A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [36]
Just when I was beginning to fear that soon we’d all be stripping down to our Skivvies for a little towel snapping in the steam room, the mood became decidedly nationalistic. No more opera. Instead, lusty anthems of Basque independence, marching songs, songs about battles won and lost, loud homages to dead patriots, nonspecific vows to take to the streets in the future. The men were all lined up together now, two rows of raised fists, swinging in time, feet stomping, shouting triumphantly. A few more glasses of patxaran and I’d be storming the barricades myself. It got only louder and more festive (and my table wetter, from all the high pouring) as the evening progressed. The ranks of empty bottles near me grew from platoon to company strength, threatening to become a division.
‘We don’t do this in New York,’ I told Luis.
I don’t remember much after that.
I woke up in the Hotel Londres y Angleterre, one of the many Victorian piles built on San Sebastián’s English seaside-style strand, which curves around a beautiful scallop-shaped bay. Should I tell you about castles and forts and Crusade-era churches, the unique and lovely facades on the buildings, the intricate wrought iron, the old carousel, the museums? Nah, I’ll leave that to Lonely Planet or Fodor’s. Just believe me when I tell you that the city is beautiful – and not in the oppressive way of, say, Florence, where you’re almost afraid to leave your room because you might break something. It may be beautiful, but it’s a modern city, sophisticated, urbane, with all the modern conveniences artfully sandwiched into old buildings. The French vacation there in large numbers, so there are all the fashionable shops, brasserie-type lunch joints, patisseries, nightclubs, bars, Internet cafés, and cash machines you’d expect of a major hub – along with the homegrown cider joints, tapas bars, small shops selling indigenous products, and open-air markets you hope for. As San Sebastián is still Spain, there is the added benefit of being part of a society that has only recently emerged from a repressive dictatorship. If you’re looking for hard-living, fun-loving folks, Spain is the place. During the days of Franco’s dictatorship, the Basque language was illegal – writing or speaking it could lead to imprisonment – but now it’s everywhere, taught in schools, spoken in the streets. The supporters of ETA, as in any good independence movement, are profligate with the use of graffiti, so there’s an element of Belfast to the walls and parks and playgrounds – except they’re serving two-star food across the street.
With a crippling hangover, I limped out of the hotel and back to the parte vieja in search of a cure, noticing a few surfers getting some nice rides off the long, steady curls in the bay.
Chocolate and churros. A thick, dark, creamy cup – almost a bowl, really – of hot chocolate, served with a plate of deep-fried strips of batter. Churros are kind of like flippers: sweet dough forced through a large star-tipped pastry bag into hot oil and cooked until golden brown, then piled onto a plate, powdered with sugar, and dipped into chocolate. The combination of sugar, chocolate, hot dough, and grease is the perfect breakfast for a borderline alcoholic. By the time I was halfway through my cup, my headache had disappeared and my worldview had improved dramatically. And I needed to get well fast. I had, I suspected, a big night ahead of me. I’d seen that look on Virginia’s face before, when she’d told me that I’d be going ‘out with the girls’. It was a look that made my blood run cold as the memories came rushing back. Vassar, 1973. I was part of a tiny minority of men, living in a little green world run by and for women. I’d fallen in – as I always do – with a bad crowd, a loosely knit bunch of carnivorous, brainy, gun-toting, coke-sniffing, pill-popping manic-depressives,