The day started innocently enough; we woke up later than usual and went to the market. I searched in vain for the fresh market after questioning several people we ended up at the supermarket. Despite the setback (I wanted more blog fodder!) I picked up some necessary goodies to utilize in the hostel kitchen. An hour later, I was full of sandwiches and a bottle of wine and we headed out to the beach. Despite being world famous for the surfing, the beach at San Sebastian has amble room for casual swimmers as well. The water was freezing and the waves knocked me upside the head a few times, but it was well worth it. A few hours later after frying in the sun, freezing in the water and taking a nice food coma nap, we made our way back to the hostel to figure out the night’s plans.
As I stated on Day 1, almost every town had a sidreria back in the day. Fortunately, a bunch of these lovely little establishments still exist. Even better for me, more than 10 of them are in a town 10 minutes outside of San Sebastian called Astigarraga. We decided to take the bus out to the fabled place around 8:30 and began washing the sand off of our scorched bodies.
The basic concept behind a sidreria is thus:
Pay one price.
Drink as much cider as you want.
Eat lots of delicious food served family style. Said food usually consists of four plates.
On paper, the sidreria sounded amazing. After wiping my drool off of the computer we left the hostel and caught a bus to Astigarraga. When we finally got there the search began; according to my pamphlet, there were 12 sidrerias in the town. I hopped into an open bar and asked a friendly Basque for directions. He promptly spit some Spanish fire and sent me down a long and bleak looking road. After 15 minutes we ended up in an industrial dead-zone so I ambled into another open bar and was greeted to a site that will never leave me: The place was filled with mustachioed men drinking beers and yelling at each other. Every few minutes a waitress would waltz over and plop down a plate of some delicious looking thing, each dish looking better than the last. I walked up to the counter and asked a pointy-white mustached man about the sideria. He started giving me directions in his thick accent when his friend—a smaller man with less of a mustache—started yelling and saying there was a much easier way. The two loudly disagreed with each other for several minutes before the second man pulled me outside to show me where to go. The excitement was building.
After 15 more minutes of walking we finally found it—Rezola Sagardotegia. It was perched in a residential area on top or a large hill. We entered, were seated at a large wooden table and were each given two plates, silverware, and an empty cup. The waitress did not return.
Confused, we contemplating what to do. My friend Joe went off in search of the bathroom and we sat befuddled, trying to figure out how to order. 15 minutes later another waitress walked by our table and I asked her how to order. She asked me if we wanted food, and informed me of the plates she would bring out (see above). She pointed to the glasses and said we could have as much sidra as we wanted. About this time Joe returned wide eyed with a smile on his face. He informed us that the bathroom is next to the barrel room. As he was walking around back there a group of locals pulled him aside and inquire where his cup was. They then proceeded to line up and fill their drinks from the barrel one by one, a sharp jet of cider shooting out of the barrel into a glass waiting 4 feet below. As soon as Joe shared his story we hustled to the back and were promptly introduced to the lovely world of Sidra.
I don’t know whether it was the alcohol, or the Basque people are just amazing but we soon became amigos with the whole restaurant. A fellow named Javier quickly befriended our group and, along with a few red-faced old men, showed us the ways of the cider house. We learned some the proper technique of pourer the stuff—small amounts poured into the side of the glass and drank immediately—and proceeding to cheers (many, many times) to our new friends. About 20 minutes later, our waitress picked us out of the barrel room to inform us the first dish was ready.
I’m not exaggerating when I saw that the Sidreria was possibly my best eating experience. Not only was the food delicious, but also the whole concept of the restaurant was superb. Dinner that night was what I envisioned meals to be like in Europe .We sat on large wooden benches in a giant, old house and were brought out giant plates of food the moment it was prepared. Each plate was accompanied but a fresh loaf of bread. To add to this, everyone becomes everybody’s best friend. The whole idea is to leave the table after your plate and drink until the next dish is ready. Because of the freshness, this usually took more than 20 minutes. In any restaurant I can think of, waiting 20 minutes for piece of tortilla would cause a riot. However, at the Sidreria, you wait an extra 10 minutes before eating to squeeze in a few more toasts. The ambiance is incredible and there is nothing better than making a slew of Spanish friends.
Just as had read, the first plate was Tortilla Bacalao, a variation of the typical Spanish potato tortilla. It’s a simple dish—only eggs, onion, potato and cod—but it was amazing. It was soft on the inside and begging to be chomped with a chunk of bread. Also, it went great with the sidra. As we were finishing the last few bites Javier walked by and yelled at us for having empty glass. Back to the barrel room we went.
Like I said, the cider house is a ridiculous experience. It is really a social, family oriented place. People get drunk, but they get dunk together. It’s much better this way. Being that this was a family place, there were a bunch of niños creeping around, playing with the sidra buckets and (I’m pretty sure) stealing a sip or two of the golden elixir. After a few toasts I headed over to the bathroom to make some more room in my bladder and as I was washing my hands I felt a punch on my backside. Shocked, I turned around to see 4 children smiling devilishly at me. Being that the cider had already started working its magic, I laughed it off and inquired what the kids were doing. It was at that moment when they all started attacking me! I valiantly fought them off, finished washing my hands and returned to my place at the barrel.
Despite being blurry, this picture best describes what happened next. The niños started running around like mad, punch butts wherever they could. Being that there folks were pleasantly intoxicated, they laughed as the 5 Americans were bombarded with nut tapaz and butt-slaps. This foto was taken of one especially malicious girl, just after the punched my friend Austin and scampered off.
After fending off the attack, our waitress called us to the table for plate two: Bacalao con pimientos. It was a flawless example of seafood—minimal ingredients, big flavor. There was no fuss, just straight deliciousness. I thought that I had my fill of Bacalao when I went to Portugal, but those Basques made me rethink the role of my appetite. We greedily chomped down the cod with some more fresh bread.
During the fish feeding frenzy, I heard loud thuds from the corner of our dining room. Situated next to the entrance to the barrel room stood a large, bearded man wearing a flannel shirt—do you see a pattern here? He stood over a large wooden counter with an open fire oven at his back. As we ventured for more sidra I noticed the source of the thuds—the man was preparing a huge slab of steak with an axe! Bewildered, I quickly found out his name (Solomon) and watched as he prepped a delicious look chunk of animal. He quickly disposed of his work in the open oven as a joined my friends on line for more cider. 20 minutes or so later, we were ushered to our table to witness the fatest, most juicy looking steak I’ve ever seen. It was glistening with juices and cooked to a delicious crisp exterior, with red interior. Solomon knows how to use that axe.
I don’t consider myself a steak connoisseur by any means, but this steak was done right. This steak was perfect—a crispy, blackened crust with a mineraly and perfectly balanced interior. Our steak was pre-cut (or hacked) but left clinging to a fat bone. I was never so happy to be a carnivore. I like to think that I’ve tasted some delicious things in my life, but this steak was something else. Perhaps it was the cider and the atmosphere, but the meat I sat happily chewing made me cry a bit on the inside. I was finished off our little piece of heaven I gave a content sigh and heading up to the barrel room with Javier, stopping first to hank Solomon for my near religious experience.
Things started melting together at this point in the night. The restaurant takes their time with dessert and allows their guests to relish in anticipation of their final meal. We repeatedly toasted with Javier, his brother-in-law, and a few old men who stumbled out of the wood work to inform us how the more cider you drank, the better it was for your manhood. We learned a few choice salutes and passed the time joking with our friends.
When the dessert came out we lingered for an extra twenty minutes being goofballs with the locals. We talked about cider, ciderhouses, America, Spain and a slew of other things. We took pictures, spilled drinks on ourselves, drank cider directly from the barrel and over had an amazing, amazing experience. After heading back to the table to enjoy the cheese, membrillo and walnuts, but ordered a second basket and went in the back for another go round. I’ve never been so content.
After eating and drinking to our hearts content the place started closing down. We arrived around 9:30 and started saying goodbyes at 1am. We slipped in a few last toasts with Javier and our new friends and started collecting ourselves to head out. Everyone was pretty toasted, but everyone was also happy, fat and full. Javier told me how he loved the outgoing spirit of Americans and wished us well as his girlfriend dragged him off into the car, we paid the bill (only 22 Euros each! 15 for vegetarians), filled up one more time and ventured outside.
If things were blurry before, the trip back home was pure static. I have no idea how much time we spent goofing off but by the end of the night we had doubled the amount of pictures we took, and my friend Joe Miller ended up in a dumpster. Although I was the one who lovingly placed him there, I have no idea why I did it. After a few mock bottles Joe ended up being pile-driven into the floor and busted open his head. Luckily for all of us, there was more blood than pain (thanks Sidreria!) and we started the long trek home. We took turns taking care of our friend while we searched in for a taxi and reminisced about the meal we just ate. We ending up getting to the hostel at an undetermined time and promptly passing out in preparation for the a pit stop in France (a mere 12 Kilometers from San Sebastian) and 7 hour drive back to Valencia.
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