A Basque Bamboo, photo by Lizzie Munro, found on Punch.
A random article I stumbled across describes a Basque twist on a classic cocktail. The Bamboo, created by German bartender Louis Eppinger possibly in the mid-1800s in San Francisco if not a bit later in Japan, consists of “equal measures of dry vermouth and dry sherry, plus a couple dashes of bitters.” Brooklyn’s Bar Vinazo has created a new version that adds a bit of Basque flavor. As Mary Anne Porto describes, the Basque Bamboo adds Basque cider to the mix. The co-owner of Bar Vinazo, Joe Campanale “describes it as a cross between the Martini-like classic and a spritz, and it shares the sensibilities of both: It inhabits the casual air of aperitivo, now with a light jacket.” Something to try out!
One of the biggest events to open the Christmas season in the Basque Country is the Feria of Santo Tómas, a rural market in the heart of the city. Originating in Gipuzkoa – more specifically Donostia – it has spread as a celebration throughout the Basque Country. Today, the Feria is a celebration of rural Basque traditions. People pull out their baserritarrak costumes – dressing as aitxitxa and amuma – and celebrate the baserri way of life. But the origins lie in the tradition of collecting rents on this day…
In olden times, December 21 was chosen as the date that renters had to go and pay their land lords. Why December 21? Well, the religious calendar guided people’s lives and the feast day of Saint Thomas was both close to Christmas and to the end of the year (I guess one implies the other…) It was far enough ahead of Christmas itself that people could get back home in time for the holiday. It seemed like a good day to collect the year’s payment.
However, picking a specific date like this meant that a large number of people traveled to the cities to settle their accounts. This then led to opportunities to do some shopping, to buy goods and other things that were harder to find in their smaller outlying villages – things like nougats, trinkets and toys, and more exotic foods such as figs, pomegranates, and nuts. At the same time, the baserritarrak – the rural villagers – would bring their goods, primarily foodstuffs, to sell to the city dwellers. Out of this extra bustle came the Feria, the Fair, of Santo Tómas.
The oldest mention is that of Donostia, in the early 1800s. However, given the fact that Donostia burned and lost many of its records in 1813, it is fair to think that the Feria had been going on for some time by then.
The merchants of Donostia, seeing opportunity in the large number of visitors with money, took their wares to the street, assembling in the Plaza de la Constitución. Merchants began adding attractions to pull in prospective shoppers. Musicians and singers became part of the Fair. So did traditional athletes such as the harri-jasotzaileak, or stone-lifters.
In the mid 1900s, the Feria experienced an existential crisis of sorts. It had turned into almost a carnival, in which all kinds of things were sold, not just traditional products but all sorts of things, such as masks and costumes and the like. However, it was decided to keep the more traditional character and those types of non-Basque, non-rural products were banned. Today, stalls sell a range of products from fruits and vegetables, to farming tools, with exhibitions of birds, livestock, flowers, and plants added more recently.
Until the end of Franco’s regime, December 21 was one of two days on which it was allowed to present theater in the Basque language, the other being January 20, the Tamborrada.
Food is a big part of the Feria. Traditionally, those landowners would give cod to their renters while those renters gave the owners, in turn, capons – a type of male chicken. However, today the txistorra dominates the festival. Maybe in the old days it was accompanied by roasted chestnuts but today talo, a corn flatbread sort of like a Mexican tortilla, is served with the txistorra. The perfect drink to go with the txistorra is a glass of cider.
More recently, the Feria of Santo Tómas spread to other parts of the Basque Country. In particular, the Feria of Bilbo has become quite large and popular.
One of the unique pleasures of the Basque Country is all of the wonderful tastes it has to offer. I’ve written about some of the unique drinks you can find only in the Basque Country. Txakolin, or txakoli as it is more commonly known, is perhaps the most well known, having found its way across the globe. We were even able to find it in our local liquor store here in Santa Fe! Our last stop in our visit to the Basque Country before getting on the plane was El Txakoli, where we toasted to an amazing trip! Here’s to the next one!
A glass of txakolin at the El Txakoli restaurant. Photo by Lisa Van De Graaff.
According to the Real Academia, txakolin is a “Light, somewhat sour wine that is made in the Basque Country, Cantabria and Chile.” It is a dry white wine that has a high acidity and low alcohol content.
Historically, it was called txakolin wine – it was Sabino Arana who proposed, roughly in 1895, to drop the n and call it txakoli. Though vineyards in the Basque Country are attested from Roman times, the first historical mention of txakolin dates to 1520.
There is one apocryphal anecdote about the origins of the name, as told to Basque ethnologist José Uría Irastorza by an old Txakolinero – someone who makes txakolin. Supposedly, when the winemaker was asked “How much wine have you made?” it was customary to respond: “Etxeko ain,” that is, just enough for home. From “etxeko ain” it became “etxekolain” and ended up being called “txakolin.”
The alcohol content of txakolin is only about 7%, about 2% too little to formally be called wine. However, the Estatuto de la Viña of 1970 made txakolin an exception, allowing the relatively weaker drink to be called wine.
There are essentially two variants of txakolin. Historically, txakolin wine was made from grapes that simply weren’t good enough for anything else. They may have been damaged by hail, for example, or just were of bad quality. This wine was despairingly compared to vinegar. However, modern txakolin is made from specific strains of grapes grown under specific climate and land conditions. It has even received a Denomination of Origin.
In past times – we are talking of the 1400s or even before – no other wine could be imported or sold in the province of Gipuzkoa until all of the txakolin wine had been consumed. This protected the local production from outside competition. However, the wine was considered so “thin and weak” and “raw” by the clergy that it was banned from being used in Catholic mass. Further, some Basques considered the txakolin wines so bad that in 1584 they petitioned to have the rule against importing other wines overturned, saying even the owners of the vineyards didn’t want to drink their own wine.
The most common varieties of grapes used in making txakolin are the Hondarrabi Zuri (between 85-90% of strains) and Hondarrabi Beltza (between 10-15%). In Bizkaia, Folle Blanche are also used. These strains are only found along the Basque coast and in Béarn, in France.
The grapes, once pressed, were given to animals for feed, but this had to be done relatively quickly so as to prevent fermentation and making the animals drunk.
Txakolin is a magnificent aperitif: its acidity stimulates the production of saliva and the secretion of gastric juices, preparing the body for better digestion. It also aids in the assimilation of proteins (meat, fish, etc.) thanks to its ionic acidity and its weak osmotic pressure.
Maite panted as she reached the apartment door. She wasn’t sure why, but the steps up to the apartment were always the hardest. She was always tempted to take the elevator but had yet to succumb to that temptation, pushing herself to climb the four flights of stairs up to their floor.
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
She pushed open the door. “I’m back!” she called as she threw her keys on the table and made her way to the bedroom. The shower at the end of the run was always the best part.
She stopped in her tracks as she passed through the bedroom doorway. Kepa was up on his knees in bed, naked, but that wasn’t the strangest part. The spectre of a woman floated in front of him, seemingly oblivious to his nakedness. Maite could see through her to the bathroom on the other side. The apparition was of a young woman with tanned skin and long blond hair that flowed behind her as if a gentle breeze lifted it up off of her shoulders. She was dressed in a loosely fitting golden, almost metallic gown that also flowed down and across her body, rippling as if some unseen force was pushing at her. As Maite stared in disbelief, the woman’s image shifted. The almost golden hair turned raven black and her skin, almost glowing, turned pale and white. Her gown also changed from bright gold to silver.
“Kepa…?” squeaked Maite as she just stood there, dumbfounded.
Both Kepa and the floating woman turned to look at her.
Maite pointed at Kepa’s waist. “You’re naked,” she stammered.
Kepa blushed as he pulled the sheets around him. He then turned back to Maite. “Maite, this is Amalur and her daughters Eguzki and Ilargi.”
The woman, who had looked quizically at Kepa as he covered himself, turned back to Maite. “Agur,” said the woman, greeting her formally in Euskara. Maite could understand the woman’s dialect, but it had a flavor of something ancient.
Maite wasn’t sure if she should bow or what, so she simply replied “Agur.” As she did so, the woman shifted again, this time to a somewhat older woman who wore earthy colors. Her hair was long and brown and full of curls which bounced in the unseen force that seemed to buffet her. She was as beautiful as her daughters, but had a sadness in her eyes that betrayed some suffering that her daughters had been spared.
“So,” began Kepa as he stood up off the bed, the sheets clutched in his hand as he tried to cover his nakedness. “I was goofing around, drawing symbols in the air with my magical finger, and she popped in.”
Maite’s brain still seemed to be short circuiting. “Magical finger?” was all she could muster.
Kepa held up his hand, his index finger extended. It began to glow. “The zatia…?” he ventured.
“Ah, bai,” Maite nodded. She shook her head to break the fog. “You drew the Amalur symbol with that finger,” she continued, putting the pieces together.
Kepa nodded. “And then she appeared.”
“I guess I’m glad you didn’t draw some symbol of an evil demon or something,” said Maite as she plopped down on the edge of the bed. She looked up at Amalur, who floated above them.
“Now what?” she asked.
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
Sometimes, you just miss the most obvious things. I’ve been to Bilbo several times, but I never thought to take the funicular up to Artxanda. But, that’s the beauty of traveling with others, they make you think about things differently, explore new avenues, push you beyond the familiar. The funicular itself is iconic, though in the height of summer it was crammed full of sweaty people. Still, we took it up and took in the sites that Artxanda, a beautiful green space overlooking downtown Bilbo, offers. Well worth the cramped quarters!
The view of central Bilbo, including the Guggenheim, from Artxanda. Photo by Blas Uberuaga.
Artxanda is one of two mountain ranges that surround and define the city limits of Bilbo, the other being Pagasarri. Artxanda is closer to the center of the city and, as a consequence, has seen a lot more development. The first houses were sold and constructed around 1668, when the name of this particular summit was Sondicabaso.
The Artxanda funicular connects the center of Bilbo with the Mount, specifically the Mirador de Artxanda. Artxanda had already become a popular destination for the residents of Bilbo and, in the early 1900s, it was proposed that the two become connected by a funicular. Approval was granted in 1915 to build the funicular, but with a few conditions, amongst them that inebriated passengers or passengers carrying smelly packages not be allowed to ride. Another condition was that a side path be built for emergencies. The cost was about 3,000 euros. The first trip was taken on October 7, 1915, by then mayor of Bilbo Benito Marco Gardoqui.
There are a number of sites at the top of the mountain. One of the first is a big metal gear that is from the original funicular. Another is a giant footprint that commemorates the soldiers that fought against the fascists in the Spanish Civil War. Nearby is the hermitage of San Roque with panoramic views of the surrounding valleys. San Roque is the destination of a pilgrimage every August 16. In older times, pilgrims would come to ask for protection for their crops against draught and storms. There is also the large red sign that repeats Bilbo/Bilbao with an amazing view of the city as a backdrop.
The mount is also lined with trenches from the Spanish Civil War. It served as part of the Iron Ring, a vast network of tunnels and trenches that were built to protect the city during the war. Today, archeologists are excavating these trenches and tunnels.
Artxanda is also famous for txakolin. The first txakolindegiak, the first places to serve txakolin at least commercially, were in Artxanda. One place in particular, El Txakoli, began as a small shelter for shepherds and mountaineers in 1897.
Kepa lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Maite had gotten up early to go for a jog along La Concha. She had invited Kepa to join her, but he wasn’t really a jogger. He needed a competitive element to get him motivated to exert himself. A game of basketball with friends, that was great. A partido of mano in the fronton, that was the kind of thing that got him going. Running for the sake of running? He never quite understood that.
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
He let his eyes sort of defocus as he stared at the ceiling, little floaters flittering across his vision. Sometimes he saw shapes in the fuzzy black blobs and lines that danced across his vision, but most of the time he simply tried to track them. When he shifted his eyes to look more directly at one, it always seemed to shift away, to the side of his vision, always fuzzy and grey.
“Just like these symbols,” he said to himself. “Always just a little out of focus, always just beyond my grasp.”
He flicked his eyes back and forth, driving the floaters across his field of vision, not ready to get out of bed and start his day.
After a while, he got bored of chasing floaters. He held his hand in front of his face and forced his finger tip to glow. Staring at the bright light, he moved his finger, drawing in the air. When he closed his eyes, the after image remained, his drawing almost brought to life on the back of his eyelids. He wrote out Maite’s name and there it was, almost burned into his vision. He tried to draw a virtual picture of her face, but it turned out to be a distorted caricature. He blinked furious to try to erase the hideous image from his eyes.
He absent mindedly continued drawing random shapes in the air, burning them into his retina and watching them fade against the blackness of his closed eyelids. At some point, without really thinking about it, he drew a circle. Within the circle he drew a triangle. Next to one point of the triangle he drew another circle and, next to the other, he drew a crescent.
“Amalur,” he mumbled to himself as he closed his eyes, focusing on the after image of the symbol that Ainhoa had tattooed on her shoulder, that filled Marina’s journal. “What does it mean?”
Instead of fading, the symbol grew brighter and brighter against the back of his eyelids, to the point that it was almost painful. He shoved his hands against his eyes trying to block the light, but it was coming from inside his eyes. He was about to scream when the light suddenly vanished. Rubbing his eyes, he opened them. Blinking, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust back to the ambient light. As they did, he found himself staring at the apparition of a woman.
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
Perhaps the most iconic vista of La Concha and Donostia is from Mount Igeldo, the peak that rises to the west of the city. A small winding road leads from the city up the slope to an amusement park that hosts this most amazing view. You can also grab a funicular that will take you from the city to the top, something I still need to do.
The view of Donostia from Mount Igeldo. Photo by Blas Uberuaga.
Igeldo refers to both a barrio and the Mount that overlooks La Concha; they are distinct entities.
Rising about 255 meters (836 feet) above sea level to the west of the heart of Donostia, the barrio of Igeldo is officially part of Donostia with about 1000 people. Igeldo was included in the town charter of Donostia way back in 1180 by King Sancho IV the Wise of Nafarroa. While it has always been part of Donostia, it has some independence in terms of the management of the surrounding mountains and the local economy. It even has its own mayor and “city” council. In fact, Igeldo tried to obtain independence from Donostia – and briefly did – but in 2014 that movement was stopped by the courts.
At the top of the funicular that connects Mount Igeldo with the main city, upon the hill Mendiotz, lies an amusement park. Inaugurated in 1912 by Queen Maria Cristina, the park was designed to look like a military outpost. Originally, it also had a dancehall and casino, attracting a very different crowd than it does today, with its amusement rides and games targeting children. The park was built to take advantage of the growing tourism of the city as well as the funicular that connects the mount to the city. A group of local farmers bought the land and developed what would become the park.
The funicular itself is over 100 years old, constructed in 1902. It is the oldest funicular in the Basque Country.
Before the park, a lighthouse stood on the peak, constructed sometime in the sixteenth century. This lighthouse was powered entirely by burning wood. It was damaged during the Carlist Wars and had to be abandoned in 1854. A new lighthouse was built nearby to warn ships of the violent waters. The old one was renovated and today the Torreón, as it is called, has a majestic view of the coast.
There is also a meteorological observatory on the Mount, created by Juan Miguel Orcolaga y Legarra. In 1900, he alerted Basque authorities to an impending hurricane which he had predicted from his careful measurements and that led to the financing of his observatory a few years later. The station has been collecting data 24 hours a day since 1905, though records from before 1928 were lost. It is one of the oldest observatories manned 24 hours a day.
Sorry for the silence. I was on work travel and then I caught COVID just in time for the holiday. Feeling much better now and finally testing negative. Stay safe and healthy, everyone.
“Well,” said Maite as she climbed back into the car, “that was a bust.”
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“What do you mean?” replied Kepa as he pulled the car out onto the road. “We learned that these symbols are related to ancient Basque beliefs.”
“So?” asked Maite exasperated. “How does that help us?”
Kepa shrugged sheepishly, feeling slightly reprimanded. “I’m not sure, not yet. But it’s more than we knew before.”
Maite nodded. “That’s true.” After a moment’s silence, she added “Sorry for snapping at you.”
Kepa let out a sigh of relief. “No worries. This is frustrating for both of us.”
“If the zatiak – the magic of these witches – is related to Basque mythology, what does that mean?” asked Maite rhetorically.
“That the Basque gods were real?” ventured Kepa.
Maite shook her head. “Not necessarily. I do admit that there are things beyond our understanding here, but I’m not ready to recognize the existence of prehistoric gods.”
“Does Garuna have any theories?”
“I haven’t bothered to ask it, to be honest,” replied Maite. “But, it can’t hurt.”
Kepa watched as Maite laid her head back, having what he must imagine was one of the strangest internal dialogues any person has ever had. He just wished he was privy to it.
“So,” asked Maite in her thoughts. “What does this mean? This symbol of Amalur and her daughters?”
Garuna rumbled from the depths of her mind. “I find it somewhat insulting that you only want to talk when you need something.”
“Why else would I talk to you?”
“So I can learn more about your time and the world around us.”
“So you can take it over?”
There was a silence before Garuna finally responded. “I don’t know what the symbols mean. The ancient Basque gods are nothing more than myth. I have never seen any evidence that they are more than that.”
“What about the zatiak? Might they not be evidence?”
“They are evidence of something. But what, I cannot say. They are beyond my experience.”
“They were. But now they are an intimate part of your experience. They are why you are here.”
“That is true. But I have not had the ability to really analyze them. One sample does not make for a representative set.”
“I guess we’ll have to find more for you to analyze then.”
“That would be… desirable.”
Maite sighed. She feared what Garuna would do with the power of the zatiak or, worse, with her body holding that power.
She shook her head, as if waking from a deep sleep.
“He’s got nothing,” she said aloud as she turned to Kepa.
“Well,” he replied. “I guess we file this one away until we can learn more.”
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
Our night in the Parte Vieja started off at a cocktail bar, Arraun, where everyone else (I’m a beer and kalimotxo drinker) had some of the fanciest drinks I’ve seen in quite a while. It was cool to find such a non-traditional spot in the heart of all of these pintxo bars. But, really, those pintxo bars were the main attraction and we hit several of them, with one highlight being La Viña where the now famous burnt Basque cheesecake was created. It is amazing that what is now a global phenomenon started off at this little spot in the Parte Vieja!
Lisa and I outside of La Vina. Our daughter is in the background, enjoying the cheesecake.
La Viña opened in the Parte Vieja of Donostia in 1959 as a pintxo bar. The first owners were Eladio Rivera, Carmen Jiménez, Antonio Rivera and Conchi Hernáez – Eladio and Carmen were husband and wife, as were Antonio and Conchi. Today, La Viña is run by Santiago “Santi” Rivera, Eladio and Carmen’s son, who joined the family business in 1987. He took over La Viña in 1997.
Santi created what would become known as burnt Basque cheesecake not long after he started in the family business, in the 1988. Through classes, he was familiar with some ingredients that were less common in the Basque Country. And he had free range of the kitchen on off days and would experiment. He went with a minimalist approach, partially because there simply wasn’t enough space in the bar’s kitchen to store so many ingredients. His classic cheesecake only contains 5 ingredients: cream cheese, eggs, cream, sugar, and flour.
His cheesecake doesn’t have a crust – just the burnt shell from cooking the cake at “too high” of a temperature. This was done in part because he didn’t want the distraction of a chewy/crunchy crust – he wanted the cake itself to be everything, to melt in your mouth.
It was in 1997 that, following the advice of another chef, he stopped storing the cheesecake in the fridge and left it out to sit on the counter, letting it keep its lighter texture.
La Viña has been serving Santi’s cheesecake for decades. But it is only in the last few years, with the influx of tourists, that burnt Basque cheesecake has become a world-wide phenomenon. In 2020, the New York Times named it the flavor of the year for 2021.
Santi and his team are currently building a bakery to make their cheesecake, but it won’t be shipped. Santi says the cheesecake is best eaten with 36 hours of being made. He isn’t willing to sacrifice the unique flavor and quality for greater profits.
