A Cook's Tour by Anthony Bourdain Page B

street signs are in Basque (lots of names with t ’s and x ’s and few vowels) and woe to anyone who too obnoxiously asserts obeisance to another culture. There’s a bunch of good ol’ boys here who call themselves ETA – and they make the IRA look like Mouseketeers. Screw with them at your peril. While the great majority of Basques look disapprovingly on car bombs and assassinations, their interest in independence and self-determination is right under the surface. Scratch lightly and it’s in your face.
         I wasn’t worried about bombs or kidnappings. I’ve long ago found that nationalism bordering on militancy is often accompanied by large numbers of proud cooks and lots of good stuff to eat. San Sebastián is just about the best example of this state of mind. Good food, good restaurants, lots to drink – and ‘Leave me alone!’ Not a bad place for a hungry, globe-trotting chef, early in his quest for the perfect meal.
         Luis and I entered Gaztelubide with our supplies. We passed a wide, oblong-shaped dining area lined with wooden tables and benches, then walked into a nice-sized, professionally equipped kitchen, crowded with men in aprons. The men were working earnestly on various individual cooking projects, the stovetops fully occupied with simmering pots and sizzling pans, while a few onlookers drank red wine and hard cider in the dining area and rear cloakroom. I was out of my element. First, I was at least fifteen years younger than anyone there. This society hadn’t opened the books to new membership in many years. Second, all these cooks were amateur – as opposed to professional – cooks (save Luis), guys who cooked for love, for the pure pleasure and appreciation of food. Third was the ‘all-male’ thing, an expression which, in my experience, is most often accompanied by signs reading peep-o-rama and buddy booths – or, worse, football on the big screen! For me, a night out ‘with the guys’ – unless we’re talking chefs, of course – usually veers into the territory of bar fights, Jäger shots, public urination, and vomiting into inappropriate vessels. Without the civilizing perspectives of women, too many guys in one room will almost always, it seems, lead the conversation, as if by some ugly, gravitational pull, to sports stats, cars, pussy, and whose dick is bigger – subjects I’ve already heard way too much about in twenty-eight years in kitchens.
         Virginia, Luis’s daughter and the director of the cooking school, had put my mind somewhat at ease earlier, assuring me that I’d have a good time. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘You’ll have fun . . . Tomorrow night,’ she added ominously, ‘you come out with the girls.’
         Now I was in the inner sanctum putting on an apron and preparing to assist Luis in the preparation of a traditional Basque meal – a tall glass of hard cider in one hand, a bucket of soaking bacalao (salt cod) in the other. ‘You dry the bacalao on the towel, like this,’ said Luis, demonstrating for me exactly how he wanted it done. He blotted a thick filet of cod on both sides, ready to make his move to an open burner on the crowded stovetop.
         ‘Next you go like this – ’
         There was no argument about who was boss here. I happily complied as Luis slapped down a heavy skillet, added some olive oil, and began to bring it up to heat. When the oil was hot enough, I seared the pieces of fish lightly on both sides.
         We were making bacalao al pilpil , about as old-school Basque a dish as you are likely to find. After setting the seared fish aside, I covered the half-cooked filets in more hot olive oil. Then, moving over to a countertop and using a thick earthenware casserole, I followed Luis’s example and carefully swirled in a gentle clockwise motion until the natural albumen in the fish bound with the oil, creating a thick, cloudy emulsion. At the very end, Luis spooned in some piperade , an all-purpose mixture of