Spain: Sensuous Culinary Adventures in Basque Country (cont.)

We are in the midst of prep work for the main course; Fede gives the instructions, demonstrates the methods and sends us on our respective missions. At any time, Fede may pause to show the group a trick or technique: how to get a consistent mince out of an onion, the easiest way to beat air into egg whites or how to keep a hollandaise sauce from breaking. Today’s main dish is complex and multi-faceted: roasted monkfish served on a bed of Iberian ham and apple slaw with a white wine reduction. I am assigned the daunting task of making calamari “spaghetti” (hence the ink debacle) with Jose Marie, an old, sturdy local. His bronzed face beams with Basque pride, no doubt a member of the Nationalist Party. As I butterfly the firm, white bodies and begin to julienne the squid into long, narrow strands for garnish, the man gets excited. He tells me about the txoku, San Sebastián’s legendary all-male gastronomic societies, of which he is a long-standing member.

“Not even Franco’s wife was allowed in,” he brags (keep in mind I was never fortunate enough to have a translator—though the chefs offered it for this californiano, not a word of English entered the classroom in two weeks). Say what you want about the infamous machismo, you can’t deny the Basque obsession with food. Jose Marie is no exception. All week long he has been providing the class with restaurant picks, questioning the chef’s decisions and, his favorite pastime: telling fish stories about epic dinners, the kinds that grow from four to nine courses in the recounting.

We break from the chaos of the kitchen to sip café con leche and spoon down bowls of the young sous chef Alberto’s green peppercorn and melon sorbet. The fusion of subtle heat and cool sweetness is transcendent. My classmates take the break as an opportunity to prod me about the Pamplona excursion.

“It looked like a bull chased you all the way to class Mateo,” says Alfonso, a chiseled cook from Navarra, the next region over. Chuckling ensues. “Yeah, you must be tired; I thought you were going to kill that poor octopus a second time,” follows Mariana, a school teacher from Barcelona. More laughter. To our surprise, Luis Irizar, the school’s founder, walks through the door in the middle of the roasting and offers me a moment of relief. From his innovative use of traditional ingredients, like salt cod and tripe, to his incorporation of classic French technique, modern Basque cuisine owes much to this man. As he makes his way to the kitchen, he pauses in front of me, looks me up and down, and says calmly: “Pamplona.”

The place erupts. There is no use in being defensive; for Spaniards, to laugh with a foreigner is to accept him.

The final touches are being made for the feast. For the appetizer, Pulpo gallego, we scalded that troublesome octopus three times in boiling water (that’ll show it!) before returning it to the pot over a low simmer. Chef Fede slices the suctioned tentacles into bite size pieces and passes it over to a couple of students who garnish it with smoked paprika and an amber drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. Most will go back for more oil; aceite de oliva runs thick in Spanish veins.

At the last second, Jose Marie and I take our “spaghetti” to the skillet for searing. When the limp strands hit the hot oil, they tighten and curl like hooked worms, their near-translucence giving way to a crispy brown. Alberto is beside us at the school’s large, professional range frying slivers of leeks and jamón iberico to sprinkle liberally around the finished plates. Luis and his team don’t cut corners, not even for the summer groups: Iberian ham, the undisputed king of a pork-obsessed constituency, can cost up to $120 a kilo, making it Spain’s salt-cured answer to Italy’s coveted proscuitto di Parma.

A dozen or so ingredients are arranged on the countertop like an edible easel, and each student holds their canvas ready to paint. While Chef Fede’s carefully considered plating (he actually makes blueprints at home) normally sets the standard for the class, Yoko is attracting a lot of attention in her corner of the classroom. She slices the crusty monkfish on the bias, pointing its tips towards the sky and spooning it with the warm white wine and fish jus vinaigrette. Using a mold, she leaves two circular piles of the Spanish slaw in opposing corners, allowing our calamari critters to bend and twist their way up them. Years of calligraphy and origami, she tells us, allow for this moment. The chef too is impressed: this is nouvelle Basque cuisine at its best; fresh, traditional ingredients combined and arranged in previously unthinkable (and often unacceptable) ways.

A musical note ensues as a group of eager men begin the ritualistic uncorking of a dozen or so bottles of Rioja red and txacoli, a tart, local white wine. One could drink their tuition in wine if they so chose to. As glasses are filled and refilled, a flame goes up over the stove and a surge of heat warms the table. Chef Fede has doused a sauté pan of crepes with Gran Marnier; his face is bright with juvenile satisfaction. The classroom smells of toasted orange and caramelized sugar. This truly is a school of the senses.

Glasses chime, cameras flash and plates are deconstructed. Classmates with forks full of octopus tell jokes I don’t understand, but I laugh anyway. Yes, taking culinary classes in another language has been a challenge; and sure, I’ve made an ass out of myself too many times in the past weeks; but I wear a genuine smile nonetheless. What I missed in anecdotes and jargon I made up for in submersion and adaptation. I doubt anyone here has learned more. Well, maybe Yoko.

I stare at the plate of appetizers longingly. It’s not the food that has me down: roasted peppers stuffed with shrimp and Roquefort, stalks of asparagus wrapped in smoked salmon, the ubiquitous tortilla española; after all, this is the thumping heart of Spanish tapas culture. It’s not the scene either: San Sebastián’s parte vieja claims to have more bars per square meter than any other place in the world, and all on this Friday night are stuffed to drunken implosion. No, it must be this bus ticket I have in my money belt and that plane ticket I have back in my room. America calls. But below my plate of untouched tapas is a document that I actually would mind losing: a thick, cardboard diploma. The signatures from Luis and his family are barely dry. The back is crowded with names and addresses and invites, and I realize this really is something I am taking home with me.

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