A Cook's Tour (11 page)

     Saigon . . . Still only in Saigon.

     What am I doing in Vietnam?

Where the Boys Are/Where the Girls Are

There was barely a sound to be heard in the empty streets of San Sebastián’s
parte vieja
, just the clip-clopping of my boots on wet cobblestones echoing against four-hundred-year-old buildings. It was late at night, and Luis Irizar and I carried food through the dark.

     Luis was the main man at the Escuela de Cocina Luis Irizar, the cooking school that bears his name, a capo, maybe even a consigliere, in the city’s vast culinary subculture. Had it not been so late, and the streets so empty, there would have been passersby waving at him, shopkeepers calling out his name, former students coming out to give him a hug, a handshake, and a hearty hello. Everybody who has anything to do with food in San Sebastián knows Luis. Where we were headed at this late hour was an institution particular to this food-crazy city, the Gaztelubide, an exclusive all-male clubhouse for one of San Sebastián’s many gastronomic societies. If you love food, San Sebastián’s got it all: an unwavering faith in its own traditions and regional products, a near-religious certainty that it’s got the best cuisine in Spain, a language and culture that go back – literally – to the Stone Age. And more Michelin stars per capita than anywhere else in the world.

     If you listen to the locals, San Sebastián isn’t even really Spain. It’s Basque country, that vaguely defined, famously independent area of southwest France and northern Spain where the street signs are in Basque (lots of names with
t
’s and
x
’s and few vowels) and woe to anyone who too obnoxiously asserts obeisance to another culture. There’s a bunch of good ol’ boys here who call themselves ETA – and they make the IRA look like Mouseketeers. Screw with them at your peril. While the great majority of Basques look disapprovingly on car bombs and assassinations, their interest in independence and self-determination is right under the surface. Scratch lightly and it’s in your face.

     I wasn’t worried about bombs or kidnappings. I’ve long ago found that nationalism bordering on militancy is often accompanied by large numbers of proud cooks and lots of good stuff to eat. San Sebastián is just about the best example of this state of mind. Good food, good restaurants, lots to drink – and ‘Leave me alone!’ Not a bad place for a hungry, globe-trotting chef, early in his quest for the perfect meal.

     Luis and I entered Gaztelubide with our supplies. We passed a wide, oblong-shaped dining area lined with wooden tables and benches, then walked into a nice-sized, professionally equipped kitchen, crowded with men in aprons. The men were working earnestly on various individual cooking projects, the stovetops fully occupied with simmering pots and sizzling pans, while a few onlookers drank red wine and hard cider in the dining area and rear cloakroom. I was out of my element. First, I was at least fifteen years younger than anyone there. This society hadn’t opened the books to new membership in many years. Second, all these cooks were amateur – as opposed to professional – cooks (save Luis), guys who cooked for love, for the pure pleasure and appreciation of food. Third was the ‘all-male’ thing, an expression which, in my experience, is most often accompanied by signs reading peep-o-rama and buddy booths – or, worse, football on the big screen! For me, a night out ‘with the guys’ – unless we’re talking chefs, of course – usually veers into the territory of bar fights, Jäger shots, public urination, and vomiting into inappropriate vessels. Without the civilizing perspectives of women, too many guys in one room will almost always, it seems, lead the conversation, as if by some ugly, gravitational pull, to sports stats, cars, pussy, and whose dick is bigger – subjects I’ve already heard way too much about in twenty-eight years in kitchens.

     Virginia, Luis’s daughter and the director of the cooking school, had put my mind somewhat at ease earlier, assuring me that I’d have a good time. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘You’ll have fun . . . Tomorrow night,’ she added ominously, ‘you come out with the girls.’

     Now I was in the inner sanctum putting on an apron and preparing to assist Luis in the preparation of a traditional Basque meal – a tall glass of hard cider in one hand, a bucket of soaking
bacalao
(salt cod) in the other. ‘You dry the
bacalao
on the towel, like this,’ said Luis, demonstrating for me exactly how he wanted it done. He blotted a thick filet of cod on both sides, ready to make his move to an open burner on the crowded stovetop.

     ‘Next you go like this – ’

     There was no argument about who was boss here. I happily complied as Luis slapped down a heavy skillet, added some olive oil, and began to bring it up to heat. When the oil was hot enough, I seared the pieces of fish lightly on both sides.

     We were making
bacalao al pilpil
, about as old-school Basque a dish as you are likely to find. After setting the seared fish aside, I covered the half-cooked filets in more hot olive oil. Then, moving over to a countertop and using a thick earthenware casserole, I followed Luis’s example and carefully swirled in a gentle clockwise motion until the natural albumen in the fish bound with the oil, creating a thick, cloudy emulsion. At the very end, Luis spooned in some
piperade
, an all-purpose mixture of tomato, peppers, and onions, which gave the sauce a dark pink-and-red-flecked finish and an inviting spicy aroma.

     ‘Keep it warm here,’ said Luis, balancing the casserole dish between two simmering stockpots.

     Next:
cocoches
, the salt-cured cheeks of hake, soaked in milk, then seasoned, floured, dipped in egg, and fried until crispy and golden brown. Luis walked me through the process while frying serrano ham – wrapped langoustines on skewers on the flattop next to me, charring them lightly on both sides. People kept refilling my cider glass and handing me glasses of
txakaoli
, a sort of greenish white wine similar to
vino verde
. I was beginning to feel that warm buzz, an artificial sense of well-being and inflated self-image so conducive to enjoying a fine meal. We were joined by a brawny and gregarious former student of Luis’s, who explained the society’s drinking policy: Drink as much as you like – on the honor system. At the end of the night, count up your bottles, fill out a ticket totaling the damage, and leave the money in a hanging covered pot by the untended bar.

     The food almost ready, Luis showed me to a table, set down some glasses and high-poured me a big drink of
patxaran
, the deadly local brandy made from berries and anise. With the bottle held about two feet over the glass, he did the same for himself, winked, and gave me the Basque toast of ‘
Osassuna!
’ before draining his glass in one go. I was beginning to understand what went on here. Soon, we were well into the
patxaran
and happily tearing at our food. The cheeks were terrific, the pilpil, served at blood-warm temperature, surprisingly sweet and subtly flavored, the
piperade
/oil emulsion a nice counterpoint to the salt cod and much more delicate than I’d expected. The langoustines were great, and a surprise addition of wild mushroom
salpicon
in a sort of rice-paper vol-au-vent – another cook’s contribution, I think – was wonderful.

     All the other cooks’ food seemed to be coming up at the same time, and the tables were soon crowded with burly, barrel-chested men animatedly devouring their creations in food-spattered aprons, the clatter and roar of conversation punctuated by exclamations of ‘
Osassuna!
’

     We were having a jolly time at my table, and visitors from other tables frequently swung by to say hello to me, Luis, and his former student. Conversation ranged from the exact frontiers of Basque territory (Luis’s friend claimed everything from Bordeaux to Madrid – wherever there was good stuff to eat) to the incomprehensible aversion to mushrooms shared by most non-Basque Spaniards. Luis was quick to point out that the Basques, not Columbus, had discovered America. When I mentioned that some Portuguese friends had just made the same claim, Luis waved a hand and explained everything. ‘The Basque are fishermen. We were always fishermen. But we were also always a small country. When we found cod, we didn’t tell people about it. And we found a lot of cod off America. Who should we have told? The Portuguese? They’d have stolen it all. Then we’d have had nothing.’ Things seemed normal in the large room, a big crowd of happy eaters, speaking in a mixture of Spanish and Basque, glasses clinking, more toasts.

     Then things got weird.

     An old, old man, referred to as ‘el Niño’ (‘the Baby’), on account of his advanced age, sat down at an old upright piano and began pounding out what was clearly the introduction to the evening’s entertainment. I broke out in a cold sweat. My most terrifying nightmare scenario is that I might someday be trapped on a desert island with only a troupe of cabaret performers for diversion – and menthol cigarettes to smoke – doomed to an eternity of Andrew Lloyd Webber and medleys from
South Pacific
. A guy in a dirty apron stood up and launched into song, his tenor voice impressive. Okay, I thought, opera, I can handle this. I had to hear this at home when I was a kid. I should be able to handle it now.

     What I was not prepared for was the chorus. Suddenly, everyone in the room began pounding their fists on their tables, rising, then sitting down in unison to provide alternating verses of chorus. This was the wackiest thing I’d seen in quite awhile. It was a little frightening. Then, one after the other, every man in the room – tenors, baritones – got up to sing, belting out arias and other solos in heartfelt, heart-wringing renditions. Then came a really creepy – but funny – duet between two lumberjack-sized fellows, one doing what was clearly the male part, the other doing the female in a scary but good falsetto, accompanied by appropriate gestures and expressions. You have never seen such sincere, evocative grimacing, agonizing, chest pounding and garment rending, such earnest cries of feigned torment, pain, and bold challenge. These men could cook. They could drink like heroes. And every damn one of them could sing like a professional. I gathered they practiced – a lot.

     Just when I was beginning to fear that soon we’d all be stripping down to our Skivvies for a little towel snapping in the steam room, the mood became decidedly nationalistic. No more opera. Instead, lusty anthems of Basque independence, marching songs, songs about battles won and lost, loud homages to dead patriots, nonspecific vows to take to the streets in the future. The men were all lined up together now, two rows of raised fists, swinging in time, feet stomping, shouting triumphantly. A few more glasses of
patxaran
and I’d be storming the barricades myself. It got only louder and more festive (and my table wetter, from all the high pouring) as the evening progressed. The ranks of empty bottles near me grew from platoon to company strength, threatening to become a division.

     ‘We don’t do this in New York,’ I told Luis.

     I don’t remember much after that.

I woke up in the Hotel Londres y Angleterre, one of the many Victorian piles built on San Sebastián’s English seaside-style strand, which curves around a beautiful scallop-shaped bay. Should I tell you about castles and forts and Crusade-era churches, the unique and lovely facades on the buildings, the intricate wrought iron, the old carousel, the museums? Nah, I’ll leave that to Lonely Planet or Fodor’s. Just believe me when I tell you that the city is beautiful – and not in the oppressive way of, say, Florence, where you’re almost afraid to leave your room because you might break something. It may be beautiful, but it’s a modern city, sophisticated, urbane, with all the modern conveniences artfully sandwiched into old buildings. The French vacation there in large numbers, so there are all the fashionable shops, brasserie-type lunch joints, patisseries, nightclubs, bars, Internet cafés, and cash machines you’d expect of a major hub – along with the homegrown cider joints, tapas bars, small shops selling indigenous products, and open-air markets you hope for. As San Sebastián is still Spain, there is the added benefit of being part of a society that has only recently emerged from a repressive dictatorship. If you’re looking for hard-living, fun-loving folks, Spain is the place. During the days of Franco’s dictatorship, the Basque language was illegal – writing or speaking it could lead to imprisonment – but now it’s everywhere, taught in schools, spoken in the streets. The supporters of ETA, as in any good independence movement, are profligate with the use of graffiti, so there’s an element of Belfast to the walls and parks and playgrounds – except they’re serving two-star food across the street.

     With a crippling hangover, I limped out of the hotel and back to the
parte vieja
in search of a cure, noticing a few surfers getting some nice rides off the long, steady curls in the bay.

     Chocolate and
churros
. A thick, dark, creamy cup – almost a bowl, really – of hot chocolate, served with a plate of deep-fried strips of batter.
Churros
are kind of like flippers: sweet dough forced through a large star-tipped pastry bag into hot oil and cooked until golden brown, then piled onto a plate, powdered with sugar, and dipped into chocolate. The combination of sugar, chocolate, hot dough, and grease is the perfect breakfast for a borderline alcoholic. By the time I was halfway through my cup, my headache had disappeared and my worldview had improved dramatically. And I needed to get well fast. I had, I suspected, a big night ahead of me. I’d seen that look on Virginia’s face before, when she’d told me that I’d be going ‘out with the girls’. It was a look that made my blood run cold as the memories came rushing back. Vassar, 1973. I was part of a tiny minority of men, living in a little green world run by and for women. I’d fallen in – as I always do – with a bad crowd, a loosely knit bunch of carnivorous, brainy, gun-toting, coke-sniffing, pill-popping manic-depressives, most of them slightly older and much more experienced than I was at seventeen. Sitting each morning in the college dining facility and later the neighborhood bar with eight or ten of these women at a time, I’d learned, painfully at times, that women have nothing to learn from men in the bad behavior department, particularly when they travel in packs. They drank more than I did. They talked about stuff that made even me blush. They rated the sexual performance of the previous night’s conquests on a scale of one to ten, and carved up the class of incoming freshmen ahead of time – drawing circles around their faces in the
Welcome to Vassar
pamphlet introducing the new fish – like gangsters dividing up building contracts.