. Naturally, a whole fish drizzled with olive oil follows. We end the experience with a rich and creamy rice pudding that leaves just a hint of orange at the end of each bite.
Hondarribia, Spain
In the medieval village of Hondarribia, I’ve booked a suite at the elegant Villa Magalean Hotel & Spa. “This room is great, Mom. Look, it has a terrace,” Roxy says, opening the door to see the view of the walled city. “Let’s go exploring.”
We walk inside the castle walls, through winding streets and alleys. Basque fishermen’s’ houses line the main street with colorful balconies decorated lovingly with flowers. We stroll along the seaside promenade and admire the colorful boats. Before lunch, Roxy and I come across a tiny store called Ferretería Electricidad Mª Rosario Berrotaran, stuffed from floor to ceiling with locally made baskets, fishing lures, bird houses, pots and pans, hats, and more. I have so much fun with my daughter just poking through the stacks sea stuff. We come away with a fish made out of recycled tin for the Christmas tree.
The combination of shopping and sunny weather takes effect. Roxy is in good spirits as we walk to Alameda, the Michelin star restaurant she’s selected for lunch. We sit under a large canopy on the restaurant’s patio and enjoy a 10-course meal with wine parings. Each dish pops with color, texture, and flavor. I keep asking myself how does the chef do it? From tuna crudo and a perfect skinned tomato blanketed in whipped mozzarella to the lightest flowerless chocolate cake, it’s a stunning display of skill and artistry.
Most importantly, the creative spirit of the meal inspires a three-hour conversation that flows from Roxy to me. She pours out her heart about her hopes and dreams for love and success. “I don’t want to be a hamster on a wheel, I want a balanced life. To be fulfilled at work and to have a purpose supporting artists and making a difference. Most importantly, I want to experience love.”
Listening to her, I realize that since she was thirteen, when her father left, it has been the two of us against the world. That’s when we became each other’s person. Now she’s all grown up and just like when I was in my twenties, she’s moving away from home. Living in Atlanta, I rarely had time for the single dad who raised me. Soon this will be true for Roxy and I don’t know if this will be our last mother-daughter trip. What I do know is that I have to let go, stand back and marvel at the life she leads. This journey has already begun. Roxy is now walking down her own Wonder Road.
