THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 31During that gluttonous blur of days, there was so much
movement and eating that we barely took the time for a siesta. We
headed south into Rioja, Spain’s most famous wine region, and
visited a winemaker named Sandra Bravo in Villabuena, a village
of just 300 residents but around 40 wineries. Sandra, whose
winery Sierra de Toloño is among an exciting new generation in
Rioja, is committed to organic farming, low-intervention wine-
making and growing grapes at high altitudes, over 2,000 feet in
elevation. The reason for this was obvious during the hot summer
days in Rioja. “Now with climate change, everyone is climbing the
mountains,” she said. Sandra took us to one of her favorite
vineyards, planted more than 100 years ago. The terrace above the
vineyard was ringed by huge ancient stone slabs, which she called
the “Agnostic Cemetery.” She told us that, as she worked alone
there, she felt a certain spirituality she couldn’t quite explain. I
also felt something there among those vines, something similar to
what I felt in the Prado and while eating those tomatoes and
eggplants.
In the evening, we made a tapas crawl through Rioja’s capital
city, Logroño. Here, crowds flock to more than 100 tiny bars in a
two-block area of downtown for the small plates known as pintxos,
and wine. Our guide was Pedro Barrio, a local dentist who also
happens to be president of the Rioja Academy of Gastronomy. He
led us to Calle del Laurel, the epicenter. There’s certainly a lot of
tapas in Spain, but even here, Calle del Laurel stands out.
Our first stop was a place called Bar Soriano, serving only grilled
wild mushrooms in a garlicky butter sauce and topped with a
skewered shrimp. From there, Pedro intended for us get more
adventurous pintxos. Our next stop was Bar El Perchas, which sold
two pintxos: pig’s ear in a spicy sauce and a fried pig’s ear sandwich.
I couldn’t help but laugh: Where else besides Spain could a bar exist
with a menu of two pig’s ear dishes?
At Bar Donosti, we ordered a dish of quail egg, chorizo and spicy
pepper called cojonudos (the name means “ballsy,” a compliment)
followed by baby lamb intestine. On Calle del Laurel the crowd
continued to grow until it was packed wall-to-wall. Sure, everyone
wore masks, but still. I said to the bartender at Bar Donosti, “It’s like
there’s not even a pandemic.” He shrugged and said, “It’s Spain.
Spain is different.”
At the end of the evening, Pedro took us to a private club owned
by his wife’s family, housed in a building right in the center of the
tapas epicenter. He opened a bottle of Rioja while we looked at the
wall, every inch covered with bullfight memorabilia: old posters
and black-and-white photos of famous bullfighters, their colorful
costumes, swords and bandilleras. For someone who’d read so
much Hemingway as a younger person, it was all so oddly familiar.
As we drank wine in this room, it struck me just how strange it is
that Americans like me know so much about bullfighting and a
certain take on Spain through our literature — and so little about so
many other things in the world.I
n the morning, I o nce again felt like we needed to do s omething
besides eating and drinking, something at least mildly active.
There was an option to go horseback riding, but t hat was out of
the q uestion — I am deathly and irrationally afraid of horses. A
bicycle tour seemed a nice alternative, and one winery, called
Bodegas Lecea in the village of San Asensio, offered electric bike
tours. Even easier, I thought. Since François was a little hung
over, I didn’t mention anything to him about the electric bike
tour.
It was only when we arrived and our guide, Estela, handed us
helmets that François looked at me in horror and informed me thatF
rançois a nd I hit the road the next morning. We d rove a long t he
Basque coast, eating a breakfast of bonito washed down with
txakoli wine, then a lunch of txuleta steaks with Rioja, then cruised
up into the hills above San Sebastián to the village of Astigarraga,
and sampled crisp Basque ciders straight out of the tanks at a cidery
called Zapiain.
We traveled into the Basque green foothills for lunch at Asador
Etxebarri, set in a rustic stone house and run by chef Victor
Arguinzoniz, who grills everything on the menu — and who, as the
story goes, fell in love with the magic of fire as a child because his
family house had no electricity or gas and they cooked on an open
hearth. There is nothing secret about Asador Etxebarri — it was
recently voted the third-best restaurant in the world by a panel of
more than 1,000 experts, and has been talked about in most of the
world’s food media.
Still, this was a culinary pilgrimage for François and me. For
over three hours we were served more than a dozen courses,
including the platonic ideal of chorizo, sardines, prawns, razor
clams, goose barnacles and a whole red bream. The steak that came
as the last course seemed, as François said, “like our reward for
making it through the meal.” Despite the grandeur of the lunch, the
thing that jumped out to me was a mind-bending dish of grilled
eggplant. Eggplant! How could something so simple and humble
be so masterfully presented? Cotán would have been impressed.
Fr om left: Playa
Zurriola in San
Sebastián. Sandra
Bravo, owner of the
Sierra de Toloño
winery in Villabuena,
a village of 300
residents and about
40 wineries in La
Rioja.