Spain: Sensuous Culinary Adventures in Basque Country
By Matt Goulding

When Chef Federico placed the large, purple octopus on a cutting board in front of me, I brandished my 12-inch knife like some sort of culinary Captain Nemo.

“What the hell is—Que es esto, chef?” I asked, quickly converting the instinctual English into Castilian and tightening my grip around the rubber handle. My long white apron was covered in black ink splotches, the remnants of an earlier battle with a group of baby squid.

“Tranquilo Californiano, esta muerto,” he shot back at me, dawning a mischievous smirk under his rigid, towering chef’s hat. One of the tentacles unfolded on the board, its limp, slimy tip hanging off the stainless steel counter; and I saw he was right; it was dead. The other students began to lose it; first it was the restaurateur from Pamplona, then the lawyer from Madrid, and the homemaker from Bilboa, not a soul containing their utter pleasure in seeing a foreigner, an American at that, struggle with a Northern Spanish staple. But after two weeks of searing goose livers and sautéing pigs’ faces in a Basque culinary school, I had to be prepared for anything.

The city of Pamplona is swollen that afternoon as two friends and I battle through a veritable sea of white linen and red handkerchief. The odor of dried sweat and stale beer prevails through the throngs. The bulls have already stormed through the old section of the city, flattening a few and frightening most, but today was better. An Australian was trampled to death yesterday. The grassy parks are filling quickly, as tourists vie for an impromptu bed and a few hours of recuperation before the debauchery begins again.

Fatigue and frustration aside, my mission is firm: find the first bus to País vasco (the Basque Country), back to San Sebastián, the city waiting by the sea. The rabble is satisfied, the bulls await their deaths, and in two and a half hours I must cook.

From the crest of an undulating vineyard, the first glimpse of the city emerges through the cloudy bus window. Nestled snugly between the rolling pastures of the Basque countryside and the emerald bosom of the Spanish Atlantic, San Sebastián is a lesson in the sublime. With a hard stare, I think I see France on the horizon. The bus, buzzing with tales of bucking and goring for much of the trip, grows eerily silent upon descent. I know this city, the one that the locals call Donostia, I have been here for weeks now, but for many, it must be their first time.

I hit the streets running. It is my last day in the Luis Irizar Escuela de Cocina, and I am determined to be somewhat punctual. I made the mistake of informing them of my jaunt to Pamplona, and now they are expecting a no show from the classes’ American import.

A run across town in San Sebastián reminds me of the dilemma facing many European city planners, one that we don’t really face in our adolescent country: how to blend the ancient with the modern. The vascos have done an admirable job here. The transition appears seamless: I run past brokerages, language institutions and century old bakeries without so much of a thought as to the change from asphalt to cobblestone. One deep inhale is of burning petroleum, the next of fresh baguette.

As I cross into the parte vieja, the oldest, most infectious part of San Sebastián, I spot a group of Ertzaintza (Basque Special Forces) on the corner, cloaked in red and black, faces masked, eyes peeking through the cloth. In the past 30 years, over 800 police officers and politicians have been killed in the ETA’s (Euskeda Ta Askatasuna- Basque Homeland and Freedom) bloody campaign. They are interrogating two young Basques with backpacks filled with cans of spray paint. ETA pleas for independence cover all in the old town: cement, brick, and marble. Castrated by the media and the political world, paint has become the voice of the Basque secessionists.

Sidestepping the confrontation, I make my way to the school. Before opening the door, I pause and, wiping the midsummer sweat from my forehead, take a second to survey the scene before I disappear into the culinary abyss: the sublime seascape, the hopping port, the seemingly endless row of outdoor seafood spots, and in front of me, situated ocean-side with a commanding view of it all, an entrance into the strange and delicious underbelly of Spain’s gastronomic capital.

For a second, I almost feel like Austin Powers, receiving the full attention of a group full of groping international women: Spanish, Mexican, and Japanese. The rolls of paper towels and stain remover they wield, however, thrusts me disappointedly back into reality. While ripping the tentacles from a slimy chipirón, a baby squid, I hook my finger around its ink sack and squeeze, releasing a thick, jet-black stream all over my apron and undershirt. Now they are blotching and scrubbing me, reminding me that everything will be fine: “Está bien Mateo, está bien.” Gracias, chicas.

Yoko makes an extra effort to remove the discouraging stains, reminding me of the situation we share. In her late 20s, she has traveled from Japan to take the summer cooking courses here, hoping to learn enough about nueva cocina vasca, nouvelle Basque cuisine to start her own tapas restaurant in Tokyo. Though I have spent the last six months at the University of Barcelona, we are the only two students who weren’t born speaking Spanish.

Chef Federico (Fede), a robust young Basque and our teacher for the week, reminds us that we must press forward. We have a schedule to keep: four hours to prep, cook and ultimately devour an intricate three-course meal. Though the school operates year round as one the top culinary institutes in Europe, when July comes, the Irizar family (Luis and his three daughters) opens their doors to the general public, and novices like me just follow their noses. For a $140 a week you can eat and drink your way through the best San Sebastián has to offer and bring home enough culinary know-how to impress the hell out of your parents and girlfriend. The casual summer courses run between July and September, alternating topics each week: from pintxos (Basque for tapas) to postres (desserts), all palates are pleased. This week: El Mar en nuestra Mesa, The Sea on our Table. Yeah, it does sound better in Spanish.

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