Extebarri

Last weekend was epic. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able this entry and accompanying photographs until now.

Nothing beats lingering symptoms of post fiesta-ing like a 10 kilometer run around Lasarte. Wander and I set out in the typical damp, rainy, oppressive weather in the relatively early (11:00 AM!) morning. We were perfect running partners, keeping the exact same pace. He is desperately trying to learn English, as I am Spanish, so we exchanged basic phrases while we were still able to talk. When we ran passed the horse racing fields, we both remarked at the exact same moment, “It smells bad!” in our respective languages. The new phrase came in handy the following Wednesday in the kitchen when I needed to make mayonnaise. The egg yolks had gone bad and smelled terrible. I was able to communicate this intelligently, without several gestures to my chef instructor, which made me proud. I need to go on more runs with Wander!

Tuesday morning, a group of us set out for Bilbao. It was a difficult wake up. Monday evening resulted in an impromptu karaoke session in a tiny bar run by a lovely, older Peruvian couple. The husband and wife sang a love song to each other and dedicated it to the Americana (me) because I had told Gladys, the wife and co-owner, that I hadn’t seen my husband in a month, missed him terribly and was very excited to see him soon. She gave me a Heineken t-shirt as a gift when I left.

Flo, Josh, Aroldo, Leandro and I raced to the train to meet Freddy and Sean. We were in miserable shape. Flo tried to flat iron her hair on the train while Freddy and Sean hoovered butter-filled pastries and coffee.

We took a 75 minute bus ride from San Sebastian to Bilbao to visit the Guggenheim. The exterior of the building is worth the trip in and of itself. It is majestic and wild and modern—a mix of industrial mediums like steel and concrete that curves and defies linear paths. Jeff Koons’ pieces surround the museum, including an enormous topiary dog punctuated with vivid petals of red, yellow and purple. Canals wind their way around the front of the building with elevated pedestrian walkways, one of which being occupied by an enormous daddy long-legs made of steel.

Despite the appeal of the Guggenheim, however, the real draw for us to travel to Bilbao was to visit the small restaurant, Etxebarri, in the tiny Basque town, Axpe.

Axpe is about one hour and change outside of Bilbao. We took two local buses to arrive. The drive was stunning. It felt slightly strange to be traveling through the bucolic countryside and towering mountains on local, public buses. We passed acres of fertile, green pastures where fat, cotton-ball covered sheep grazed. The tops of the imposing mountains were snow covered and hidden in clouds of dense fog, which made the air heavy and damp.

I don’t know if it’s routine or not, but the bus driver was kind enough to drop us just outside the restaurant. The small, stone home that is Extebarri looks like it popped out of a fairy tale.

Victor Arguinzoniz is the head chef and owner of Extebarri. He cooks everything in two wood-fired ovens or over unique, self-invented charcoal grills. Hand cranks set above and connected to each grill make it possible to adjust the level of the grill, creating or diminishing the distance between the platform and charcoals. On a daily basis, woods such as oak, apple, orange, grape or green olive are used to make varying types of charcoal. It is the produce itself that dictates what type of charcoal must be used in its preparation and cooking method. The produce is essentially infused with the essence of the charcoal it is cooked with.

However rustic the surrounding environment, the dining room was an elegant sea of white tablecloths, polished wine glasses and servers in black suits. We were embarrassingly underdressed, but welcomed all the same and after some deliberation, we all decided to do the tasting menu.

If ever God was to give me a sign that I was in the exact right place, he did it through our first course—a long, rectangular slab of handmade goat butter. For a former butter stick guzzler (fact, given up at around age five as it was not socially or publicly appropriate), it was a dream come true. The thin, opaque portion supported a thin layer of black truffle, amethyst colored smoked salt, and a tiny yellow flower bud. Although we had bread on the table, the chef intends the course to be eaten as is, sans accompaniment. I was happy to oblige.

The smokiness that came through the butter was powerful and overwhelming—the goat milk was smoked before it was turned into butter. The rich, creamy bite reminded me of bacon fat and melted quickly in my mouth. Sean was put off by the level of the butter’s smokiness and although I could understand why—the flavor released after ingesting the butter made me feel as though I was inhaling and exhaling in the middle of a smoke pit—I didn’t share his feeling. I imagined using the butter with scrambled eggs, over French toast or pancakes, in a pan to sauté onions or asparagus.

The second course was a lovely, long thin salted anchovy over a slice of grilled and oiled baguette. I typically don’t prefer anchovies, but I savored this one. It was superbly fresh and devoid of any powerful pungent fishy tastes and smells. The anchovy was creamy, acting as a spread slathered on top of the baguette.

I was nervous for the third course—grilled goose barnacles or percebes. They are not aesthetically appealing—Sean commented that they looked like turtle’s feet. They demand serious physical labor, from the time they are caught to the time they are eaten. The spade like, nail covered head must be twisted off and the long, rubber cannoli shaped meat extracted from its casing. Freddy tucked his napkin into his shirt, protecting himself from the cherry red juices that rapidly squirted out as we twisted and pulled. The dish was naked, the percebes the only attraction. They tasted like a less salty, solid form of smoked ocean water. The texture fell somewhere between mussels and calamari. I loved them.

A tiny grilled oyster, nestled inside a shell five or six times its size, followed the percebes. The pearl gray oyster nugget lay on rectangular, confetti-sized pieces of seaweed and was covered with a small dollop of percebe liquid smoked foam. The portion could have been eaten in one bite, but I made it into three, appreciating the overall lightness of the dish and the super subtle hints of smoke and ocean with powerful oyster overtones.

A frighteningly wonderful, fatty generous brick of chorizo was immediately deemed one of our table’s most favorite dishes. An equal size piece of grilled polenta cake supported the luxurious and velvety fresh meat. I was surprised at its lack of chorizo-y flavor, but not disappointed. In fact, as I neared the end of my portion, I started to massage the inside of my mouth with the meat and polenta to make it last longer.

Our sixth course did not hold up to the courses we had sampled up to that point. The grilled egg yolk was remarkable in appearance—a bright yellow pop of a perfectly intact yolk seemingly suspended over creamed purple potatoes and topped with paper-thin shavings of black Perigord truffle. Although creamy and rich, it needed salt. The flavors were lost and indiscernible.

The grilled salt cod was beautiful and soft and served with the traditional Basque pil pil sauce, an emulsion of cod juices, olive oil and garlic. The roasted red pepper, three grilled spinach leaves and one grilled scallion were simultaneously quiet but commanding. Although the cod was the central focus of the dish, it almost provided a blank canvas for its deliberate and thoughtfully chosen counterparts.

The last savory course was grilled beef on the bone. They should have named it Every Carnivore’s Dream Come True. I can’t imagine a more perfectly cooked, tender piece of meat (Peter Luger’s and Strip House would be put to shame). The browned, crisp exterior was coated in thick flakes of crunchy salt and provided a stark contrast against the raw, crimson red interior. I wanted to bathe in its juices, which I soaked up with torn pieces from our dense boule of bread.

The first dessert—the wild fruit infusion with fresh cheese ice cream—exploded with tang and tart and cut the residual fat of the steak. The ice cream truly tasted of fresh cheese, complimenting the fruit with equal tang, but supporting it with a milky coolness.

And the pane perdu with smoked milk ice cream? It was the second sign God gave to me that day that I was just where I should be. We had come full circle. Similar to the method by which the butter was created, the milk was smoked before it was turned into ice cream. And just as the butter reminded me of bacon fat, the ice cream contained bacon notes as well and paired unbelievably with the pane perdu.

Four hours later and I had the post-Thanksgiving heartbeat. It was an incredibly educational experience and an honor to eat with Freddy, Sean, Josh, Carlos and Flo. We were like pigs in you-know-what, going crazy over each dish, discussing its preparation, appearance and flavor. We endlessly brainstormed what methods we might use in the future, how we might do things differently, what parts we might reproduce. Freddy furiously wrote in his black notebook. My brain, my heart, my body—everything was in overdrive.