Cider House Rules

I had one of the most fun dining experiences of my life Monday night. It illuminated everything that I love about eating and sharing meals with people.

The Basque country is known for its 60 some-odd cider houses throughout the region. Dating back to the 11th and 12th centuries, cider making is a tradition with deep roots in this part of Spain. The season is short; it begins in January and ends abruptly in March.

Seven of us braved the unyielding Basque rain (perfect weather to stuff yourself) and drove, via taxi, through the hills of outer Lasarte until we reach Sidreria Zelaia. It was difficult to understand just how massive the indoor space was from the small door we entered that billowed smoke as we hefted it open. Directly in front of us were two chefs manning a specialty charcoal grill with the most beautifully marbled and dense chuletons slowly turning into perfect rare on its sizzling planks.

The dining hall, as it may be called, is one large, open space with three rows of waist-high harvest tables spanning the length of the room. They were minimally set with a cotton napkin, fork and knife per place setting. There was an orange, cozy glow to the packed room, with loud laughter and chatter filling the arched ceilings.

I was in heaven. The tables do not have chairs—you are expected to stand throughout the entire meal. Immediately I noticed how tables of strangers were intermingling, talking across the room and to the adjacent table next to them. It was magical.

The idea is that you grab a glass from a hutch situated at the arched entranceway that leads to the cider room and barrels. They are gigantic and made me feel like I was on a movie set where props had been enlarged to inhuman proportions. I felt dwarfed. I didn’t count the exact number of barrels that lined the garage-like room, but there most have been at least twenty. The biggest barrels are called kupela and can hold more than 1000 liters.

People congregate with their glasses of cider in the corridor made by the two rows of cider barrels, to talk and drink. The “tap guy” pulls a diminutive toothpick from an equally small hole in the end-face of the barrel and a large stream of liquid shoots out onto the cement floor (where people pitch their cider if they feel like it has gotten too warm). You must catch the end of the stream with your glass and walk toward the barrel to better aerate the cider. People line up to do this, getting unintentionally splashed by the person before them. You end up with only a finger’s width or two of cider in the glass.

There is no pressure here. I experienced instant happiness, ease and joy. This is a roll up your sleeves, be messy, have fun, and dig in kind of meal. It’s about being social, sharing food and really, yourself, with everyone around you. The physical set-up facilitates a mini pop-up community that is intimate and warm.

The servers bring heaping plates of food at their leisure. We feasted on chorizo, tortilla bacalao, bacalao with green peppers and fried onions, the absolute best chuletons I’ve ever had in my life, queso, membrillo (quince paste) and tuile-like cookies. I loved looking at the other tables and seeing piles of walnut shells and cheese rinds scattered and left without thought—the remnants of a good time.

We attacked each plate like vultures—tearing the steaks apart, gnawing on their bones, sopping up the chorizo fat with torn pieces of thick bread. There was no pretense, no manner code to abide by, no worry about sharing food and forks and glasses. We went back for glass after glass of the soft, sparkling, apple cider. There was a lot of laughing. We made friends with the table to the left of us and with a group of old men at the cider barrels.

If I could, I would eat like this every night; this was and is my perfect culinary heaven.