Ish Biloku

 You can tell when a city is poor, as Rebecca said recently, by the smell.  It’s hard to put a finger on what that smell is, but it’s there.  It’s almost the same every time.  Especially when it’s raining and you can smell the leaks in the sewers, or when it’s hot and dusty and the smog of burning trash and two-stroke exhaust hangs in the air.
Tirana is a poor city.  Albania is a poor country – in Europe, only Ukraine, Kosovo, Bosnia and Moldova are poorer.  Walking in the city, one feels a gripping, immediate destitution.  Children beg in the streets, manhole covers are missing, trash is piled in empty lots.  Even in Tirana’s center square one can feel it – at night, Roma prostitutes in tawdry petticoats stand on the steps of the opera.
But there’s one small part of Tirana that is – almost miraculously – very different.  The two questions: What does it stand for?  Is it real?

 “In that time,” Malvin, a new, young Albanian friend told us one night, “in the time of the dictator, not even a bird could get into ‘The Block.’  Maybe just a little bird, a tiny bird.  But nobody else.”  A woman at the guesthouse we are staying in said, about The Block, that it was “the neighborhood we couldn’t go to when we were little.  Nobody could go there.  It was where our dictator lived, and all of the other important communists.”
“Today,” she continued, “it’s where the young people go, maybe for a drink or to hang out.  It’s very cool.”
Above, Radio Bar, which is certainly a very cool bar, and one of the more popular.

 It’s true that “Ish-Biloku” (“The Block” in Albanian) is a cool neighborhood, and that it’s a place to go for a drink.  A small section of six city blocks, it’s become sleek and well-fed, the leafy streets and luxurious homes opened up to the public and the club speculators.  White chaired, colorful-walled cafes – a type of establishment, with indifferent coffee and loud techno, that’s proliferated across the entire urban continent – mix with shoe stores and “boutique” clothing stores.  The first time we came down to The Block, a new Ferrari was pulled up to the curb nearby a popular café.  Wardrobes in this part of town are painstakingly curated, the heels are high, the sunglasses like gleaming hubcaps. If there is somewhere wealthy in Tirana, it’s here.  But how much of this wealth and showiness is real?

 Until 1991, when it was first opened to the public, Ish-Biloku was the private reserve of Enver Hoxha, Albania’s communist dictator, and a few high-level party members.  His house now sits disused in a neglected stretch of lawn, visible in all its mundane blockiness from the sidewalk.  Around it are simple coils of barbed wire and a low fence.  There are no visible guards.  It’s ignored, except by a few tourists who stop to gape.  The neighborhood has moved on.  Capitalism has swept in, and there are friends to meet around the corner.
Ish-Biloku, to many Tirana people, is a symbol of their victory over the tyrant, of their freedom, of the promise of a better life.  But it’s also too expensive for Albanians.

 In Chisenau (another strange, communist-block shantytown, the capital of Moldova), we used to wonder at the little pockets of wealth.  There, in a country where the people are throttled by poverty, where the average citizen makes less than someone in India or Congo, there were little enclaves of shocking luxury.  Parts of the city were full of idling, chauffeured luxury cars.  We ate at a few restaurants that would be considered expensive in New York, where women wore yards of shining fur and the men’s faces were bloated with rich food and power.  Moldova is so corrupt that it can barely be called a free country.  The black market thrives.  The old communist leaders have been replaced by gangsters and crooked officials.

 Albania is much the same, just a little more glossy.  In a sense, there is something unchanged about Ish-Biloku, even if it seems that everything is different.  People who populate the glitzy stores and restaurants are divided into two groups: the actually wealthy and the wide-eyed.  The first group is suspect – how has anyone made money in Albania, if not by being slippery and cozy with the ruling party?  The members of the second group linger for hours over a few cans of soda, or a long-finished espresso.  The average income in Albania?  About two hundred and fifty euros a month.  That’s only three thousand euros a year.  An afternoon coffee for a young student is a real expense.
When we ordered food at one restaurant, called Artigliane, everyone gaped at our plates.  This salad cost about four dollars.  The people around us couldn’t take their eyes off it.  Almost nobody orders food in The Block.  Tirana’s people eat and drink elsewhere, where things are cheap.  They come to Ish-Biloku to sit and feel better off.

 When one first enters Ish-Biloku, crossing from grime to luster, there’s a sense that something miraculous has taken hold of Tirana.  The air even smells – in that telltale way – cleaner and healthier.  Even in the rain it’s fresh, with the vegetal odor of the trees and none of the churned up mud of the outside world.  Tirana seems to be a different place.
If the neighborhood wasn’t so small it might not feel so illusory.  Instead, the fresh flowers and waiters in vests, the bright clothes and indolent youth seem like a fleeting mirage, flickering in a wasteland of poverty.  Tirana isn’t really like this.  Albania is still a very poor country.
This bar is almost attached to Hoxha’s old house.

Is Ish Biloku real?  Maybe.  It’s real in the sense that it exists.  Young people go there and sit on angular surfaces, grip cold glasses, smell the new leaves, listen to raucous techno.  But there is an illusion here, a play on reality.  At times it seems that everyone got dressed up to pretend that Tirana was better off.  Twenty years after Albanians emerged from the depths, they’re still gasping.  The Block may have been opened up, but it’s difficult to tell if anyone can really get in.

Kinnie, The Maltese Soda

On a flight from Athens to Malta, the Air Malta stewardess gave us a choice - "Coke, juice, water or Kinnie." Kinnie?

In 1952, to capitalize on the burgeoning popularity of soda pop, the Maltese brewing "giant" (it's not a big country) Simonds Farsons Cisk invented a new drink. Unlike hundreds of other soft drink outfits from the time, this little country's product stuck. Today there are three varieties: the original, Diet Kinnie (interestingly not called Kinnie "Light," like other European sodas) and Kinnie Zest. We felt we had to try all three, to get a first taste of this little island country.

Kinnie is ostensibly an orange soda, but the taste is more centered on bitterness and aromatics. Based in theory on the Chinotto citrus fruit, which is common in Malta, and containing anise, ginseng and rhubarb, the drink is curiously woody and spicy. When Rebecca first tried it she said she tasted cinnamon. Later, she said it was a lot like Campari or Aperol.

The company is adamant that their formula for the drinks uses all natural ingredients, but they keep the recipe secret and it's hard to imagine that a sweet-tasting "diet" soda could exist without chemicals.

Malta - the name sounds like a soda, doesn't it?

European countries - for all their rich history in brewing, distilling and fermenting - generally possess very limited variety in their soft-drink coolers, at least in comparison with America. That's why it's so interesting when we come across a local product - they're rare specimens. What secrets can they tell about a country? What do they say about the national sense of taste? In Switzerland, we became obsessed with the milk-based Rivella (we actually did two posts), and had a few Cockta sodas in Slovenia.

Shouldn't every little country have a soft drink? Like a national song or a homegrown breed of dog, it's not a big part of the culture. But these little window-dressing aspects are what's endearing about a place, like old Citroens in France or apple strudel in Austria.

Of the three Kinnies, I probably like the Zest version the best, though the original would work well mixed with something a bit stronger. The company's website has a list of cocktails, though most sound a little sweet. Also, you should watch the television ads, because they're great. (The ads are in English because it's one of Malta's two official languages)

Gypsy Kitchens: The Durrell

English writer Lawrence Durrell lived in Cyprus for about three years in the 1950s and remains one if its most talked about residents. It's no surprise, being as Durrell told the world about his time here in a memoir called Bitter Lemons of Cyprus. We'd never heard of it, nor had we heard of him until we began to research the country. His name came up as often and with as much assumed interest as Van Gogh's in Provence. The home he lived in, the school he taught at, the hotel he listed as "the best in town," are all considered historic sights. In his home village of Bellapais, two trees contend for the title of "The Tree of Idleness," an important landmark in Bitter Lemons. The fact that he found Limassol "unsightly" comes up in Lonely Planet's history of the city. In Limassol, we bought the book and created a cocktail in his honor. That way we'd be able to curl up with them both.
The man at the used bookshop told us "not to believe everything - it is just Lawrence's opinion." We doubt this came only from his distaste for Limassol. Three chapters in, he has happily drank Commandaria with Greek-Cypriot friends and Coca Cola with Turkish-Cypriot friends. His life was a blissful convergence of the two cultures that would divide the country in a clash. Durrell left Cyprus after the "enosis" based EOKA resistance movement really heated up. This was the desire of Greek-Cypriots to break from England and become part of Greece. As Lawrence was a Brit, I'm sure his take on the events of 1955 don't mesh with the old book seller's. We're enjoying Bitter Lemons and enjoying The Durrell cocktail even more.
Obviously, we began with Schweppe's Bitter Lemon. Any American traveling to Western Europe will come home with tales of the stuff. A friend of ours shipped a case of it to themselves, not wanting to have to quit cold turkey after two weeks of drinking it in Portugal. Usually, candies and drinks that are going for "lemon" go more for the sweet and sour aspects of its flesh. This leaves you thinking more about its peel. It tastes like a very bitter tonic water, very zesty. Obviously, Bitter Lemon goes well with gin, but we wanted to keep things more local. Ouzo, ours made by the Cypriot company KEO, is the Greek version of France's Pastis or Turkey's Raki - an anise aperitif that turns cloudy when you add water. The third ingredient is, you guessed it, bitters. A local Limassol company, Magousta, has been making "Magic Drops" since the 1930s. However, it was originally called "Cock Drops," a fact made more unfortunate by the label's recommendation to "snip the top" of your Cock Drops bottle to have it dispense correctly. Last ingredient, lemon.
It's citrus season here in Cyprus. The oranges, clementines and mandarins are being harvested. The grapefruit is almost ready and the lemon trees are bare from earlier collection. Lemons in Cyprus are big and sweet. And abundant. Most houses have at least one lemon tree, every meze dinner comes with a plate full of wedges. Greek Cypriot recipes feature lemon prominently, so our Greek Cypriot cocktail does, too. We only needed a quarter of a lemon for each glass because the wedges were incredibly juicy.
You never really know when conceptualizing a cocktail, but somehow we created a truly delicious drink. The Durrell's ingredients go so well together that we now mix one up any evening we have available ice. The ouzo, on its own, is sweet and heavy. Adding the biting, carbonated Bitter Lemon really balances that out. A drop of bitters adds a little complexity, like a single bay leaf does in a big pot of soup. Since Magousta's Magic Drops is bright red, this tints The Durrell pink. Ole Lawrence is a little flushed. A good squeeze of lemon and you've got the final note: fresh, vibrant citrus. Now, go ahead and pick up a guide book about Cyprus. Every time Lawrence Durrell or Bitter Lemons of Cyprus is mentioned, take a sip of The Durrell. We assure you it will be a very educational and dangerous drinking game. Here's the recipe. Serve on the rocks.

2 parts Ouzo
1 part Schweppe's Bitter Lemon
A drop of bitters
1 - 2 quarters lemon, depending on juiciness
Ice 

Check out all of our recipes.

Why Don't They Have This in America?

Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink. Such is the case on the island of Cyprus, where water shortage has been a historic problem. Luckily, Cypriots have always been pretty ingenious at coming up with solutions. Some of the world's oldest wells have been found in Cyprus' West. Modernity brought strict rules about water conservation and large desalination plants, which have created 50% of all domestic water in the last 10 years. These water vending machines are what really impressed me.
You won't go thirsty in Cyprus. In places where the tap water isn't drinkable, hosts proved bottles of water. Such was the case at our hotel in Nicosia, but we drink a lot of water. So, we purchased the biggest jug we could find - a 10 liter, intended for water coolers, not a couple. Anyway, we finished it and when it came time to get more, we looked to the water vending machine across the street.
It had a picture of a bottle just our size and "80 cent." So, we rummaged up change and, excitedly, went for it. Merlin inserted our first coin, a fifty center, and water immediately began to gush out. Yeah! Let's see how much fifty cents gets! Wait... oh no... oh gosh. It continued past our 10 liters, which made us both wonder how much the recommended 80 cents actually gets you. We closed the door, hoping that would somehow stop the deluge, but it continued to seep out.

Water vending machines. What an excellent idea. What the water cooler is for an office, the vending machine could be for a neighborhood!

Eceabat: Beyond the Sights to See, A Life by the Sea

Most people visit the Gallipoli Peninsula because they're interested in the lives lost. They come to pay tribute to the fallen. They see the historic stretch of land as an enormous graveyard and that's not that far removed from the truth. The things is, though, there are signs of life absolutely everywhere and the present day population winds up leaving an even greater impression than the commemorated thousands. People have lived here since antiquity, before any battles were ever fought here it was "The Beautiful City." Now, the peninsula is in its latest phase of a long life - a mix of farming villages and harbor towns.
All of this became quickly apparent to us upon arrival in Eceabat, which would be our home base for a couple of days while we explored the historic sights. The town's name used to be Maydos, but at some point in time switched to this derivation of an Arabic word for 'command point of a battlefield.' War may have redefined its name and war tourism undoubtedly plays a huge role in its modern identity. But Eceabat is still just a seaside town like so many others. Charming, salty, laid back.
There are bicycles parked outside of stores and ice cream vendor carts sidelined by the off-season at the base of the ferry dock. Motorbikes are popular, with men in waders buzzing through the main drag. Probably a good idea, as I can't imagine it'd be easy to pedal in galoshes. Narrow stores sell the necessities. Dusty bottles of water, candy, nuts, seeds and a cornucopia of odds-and-ends that lands somewhere between a General Store and a 99cent store. If you need a pencil, fork, new alarm clock, you can find it. Anything larger or more vital doesn't have to be available. There's a ferry right there, waiting, to take you to Çanakkale.
Throughout the day, buses, trucks, cars and walk-ons are ferried across the Dardanelles from here to Çanakkale - a city with a population of about 100,000 vs Eceabat's 5,000. It's always amazing to see these ships unload cargo trucks and buses like an aqua clown car. People go over there to work, school and play, which leaves Eceabat with a daytime population of men, old women and young children. At night, the sky and sea are belted by Çanakkale's illuminated skyline. We're happy to stay tucked in on this side, though, still getting our Turkish sea legs.
It's only our first few days in the country. So, of course, we've been easily excited by all signs of Turkishness, hyper-aware of anything that feels new and different. Turkish carpets cover large piles of fishing nets on the dock, their brightly covered undersides show how faded the patterns facing the sun have become. The national flag flits at the end of a pole on every vessel. The sound of seagulls mixes with the ferry's horn and the daily call to prayer. (The sidewalk is currently being torn up and replaced, hence the rubble).
At "Kaptain Pub," shellacked lobster shells hang from a fishing net like any good seaside watering hole. Turkish basketball plays on tv, the owner plays nard with a young men and two 'customers,' stash bags of fresh produce in the fridge before sitting to read the newspaper sans drink. Sand is dragged in and coats the floor in spots and our glasses of Turkish wine and beer are served with the best beer nuts I've ever had - large, plump peanuts with a thick layer of salt crusted onto their red skin.
Kaptain Pub may be our favorite spot, but it's definitely not the most popular in town. Social clubs range from a barber shop in which a cluster of men are always hanging out neither shearing nor being sheared, a "cafe" that doesn't seem to serve up anything at all except the television in the corner and a tea house that has a perpetually steamed up front window and packed to the gills interior. The bright cafeteria style restaurants feed locals lentil soup and freshly baked pide. A few vaguely Australian themed places are waiting for the tourist season to begin again.
The fishmongers specialize in sardines and anchovies this time of year. Next to this little fish market, attached really, is a kebap joint. It looks like every other kebap place at first, except through the window there is a big bowl of fresh fish instead of a spinning shawarma. The smell of fry, grilled round bread, bowls of shredded lettuce, onion and sliced tomato are all the same but the finished product is decidedly local. The proprietor, popping his head through the to-go window, called us in for 'Balik Ekmek,' translating it literally to "Fish Bread!" It's a sandwich actually, wrapped in immediately grease-spotted paper with little blue and red dolphins on it. We dug right in to our perfect encapsulation of 'Turkish maritime.'

Gypsy Kitchens: The Yerevan

Here's a cocktail for a strange city and a wonderful liquor. Ararat brandy deserves to be drunk more. Yerevan deserves a cocktail. This one is pretty simple.

Yerevan is the thirteenth capital of Armenia, only recently becoming important at all. In soviet times the population boomed, growing from thirty thousand in 1900 to about a million people in 1991, the year Armenia became independent.

It's a funny place - as gritty and sleazy as one would imagine, with crumbling USSR facades and dozens of strip clubs. At the same time, though, it's probably the most cosmopolitan capital in the Caucasus, with influences from all over the world. We had decent sushi one afternoon, upscale lebanese at one dinner, french-influenced trout another night.

The Yerevan skyline with the double peaks of Mount Ararat in the distance.

But the thing that struck us about Yerevan was the cocktail culture.

For Americans, Europe can feel shockingly devoid of good drinks. Sure, there's great wine some places, delicious beer, local spirits. And there are plenty of places with a cocktail menu on hand. But bartenders here aren't used to mixing anything. Outside of a few bars in a few big capitals, Europe's mixed drinks are terrible. Take it from us. We've pretty much given up.

But in Yerevan, that's not the case. We halfheartedly went to a mexican restaurant (called "Cactus" - how unpromising!) that was supposed to have a good bar. We expected margaritas, of course, but didn't expect the bartender to carefully stir a Beefeater martini. It would be hard to count how many times we've ordered a gin martini and received a glass of Martini & Rossi.

In New York, maybe this drink wouldn't have been all that special. But considering where we are, it was magical. Think of this: the last good, European martini of the trip was in another surprising place, Košice Slovakia. That's deep in Eastern Europe - and about one thousand five hundred miles west of Yerevan.
So, what to mix to create a drink for Yerevan? The obvious base was Ararat brandy (let's not call it cognac), which has a lot of oak but also a nice balance. The second ingredient could have been a number of things, but we have a very limited home bar at the moment (we have to carry it), and something local seemed appropriate.

Armenia's two great fruit contributions to the world are the cherry and the apricot - both originated here. There's even cherry Oghee, a homemade vodka - but that tends to run at about 60 to 70% alcohol, which would have singed the brandy's flavor.

Even though it's foreign, the pomegranate is probably more popular, and the locals produce a liquor from it that's a better compliment for brandy. Pomegranate wine is bracingly tart, dry and almost without sweetness. A small measure goes a long way.
We found a tiny, souvenir-sized bottle of it (no point in buying more). After an initial trial, adding sweet vermouth in addition seemed like a good idea, to bolster the sugar and mellowness. It was barely heated in our room - ice wasn't necessary.

Our version was good, with an almost smoky note and lots of complex herb flavors. It's tart and refreshing, not overly sweet, a great winter drink. We settled on two parts brandy, one part pomegranate wine, one part sweet vermouth, stirred in a glass. Very similar to a brandy perfect manhattan.

In America, where pomegranate wine is difficult to find, consider making a normal brandy manhattan, adding a few drops of that syrupy "Pom" stuff, looking out the window and thinking about an arid, distant land on the south slopes of the Caucasus.

(Also - and we didn't think of this until too late - garnish with an apricot)

The Ararat Distillery

European wine tours are funny things. You're almost never get the kind of access that you think you're going to.

We spent about an hour alone with a tour guide, being led through the aging facility at the Ararat brandy distillery in Yerevan. Forget fermentation tanks or distilling vats, bottling machinery or loading docks - this tour featured barrels. Some fifteen thousand silent, motionless barrels in various stages of dustiness. The smell was literally intoxicating.

We first encountered Ararat in Russia, where it's commonplace but expensive - something like the big brands of French cognac are in America. Of the five and half million bottles produced in 2010, 92% was exported from Armenia, most of it ending up in former Soviet countries (after Russia, the next two largest buyers are Belarus and Ukraine). What's interesting is that this brandy is still called cognac in those countries - or, rather, "коньяк."

The tour guide was insistent that this was because Ararat was being produced before the 1905 french law that began to regulate wine origins and protect regional names (Ararat was founded in 1887). In actuality, Armenian brandy is usually marketed in two ways: as cognac in non-WTO countries, and as brandy everywhere else. If Armenia were able to join the EU, as it hopes to, Ararat would have to give up the french name for good.

The distillery is immense - the guide joked that they should have taxis for the workers to get from building to building. Aside from the thousands of barrels and the stills themselves, there are also a bottling plant and a shipment center - most of the fermentation and grape processing is done in the provinces, closer to the vineyards. We were also told, somewhat cryptically, that the compound held "the largest laboratory in the country" and some kind of "stock market thing." Our guide looked at us for a moment and said, "you have this stock market in America?" We weren't quite sure what we were supposed to say.
The tour, though, focuses on none of the interesting aspects of the production process. We were shown, instead, probably the most boring part. When liquor is sitting in oak barrels, it is far from thrilling.

This, though, is a canny tactic. Had our guide shown us immense, stainless-steel tanks and mechanized corking assemblages, it would have felt... well, like a five and a half million bottle per year outfit. Instead, she focused on what might be considered the "quality" part. There was lots of talk about domestic oak, about replanting projects for that domestic oak, about the color of the wood, the "magical palate of the master blender," the blending process, the "resting" process and the smell of all the evaporating liquor.

"As our master blender says," the guide told us rapturously, "in this room, it always smells delicious, we never get sick and we are always happy." Strangely, there was almost no-one in the room.
There was also a long monologue about the foreign dignitaries who had visited, and about the french conglomerate - Pernod Ricard - who now owns Yerevan Brandy Company, Ararat's parent company. France figured very prominently in the tour, actually - it was almost as though this distillery were actually making real cognac.

That's the point - conflated with exclusivity, the name "cognac," even put down as "коньяк," really means something to a lot of people. Even if it isn't real, Ararat wants you to think that it is - or just as good as if it were. So there are lots of barrels on the tour, a display of old medals won in competition, soft lighting, a mythical master blender. There is a story about Winston Churchill calling Ararat's Dvin brandy his favorite (though this is probably untrue).

But how does it taste? Seated at a table at the end of the tour, we were each given three snifters of brandy - Ararat's 6 year "Ani," 10 year "Akhtamar" and 20 year "Nairi." With the liquor, we were given chocolates and a small speech about coloration and viscosity. The guide played with a glass of her own, but never took a sip.

The thing is, Ararat is really good. We liked it the very first time we had it and tasting it again only made us appreciate it more. It's very smooth, very tasty, with a wonderful oak taste that doesn't feel over-tannined. In the echelons of mass-produced brandy, Ararat doesn't deserve to be a knockoff - it's the real thing.
Which makes me wonder whether calling it "brandy" instead of "cognac" would be such a bad thing. Why is cognac automatically better?

It's a question, maybe, of an inferiority complex on the part of the Armenians. They make a delicious blue cheese that they call "roquefort" and decent sparkling wine that they dub - what else - "champanski." Armenia doesn't think its food is good enough to deserve its own name.

This is the country that not only developed the apricot, but bred the first sweet cherries (it's true, all apricots and edible cherries are derived from breeds first grown here). It makes fantastic lavash bread, delicious cherry oghi (homemade vodka) and nut-rich cakes. And, of course, a few great brandies.

This barrel, set aside on a little stage, contains a 1994 vintage that wont be opened until a lasting peace agreement has finally been made in the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict. Seeing it there in the midst of all the other thousands of casks, we were reminded suddenly of where we were. This isn't France or even Russia. This is a small, struggling, young country that is still freshly removed from independence and war. Most people have no idea where Armenia is or what to call its liquor. So it makes sense to hedge a few bets, to keep a name that's worked, to try to feel proud of what is being made - and not to worry what it's called.

San Sebastian Pintxos

It would probably take years of research to decide upon the best pintxo bars in San Sebastian. There are too many to count, crammed together down narrow streets, spilling out into squares, noisy, quiet, bright, dim, fish-heavy, ham-laden, old fashioned and nouveau. They are the culinary soul of this great food city, and its hard not to fall in love with their easy nature and extravagant tastes.
A “pintxo” is a small thing to eat with a drink, usually no bigger than two or three bites. Similar to a tapa, these Basque specialties are generally smaller and more complexly constructed than their regional relatives. But calling a pintxo (pronounced “pinch-oh”) a tapa isn’t really wrong, and the main difference is more philosophical than taxonomic. The amazing thing about pintxo bars, you see, is that they put everything right out on the counter, ready to be plucked off the plate and eaten.

The Basque people purportedly don’t eat whole meals of these treats, but there is absolutely no reason why one shouldn’t. In the heart of San Sebastian, it’s possible to wander all night, having one bite and sip here, a glass and nibble there. It’s said that there are more bars in the old town of the city than anywhere else on earth (actually, this is doubtful), and almost all of them serve pintxos. With a little time and alcohol, they blend together into one big bazaar of food and people.

On our first day in town we had this sea urchin, herb and cream creation, which was beyond delicious. Forgetting to mark down in which bar it had originated, we spent the next two days searching for it. Sadly, with such a multitude of places, it was like looking for a specific shell on a crowded beach – we never found it again.

A pintxo can be anything, really, but the name comes from the Basque word for “spike” (we already talked about this in Andorra). In theory, the toothpick “pintxo” thing that holds together the column of food is integral to the definition, but the form has evolved beyond the traditional into the radical and surprising. Spikes seem to be increasingly rare, and some of the more highbrow eateries prefer to compose their pieces like miniature plates, with size being the only classifying element. The popularity of another distinctive part of pintxos, the bread base, isn’t waning as much.
There are also things to order at most of these bars, either larger plates or special pintxos. At one modern spot, I ordered duck-liver morsels that came out almost drippingly tender. In another place, we got big plates of “hongas” mushrooms at the end of the night, served sautéed with coarse pepper and butter – perfect food to fill in the cracks. Also, warm green peppers softened in oil and draped with anchovies, octopus grilled and covered with paprika, oven-warm roast pork.
Spanish meals are notoriously taken late, and in most of the country this can be a cause for anxiety. In San Sebastain, you are free to eat whenever you like – and, if necessary, to drink too.

One of the most endearing parts of eating at a pintxo bar is the amount of trust the bartenders have in their patrons. At some establishments, each piece is accounted for when its taken. At others, the tally is made by how many toothpicks are on someone’s plate.

But in most places, one is asked afterwards about what they ate – “how many drinks did you have? How many pintxos? Okay, that’ll be nine-fifty” (or whatever). It’s nice because it speeds everything up, and you can eat at your own pace, without having to get the bartenders attention.

Again, it would take a great deal more time than we had to compile a worthwhile list of San Sebastian’s best pintxos – I won’t even try. But we did have a few favorites. Bar Diz, in the Gros district, was bright and welcoming during the day, and had great breakfast fare as well as sculptural later options. Edaritegia Txondorra is one of the best in the heart of the action, on carrer Fermin Calbeton – it has a superior selection, with a lot of lighter, less meat-heavy pintxos.

Probably our most beloved, though, was Gorriti Taberna, which was also among the most consistently full. On the market square just off carrer San Juan, it has very fresh food and a boisterous, workaday atmosphere that was instantly charming. Also, amongst the throng at the bar we recognized a few servers from other places – which is perhaps the best endorsement a place can have.

Basque Cider: Sagardoa and the Txotx

At the Sagardoetxea (cider museum) in Astigarraga, Spain, our tour guide asked us, in all seriousness, if we had cider in America. She also asked us if we grew apples. Later, showing us a graph, she said “a lot of people think cider is only a Basque thing, but it’s not true – they actually make cider in many other places!”

She can be forgiven. Here in the Basque hills, the people are almost superstitiously fond of their “sagardoa” (hard cider) – and Astigarraga is the capital of Basque cider making. If you’ve grown up in town, everywhere else must seem pretty dry. Here, two men practice the art of the “txotx” in a local cider house.

In mid-November, the apples were already picked and mashed, the juice pressed, the cider fermenting. At the Sagardoetxea, only bare limbs and wrinkled fruit were on display. Cider fermenting is an ancient part of the Basque culture, and imbibing is traditionally a strictly seasonal thing. Beginning in January, when the alcohol has been finished, the season runs until the end of April. Before modern refrigeration, the barrels would spoil in the summer heat, meaning that the cider could only be drunk during the cooler months. Most of the cider houses in Astigarraga are closed during the rest of the year, and the town felt a little empty when we visited.
The Basque country is mountainous and difficult to cultivate, with cool winters at altitude that make viniculture tricky. Apple trees are better suited to the climate, and the people here have long embraced the fruit as a means to produce alcohol. Unlike common varieties bred for eating, the Basque cider apples are typically small and characteristically acidic, with a few specialty breeds grown specifically to add sugar. There are scores of old, heritage breeds, most of which are now quite rare. In the early twentieth century, as beer and wine began to be brought into the region in greater quantities, many orchards were cut down so that pine trees could be planted to supply the growing paper industry. At the Sagardoetxea, they have over forty rare apple trees, planted for preservation as much as exhibition.
Sagardoa is a dryer drink than sweet cider, with about five percent alcohol and a woody flavor from the aging barrels. Unlike sparkling cider or most American and French versions, the fermentation is allowed to finish, using up all the sugars in the juice and creating a flat, non-bubbly drink. The tannins in sagardoa react differently than the ones in wine, and the flavor usually won’t improve with age – even bottled, it’s best drunk within a year of production.
The real way to drink cider is by “txotx,” straight from the barrel at one of the regional cider houses, called “sagardotegi.” The huge casks at these places are fitted with miniscule spigots that, when opened, spew liquid several feet across the room. The drinkers line up with their glasses, catching the cider as it goes, angling their vessels just-so to produce a light foam. The purpose of this exercise is to aerate the drink and improve the flavor – although there’s hardly any effervescence in sagardoa, the action of the txotx almost makes it seem bubbly.

Sagardotegi serve their cider with a narrow range of traditional staples, which usually consist of meats, sheep cheese and a cod omelette. At most, patrons pay a fixed price for cider, and are then free to drink as much as they want.

At Alorrenea, a sagardotegia in Astigarraga that remains open all year, meat was the primary focus. A large grill station enjoyed a prominent position in the hall-like space, and huge cuts of meat – ordered by the kilo – were served bloody rare on thick wooden tables. The patrons, mostly men, went from barrel to barrel, drinking seriously and contemplatively between platefuls. The air was heady with the scent of both steak and spilled cider.

There is, of course, some protocol to observe when drinking sagardoa by txotx. A group lines up with glasses at the ready, every member poised to reach out and make the catch. When one imbiber has taken their share, the next must already have his or her cup behind the first, so that not too much is spilled (some always spills). Most important, each “pour” must be finished in one gulp, before the air has gone out of it – a moderate amount is preferable, deep draughts are laudable. Any liquid not drunk has to be poured immediately, with a look of disgust, down a drain in the floor. Also, for whatever reason, the person who opens the spigot must also close it and is the last of the group to fill their glass.