From Corderos and Cheese to Alubias and Artisans:
A Day in the Basque Country with San Sebastian Food

by Emily Monaco | 2010

When I was growing up, the first smell that entered my room in the morning was without exception the smell of coffee brewing. Anything else has always seemed strange and wrong... and so to wake up to the smell of cheese and sheep is a strange situation to find myself in indeed.

To be fair, I had been napping in the car as I rode in the backseat on a drive into the rural area outside of San Sebastian, Spain, as Jon Warren and Nicole Oakley of San Sebastian Food navigated our way to a sheepsmilk cheese farm, but it's still jarring to wake up in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing aside from sky and grass and sheep. I've been lucky enough to be included on a test run of one of their planned gastronomic excursions—an excursion that, apparently, will start just as the sun is beginning to rise through the typical San Sebastian haze of a grey morning sky.

I unfold myself from the backseat of the car cautiously—the ever-present rain of the Basque region has saturated the ground, and the grass gives into my sneakers with a squelch. I was born and raised in the city, so I'll never get used to the smell of a barnyard: it's not altogether unpleasant, but it's still shocking, especially when the only thing in my system is a little café cortado we picked up along the way.

Before I had even placed two feet on the ground, the owner of the family-run farm was already walking over to us, a tiny baby strapped to her front. She greets us in fast-paced Spanish, to which I nod and smile along, and she quickly adjusts her pace to accommodate Jon and me. Though he fell in love with this country and its food years ago, Jon has not yet completely gotten used to the language—he may be the one guiding this tour, but he's still somewhat of an outsider, like me. No one seems to mind, though, and with some help from Nicole, we are slowly instructed in the details of making this local specialty, a sheepsmilk cheese that is similar to Manchego...

But first, the source: the lambs. As we move closer to the barn, the smell of hay becomes more and more overwhelming, but by the time we arrive inside,

I've forgotten all about it: all I can think of are the tiny baby lambs running along the length of the barn, as though it's some sort of incredible game to run back and forth, back and forth. Two of the tiny lambs are black-fleeced, and I'm startled to realize that the well-ingrained "black sheep" actually stems from reality.

"¿Quieres..." I hear, the beginning of a question, but I don't understand the rest. It doesn't matter: I quickly comprehend that I'm being asked if I want to hold one of the baby lambs, which is placed in my arms with the facility only years' experience lends. It reminds me of a puppy, soft and sweet-smelling, and I stare at its tiny face for a long, endearing moment before its finally removed from my hands and given back to its flock: it's time for us to move along.

We're shown the rest of the facilities, from where the sheep are milked to where the milk is mixed with rennet to where the actual rounds of cheese are formed. I'm hit with a wave of pungency as she opens a door for us to peer at rows upon rows of cheese, still sitting through the aging process. As we wander through the rooms, she offhandedly tells us about life here during the other seasons, how in the summertime, they head an hour and a half into the mountains by car and then twenty more minutes by foot or horse to where the lambs graze—it's not reachable any other way. I can hardly fathom that to them, this is normal, and as we wind back down towards the house, where she lives with her husband and baby Maggie, who has been surprisingly quiet and pleasant through the whole ordeal, I think about how much I would like this expanse of sky and grass and cheese to be my "normal."

By now it's hardly 10 o'clock, but by the time we let ourselves into the dry, warm kitchen, the glass of wine she offers with the cheese we're ready to taste seems just about right. She serves it without ceremony from a spigot in the corner, and then she expertly slices thick wedges of cheese, which we sample atop bread. It's honest cheese—good and hearty, and it's perfect washed down with the strong Rioja wine I've been getting used to ever since I left France and its comparatively quiet Bordeaux.

Before we know it, it's time for Jon, Nicole and me to move on—we have more driving to do. She folds us back into our little car with rounds of cheese we purchased, cheese that can only be bought at a handful of vendors in San Sebastian who sell the artisan product. I bury it beneath the seat and stare out the windows as we continue to drive, listening vaguely to Jon and Nicole discuss the map, which one of them seems to be convinced they've got upside down. I couldn't care less—the one glass of wine was enough to make the backdrop of bright orange trees and a surprisingly blue sky the only thing I want to pay attention to... that is, until we arrive in Tolosa.

Tolosa is a small town that is unremarkable in the way that only small, provincial towns can be: I, as a foreigner, exclaim over the most trivial of things: the way that the laundry hangs out the window of the apartments looking over the parking lot, the ETA graffiti on the tunnel that lies on our path to the local market (our destination).

I'm used to markets—it takes all my will-power not to drag everyone to every market I see—but even I take pause as we arrive at this covered market in the center of the square. Everything is just so big and bold and colorful, and we wind up and down the aisles, getting in the way of locals buying their weekly cheese and alubias. We weave in and out of stands, and it's all I can do not to exclaim over everything: whole pigeons sold with their necks buried in their chest feathers, homemade jars of membrillo to eat with the cheese we've just procured, cabbages bigger than my head and the most perfect guindillas I've ever seen—so perfect that I have to buy a kilo just to roast with salt and eat when I get home.

I'm timid as I peruse, but Jon is fearless, asking everyone each question that pops into his head, and soon his exuberance is contagious. I love the surprise with which the locals answer our carefully worded questions, stitched together from words we know and words we think we know, but I guess it's similar to someone coming up to you in the Stop and Shop and exclaiming over the sheer variety of breakfast cereal—for them, this is normal.

Our favorite stand is near the end, a group of men with a giant roasting machine and countless crates of local pimentón peppers. They stack dozens of empty crates in the corner as they work fast, pouring kilos upon kilos of fresh peppers into the machine and pulling them out with their bare hands, the pepper skins charred black and peeling off. They dump them unceremoniously from plastic buckets into plastic bags and hand them off to waiting housewives who buy tens of kilos at a time, for winter jarring. I buy my own bag as well, but then it's time to go—I can hardly carry the two kilos of peppers I've bought... and I didn't even know I liked peppers.

The smells of the market have made me hungry, which is a good thing, considering the fact that we're about to indulge in what is quite possibly the heaviest meal I've ever had the pleasure of partaking in. Alubias are typical beans in this region, black when dried and a rich, rusty red when cooked. They are served in a giant pot with assorted meats as a side: sausage and pork and more guindillas, more than we could ever eat. The car ride to the restaurant isn't terribly long, but by the time we arrive in the tiny town, my stomach is grumbling, and I'm happy to see that our table is ready.

We don't even glance at the menu—just order alubias for three and wait, chattering excitedly about our day. I'm happy to see that even Jon, who has been here for years, is still so excited about everything we've seen. Somehow, it makes my happiness all the more real. We eat and eat until we can't eat any more, and even though there is still a steaming vat of the stewed beans left on the table, we slowly waddle away and back to the car, where I doze and dream of sausage and cheese and wine.

Arriving back in San Sebastian is a blast back to reality: even though this city was just as foreign as anything to me a few weeks ago when I arrived, now it seems much closer to normal than anything we've seen today. As I gather my treasures of the day—my bags of peppers and my round of cheese—and climb out onto the cloudy sidewalk of the city that has become my temporary home, I force myself to remember everything I've seen: the smells, the sights and the tastes of our day in the country, of taking in the Basque region the way that I am sure it was truly meant to be seen.

San Sebastian Food™ (sansebastianfood.com), founded by Jon Warren, specialises in gastronomic adventures for food-minded travelers in San Sebastian, Northern Spain. Focusing on small groups and authentic experiences, Jon is able to provide insider access and up-to-the-minute local knowledge. Delivering real food experiences, his company offers a fresh approach to culinary travel.

See more photos on Monaco's flickr page >>
Read more tales of food on her food blog, Tomato Kumato >>

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