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.

Unique San Sebastián

San Sebastián started life as a fishing village and did pretty well for itself for a few centuries through whaling and cod fishing along with its perfect location for exporting Spanish goods to the Americas. Its workaday identity was given a big jolt of oo la la in the late 1800s when the Spanish royals decided to make it their vacation spot.
Since then, its cache has been added to by international film festivals and the presence of more Michelin-starred restaurants per capita than anywhere on Earth. The beachfront properties are some of the most expensive real estate in Spain. But it’s still, at heart, a port town and remains just as influenced by the vast Atlantic as it is by the glut of tourists from across it.
San Sebastián is not a place to visit with too much of an agenda. Its main “sights” are its bites. Exploring the city means walking around until something pulls you in, which happens so often that you never really make it that far. In San Sebastián, you just have to go with the flow. The flow of foot traffic at night moves you from bar to bar. The flow of txakoli into your glass, from a bottle raised high above the bartender’s head, gives you just enough to wash down a pintxo, but no more. Go with the flow, go with the flow.
From atop Mont Urgull, under the watchful eye of a ginormous statue of Jesus and within the ruined walls of a castle, I looked down at Ponte Vieja (Old Town). You can barely make out any streets, as they’re all impossibly narrow and run between some pretty tall buildings. Streams of revelers at night leave napkins and cups washed up on shore and pushed to the sides of the street in the morning.
Going out for our morning coffee, we would notice the cobblestones were wet from a fresh hosing down. The bars were closed but the shops were open, devoted to salt cod, canned anchovies, meat, cheese, baked goods and vegetables. Old men in typically Basque berets walked down the street, cane in one hand and leashed terrier in the other. People don’t go many places without their dog in San Sebastián.
Across the river from Ponte Vieja, in the neighborhood of Gros, going with the flow means jumping right into it. Playa de Gros is a beach known for its waves and you see young men in wet suits just about everywhere. Some ride their bikes with a board tucked under their arm, other walk along with a bag filled with their work clothes. Just a quick surf on their lunch break.
Of course, the main beach is more well known. Playa de la Concha gets flooded with sun-bathers in the summertime. Photos of peak season showed a collection of bodies with some sand thrown between here and there. In November, it’s more of a community gymnasium. People stretch in the water. Bathing suit clad joggers run barefoot on the sand. Boys and girls high school rugby teams practice as a woman, hopefully not a teacher, tans topless nearby. These men gathered together for a game of pelota, a version of Basque handball. Their court was drawn into the sand and their playing surface was the wall of a worn down belle époque villa. Pelota courts are normally set up against the side of a town’s church. So, you could say the beach was their temple.

Looking at the city from above, from Monte Igueldo, the energy that I couldn’t quite find the right words for suddenly made sense. Watching the ocean funnel into the Bay of Biscay, lap up onto Playa de Concha, swirl around Isla de Santa Clara, linger, leave and return again, summed up something about the city’s rhythm for me. It’s a city on a cove, with a beach, an island and some pretty gorgeous hills thrown in around the perimeter. San Sebastián is a beautiful place to swirl around, linger and return to. If you can get yourself out of the pintxo bars.

The Church of Palafrugell

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to say that we don't often find ourselves in churches. I blame residual church-fatigue from our two weeks in Vatican City. However, when the rain in Spain had washed away any hopes of hitting the nearby Costa Brava beaches, and soaked us in our effort to find the town's cork museum, we sought refuge in the Church of Saint Martin.
It's odd shape and mix of styles attracted our interests right off the bat, but with the market in the foreground, we always managed to get distracted. The original structure was built between 993 and 1019, but underwent two big periods of extension and redesign, first in the 15th century and then in the 17th through 18th. So, half of Saint Martin's is late-Gothic and the other half is Baroque. The church feels frozen in time, between eras - a feeling only added to by the fact that its octagonal body and main tower remain unfinished.
While the outside is faded and partially moss-covered, the inside feels shiny and new. This is thanks to a post-Civil War renovation in the early 1940s. It's grander than you'd expect, with high, intricate vaulting covered with murals stretching down the long nave. There is art absolutely everywhere. The altar is decorated with a Dali-style landscape, that may or may not have been done by the man himself. Every style of art is represented somewhere in the church and admiring the details can keep you out of the rain for a good long while.
Bright and beautiful, it feels more celebratory than solemn, more dynamic than dour. The side chapels are each totally unique. Light, dark, modern, contemporary, whimsical, simple, traditional, masculine, feminine, natural - whatever atmosphere one would like to pray in, there's an alcove for it. There were pop art paintings of multi-cultural cherubs and crucifixes galore. There were Christmas lights, paper lanterns, tea-lights and candelabras.
Sure, if the cork museum hadn't been closed for the season or had we known that the room full of cages we spotted through the window of a warehouse was actually the 24th Annual Ornithological Exhibition and not some creepy animal testing lab, we may not have visited Saint Martin's. But I'm glad we did.

Castle Hunting: Castillo de Olite

Before Versaille and the Royal Palace of Madrid, before the Winter Palace and Buckingham, when western Europe was a fragmented and warlike place, the kings of Navarre constructed one of the greatest royal residences of the middle ages. Rising high above the tiny village of Olite, the incredible Castillo de Olite was once among the largest, grandest and most luxurious seats in Europe.
The medieval Kingdom of Navarre was dwarfed by its neighbors, France, Castile and Aragon, but grew wealthy during the 14th century because of its extensive land holdings – notably Brie and Champagne. Charles III (“the Noble,” the son of Charles II, “the Wicked”) prospered during a peaceful period immediately after the hundred years war, when relative calm in the region allowed him to finish a number of construction projects that had lain dormant for some time. The cathedral of Pamplona and a royal palace at Tafalla were completed, as well as a number of new roads and water systems. His finest achievement, though, was the expansion of the old Olite castle, which took place between 1387 and 1424.
There has been a fortress at Olite since the third century, when a Roman structure was built to hold the southern Pyrenees. Later, the Visigoths and then the first Kings of Navarre and Pamplona rebuilt and expanded the castle, also adding a large, walled chapel and several towers. Today, most of this "old castle" is partly in shambles and mostly overlooked - it's completely dwarfed by the new castle.
The building was constructed primarily as a grand residence, and has a number of quirks - like the recessed archways and a covered roadway that runs directly through one section of wall.

But, unlike later rulers, the reign of Charles III was firmly entrenched in the middle ages, meaning that his palace needed to remain at least somewhat fortified.
Olite's new fortress was extended a few times during its expansion, giving it a rambling, complex footprint. Towers and chambers crop up in clusters, the walls run in strange zigzags. A huge cistern tower protrudes from one side, the cracks in its stones sealed up with lead. Pipes run throughout the new castle, creating one of the most elaborate running-water systems of the time. The reservoir was filled by ceramic piping from the nearby Cicados river, and raised into the cistern by a towering wooden wheel.

The size of Olite is extraordinary enough, but it was the interior that was most impressive at the time. An esteemed German traveler in the 15th century wrote, according to the tourist brochure, that he was "convinced that there is no other king with such a beautiful palace as this one, with so many gilded rooms." There was a large aviary for exotic birds, and Charles kept lions, giraffes and camels in the courtyard. The ceilings were reportedly among the finest in Europe, with extensive carving and paintings.
The "hanging" gardens, though, were the most mentioned aspect of Olite when they were built. A series of small courtyards, forty feet above the ground, were designed to both shelter the rare plants grown inside and to withstand the weight of several tons of earth and sod. Whole lawns and hedges were cultivated, along with a number of sizable trees and an orangerie. Large, arched rooms beneath the gardens were used for nothing other than support and drainage - they were too damp for storage or habitation.

Sadly, most of the interiors and an appreciable amount of the infrastructure were destroyed during the Napoleonic wars, when the Spanish general Espoz y Mina controversially decided to burn Olite to prevent the retreating French from using it for shelter. The castle lay in ruin between 1813, when it was burned, and the 1930's, when it was comprehensively renovated.
It's a fascinating place, and probably less visited than it should be. Today, Navarre's interior is something of a forgotten land, its dry plains and empty mountains mostly passed by for the coast or Pamplona. We stayed the night in Olite, just a few steps away from the castle walls, and felt a powerful sense of time and age. Driving away, we talked for a long time about how amazing and unique the place was, about how it was unlike any other castle we've been to.

Palafrugell Market

Traveling for a long time, senses become dulled to some extent. Certain things (cobbled streets, headscarves, horsecarts) lose their impact, the flavors of a place become less exotic. It’s that way with markets - they start to feel normal, even when they’re extraordinary. Recently, with four fresh pairs of eyes around, we awakened a little, and went on something of a shopping spree.

Some villages are blessed to be market towns. Palafrugell, a jumbled town just above the rocky, Mediterranean coast, has a wonderful daily market, which is about the only thing they have. We stayed in Palafrugell with four guests for four nights, a heavy rain keeping us mostly inside.

Just outside our door, though, was excitement. What would have seemed only useful to us was interesting to everyone else, and our refrigerator was filled quickly. We bought prunes and olives by the pint, sheep and goat cheese from local farmers, eggplant, carrots, tender lettuces, home-cooked chickpeas and enormous peppers. Having more people around didn’t just heighten our awareness of the food, it gave us license to buy more of it.

As is the case in a lot of places, most of the Palafrugell fruit and vegetable stands sell imported or factory farmed produce. Between a few local melon stands and the orange sellers, there are cartons of Turkish tomatoes and Chinese apples. But inside, on the ice trays, a wealth of fresh fish and seafood glistens, just pulled from the Mediterranean. The smell is clean and salty, the fish look almost alive.
There are meats, too, arranged in the stands in atmospheric layers – heavy cuts of raw beef and bloody rabbits lurk beneath, sausages twist in the thin middle, the rarified air above is reserved for hanging hams. Wine is sold alongside them, cooked lentils, cheeses and baccalau empanadas are arranged around the fringes.
Every morning, while the vendors set up, the cafes fill with old women and their market baskets. They gather with croissants in small, gossipy clutches, their husbands sit quietly with beers and coffees. At nine, when the market opens, the mood changes and the cafes empty. The early rush of shoppers is the most combative – with friends becoming rivals along the more popular stands, and quick hands pawing and pinching in search of the best morsels and leaves.

Fall is a time to feel food as much as it is to eat it – it’s a raw season, the end of growth. In the hot months, the sun and fertile earth make abundance seem everlasting. Winter foods, grown to be calculated and kept, are a shadow of the summer bounty. But in autumn, with drizzle and buffeting wind, tangerines and grapes are sweet, there are still things to be picked, one appreciates the dying season and the final crops. Textures roughen, tastes deepen, food is brought indoors to stew and soften.

We ate like kings, both in our apartment and outside. On a rare afternoon in the elements, we picnicked near crashing waves. Blood sausage and smoked cod, olives and tomatoes, salty cheeses and a thick slice of membrillo. It was all delicious stuck to crusty bread with gobs of mustard and a few bottles of hard cider to drink.

A Muse's Mansion: Gala Dalí Castle

At one point in his career, Salvador Dalí signed his art with both his name and his wife's. He explained that Gala was so much a part of him, his life and his work that it was only fitting. The Gala Dalí Castle (also called Castell de Púbol), was purchased and redecorated by the artist with only his wife in mind. They call the site the southernmost point of the Catalonian "Salvador Dalí Triangle," whose other two points are in Cadaques and Figueres. Walking through, you realize that it is as much if not more about Gala than Salvador. Which doesn't make it any less interesting. This shade of blue must have been her favorite color, because the house was absolutely dripping with it.
I guess I assumed that a grand artist's mansion would be off on its own somewhere in picturesque seclusion. Driving into the little town of La Pera, we found a cluster of old houses clinging to the edge of the property. It immediately humanized the place and the people who'd lived in it. Legend has it that Gala got to know the locals particularly well, sending for handsome young men well into her late eighties. Dalí didn't seem to mind, as part of the reason for his purchasing the castle was to give her that sort of freedom. He couldn't have been all that surprised, either. They fell in love while she was married to surrealist poet Paul Éluard and having an affair with Max Ernst.
Every room had something amusing, something fascinating, something beautiful. Most of the radiators were covered with wicker screens, but this one was tucked away behind a door painted with an exact likeness of the hidden utilities. There was a lion's head flanked on both sides by huge bouquets of dried flowers, a coffee table which stood on ostrich legs and a chess set with pieces that resembled severed fingers. There were also lace canopied beds and a sweetly designed kitchen. It was fascinating to walk through - even more so because photo portraits of Gala, taken in each room, were hung above the spot in which she Salvador had her pose.
Downstairs, in the crypt, Mrs. Dalí is buried. A stuffed giraffe watches over her grave and an empty spot, presumably where he would have preferred to have been buried, sits alongside her. At the time of our visit, a really great photography exhibition was on display- Dalí by Halsman. The portraits of the artist, playful and clever and humorous, filled the room with so much energy that you left feeling like he (and his shape-shifting mustache) were following you through the rest of the house.
A blue Cadillac, with Monaco license plates (something particularly interesting to us), sat in the garage. When Gala died, Salvador took her for a spin in the Cadillac, bringing her from Figueres to Castell de Púbol along her favorite route. You'd think that would make the car seem macabre, but in this atmosphere, it was just another quirky detail. Gala's orange Datsun was parked outside.
There were incredibly views from the balconies and a lush garden, filled with pomegranate and lemon trees, in the yard. Elephants with giraffe legs stood around the greenery and a large fountain polka dotted with Richard Wagner's head were the expected touches of whimsy. It's an excellent place to visit, whether you know anything about Dalí or not. Just being somewhere that is at once comfortable and bizarre, absurdest and romantic is a lot of fun. It's a glimpse at the reality of a surrealist - and his muse.

Gypsy Kitchens: Tortilla de Patatas

Tortillas are, in the opinion of many, the most beloved of all Spanish foods. They are served everywhere from high-class restaurants to dive bars. They sit on kitchen counters and under napkins in bodegas, eaten as snacks or full meals, fresh, cold or reheated.

Completely different from their Mexican cousins, Spanish tortillas are essentially thick cakes of egg cooked with some kind of vegetable or starch - zucchini or broccoli, for example. The most popular type, by far, is tortilla de patatas, or potato tortilla, which we recently made and ate for breakfast with a big group. It's simple, tasty and cheap - the perfect Spanish dish for autumn.
Perhaps the best thing about making tortillas is that they require only three ingredients: potatoes, eggs and onion. One could definitely throw in garlic, herbs, peppers - anything, really - but those are add ons. To make a good sized tortilla, use about a dozen eggs and half a dozen medium sized potatoes.
Wash and eye the potatoes, scrubbing the skin well with a brush under cold water. Peeling is optional, and pretty unnecessary. The slices should be between one-eighth and one-quarter inch thick, and semi-uniform to ensure that they cook evenly. To get them down into the pan easier, cut the pieces in half. Dice the onion.
In a medium skillet, saute the onion and potatoes in about a quarter cup of oil, cooking slowly enough that they don't brown much. When the potatoes are tender and done, remove the mixture and discard the oil. Clean up any sticky leftover crumbs, re-oil the pan and begin heating again over low heat.
In a large bowl, combine the potato and onion with all of the eggs and a few pinches of salt. When the pan is fairly hot - enough to sizzle a drop of water - pour in the mixture. Cook slowly, over low heat, until the egg has firmed all the way to the top, but not until it is hard. There should be a fair amount of jiggle when the pan is shaken.
The most difficult part is the flip - it requires a lot of nerve and a steady hand. We carefully loosened the edges and bottom of the tortilla, then slid it out onto a large plate. Then, after oiling a final time, we inverted the pan over the plate and completed a kind of twist move that landed the tortilla with minimal damage. Unfortunately, this is a process that can't easily be described or taught, as there are a lot of variables.
We cooked the tortilla - as many people do - the night before and had it for breakfast. It's good cold, served with "pan con tomate," which is essentially toast with olive oil and tomato rubbed on top.

Here's the recipe:

Tortilla de Patatas

Ingredients:

1 dozen eggs

5-7 medium boiling potatoes, scrubbed and eyed

1 medium onion

Olive oil

Salt

Process:

- Halve the potatoes and slice into 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick pieces. Dice the onion well.

- In a medium to large skillet, saute the onions and potatoes in 1/4 cup oil until the potatoes are soft and fork-tender. Remove the onions and potatoes from the pan and discard the oil. Rid the pan of all crumbs and stuck-on stuff, and re-coat with oil (use a more moderate amount this time).

- In a large bowl, mix the potato, onion, eggs and a few pinches of salt.

- Heat the pan until drops of water will sizzle, add the egg mixture and reduce to low heat.

- Cook the mixture slowly until almost firm on top, but with a good bit of jiggle - this should take between twenty and forty minutes. Use your imagination to figure out a way to flip the tortilla, then cook for about five minutes, raising the heat to medium. Remove from the pan.

- Serve cold or hot.

Barcelona on an Easel

Barcelona has art seeping out of its veins. High brow, low brow, pierced brow, unibrow, whatever - it's here. You can visit one of the 700+ museums or just walk around and, either way, feel like you've done some art viewing. You can tour the absolutely impressive Picasso Museum or enjoy the accidental canvas of a garage door with layers of aging concert flyers, like this young woman.
That's not to say that street art, in all its forms, has been completely embraced by the city. Unlike other European capitals of cool, graffiti is actively fought against, considered "something that degrades the urban fabric." It is routinely painted over and removed in public spaces. However, since keeping storefront shutters clean is the sole responsibility of the shop owners, commissioned pieces on them can't be touched. And tag artists wouldn't dare deface them.
Of course, you can just look down at your plate. A baguette is painted Rothko red by a halved tomato to prep for a sandwich. Silver sardines are piled into a pintxo Frank Gehry would approve of. An eye for design is so inherent that you sort of feel like it's second nature. Barcelona is a city that never feels like it's trying too hard to make things pretty, but leaves you smitten with its style.
It can definitely be argued that Barcelona's artistic identity begins with Gaudí, the great Catalan Modernist. Showing up to "see Gaudí" is probably the most common tourist experience. And you know what? It's some really crazy stuff to look at. But more fun still is walking along the beach and finding a sand castle artist's rendition of the Sagrada Família. It wasn't quite finished yet, but still much further along than the real thing.
A block away from Park Güell, where a mosaic dragon guards the staircase of a whimsical garden city, this performance artist could easily have been missed. But, in Barcelona, you tend to notice things like this. You get used to looking around as you move, confident that there's some detail to be spotted, some art to be seen. And in a city with a tradition of being nontraditional, it's always worth seeing.