Life for everyone in San Sebastián is dominated by food, it would seem. As the taxi from Bilbao wound, stomach churningly, through the jagged hills of Northern Spain, the previously mute driver became increasingly animated as he described his cooking, his neighbours cooking, the cooking of chefs he had visited and that of chefs he had not.
Staggeringly, he’s a vegetarian or, at least, an aspiring vegetarian, struggling to piece together a decent meal from the meat-heavy Spanish menus. After an hour on the road, the hills split to reveal the sea, and I was soon left standing in the warm afternoon sun, watching as the driver sped away for his next fare, his disdain for the rich, heavy nature of modern cuisine still ringing in my ears.
Any details given in English were lacking or not obvious to see; that said, the locals seemed to struggle with the concept of the egg shell anyway, leaving it to one side when it was perfectly edible and delicately sweet. The millesime egg was a spectacle to watch in it’s preparation, as well as it’s eating. Another creamy sauce, this time egg laden, but definitely containing cheese, was poured into a ramekin, flamed quickly with a blowtorch and covered in a more than generous shaving of white truffle. A slice of ciabatta was used to soak up much of the liquid and the rest finished with a tiny spoon. Of all the dishes, I didn’t see a single millesime egg left half-eaten in the exhibition hall – a firm favourite for all.
The bay is almost circular, with a small opening to the Atlantic, through which huge violent waves come crashing through against the rocks, the golden sands and the promenade, which circles the bay from point-to-point. The city is beautiful, with old and ancient buildings lining the pedestrianised streets along the water, immaculate public gardens and more benches than grains of sand on the beach. I missed the opening of the conference, delayed as I gawped (and photographed) in every direction along the thirty minute walk.
With so much beauty outside the walls of the conference, it was hard to concentrate on what was inside; especially as windows in the Kursaal Congress Centre number only two, closing out the view and the sunshine. Again, confusion reigned supreme. The registration desk is located through the first barrier, where they ask to see your registration card. A difficult circle to square. Inside the doors, almost immediately, attendees cluster together, shouting, screaming, hugging, kissing, flailing arms, spilling wine and stuffing faces with ham and cheese.
This was to be a dominant feature of the next two days – both the gaggle of attendees and the food. Say what you will about English cuisine, but we do variation well. Spain is a country of olive oil, ham and cheese; everything else is relegated to the plate of the vegetarian. I didn’t complain, at first – it’s delicious stuff – but, by day two a leg of pork or slice of manchego is not a welcome sight. And I wasn’t the only one. On the final day, as we entered the impressive hallway of the San Telmo Museum for nibbles, a veteran foodie from the US cried:’For God’s sake! Not more ham and cheese!’ I rest my case.
The idea of excellent cooking in small towns was a prominent feature of a number of talks by Italian chefs, who spoke of their continued discovery of great food cooked along the small pedestrianised streets of rarely visited Italian towns and villages. An idea later reiterated in a discussion around the power of travel and discovery, and it’s influence on’the’ chef, who absorbs experiences and translates them into cooking. Again, the often deep and philosophical debates were tempered by a humour that suggested good restaurants are simply a balance between simple ingredients, quality products, excellent service, and a good wine list.
By 8.00pm I was shattered and couldn’t face another bus ride into the bandit hills. Hastily downloaded Huffington Post’s’Top 9 Restaurants in San Sebastián‘ in my sweaty palm, I headed for the streets of the old town, which are lined with the many many many pintxos bars for which the city is famous. Here, the floor is paved with cobbles, English speaking tourists of every variety, and the spent napkins from the bar snacks on offer. In the bars, locals elbow foreign visitors clean out of the way, pushing to the bar, the beer, the wine and the plates of pintxos.
A lengthy stumble along the shore and I’m back in the leafy suburban hotel. Breakfast, more ham, more cheese and a bowl of coco-pops, is accompanied by Nespresso, the sales rep for which cleaned up in San Sebastián – you can’t get a different coffee anywhere. I expected better here, to be honest.
The second day is an English summer, rather than Spanish. Mild, windy, with threatening clouds blowing overheard. The sea became more threatening too, slamming against the promenade and sending plumes of salty-spray across the bay. The locals stand precisely where the waves are not, the tourists stand precisely where they are, dripping wet. Aside from the food, San Sebastián is a town for old people to shuffle along and sit – benches line every road – and young people to run, run and run some more.
I suppose it’s all the eating, but throughout the day and night, joggers pound the pavement. Feeling guilty, I joined them. Running between the points of the bay, warmed by the sun, cooled by the rain, it was a great way to see the town (although you could just walk); walkers on the sand, surfers in the waves and the pleasure boats bobbing the harbor. Like many cities, this beautiful façade is probably not representative, but it doesn’t matter – this is the view of San Sebastián I’ll remember forever.
The rabble of the conference came to a close (for me at least) with a dinner at the enchanting San Telmo Museum. A church-like building, that looks vacant from all sides but one, with candle-lit cloisters, art on every wall and a huge vaulted ceiling that the candles couldn’t reach. Here, we had a drink or two, more ham, more cheese and a loud blast of music in each ear. For a dinner, it was light on calories, so (unfortunately) it was back to the Pintxos bars for a late night snack. The bread, the meat, the mushrooms, the cheese, the tiny slivers of anchovy, all followed by a thick slice of bitter-sweet, crème brûlée-like cheesecake at La Viña. I’ve since read other people say it’s the world’s best. I’d have to agree – I really don’t see how that cheesecake could be bettered.
And then that was it. An early morning start for the flight back home. No time to give the sea one last wave, the bay one last glimpse, the pintxos one last nibble. I only scratched the surface in those two days and I know I missed a lot of the city, but the views, the food and the people were enough to leave me suitably impressed and leave me wanting more. That cheesecake alone has me itching to visit the Easyjet website to book another flight…