BILBAO: IT'S A SIN

Who’d have thunk it, eh?

After a week in Spain, DH feeling a little jaded. Well I never did. Well, in fact, I did. We both did, which is why, on our last day in Spain, both of us turned our heads away from Mr Booze and tried to do a bit of detox.

Mind you, we did it the very Spanish way, not with such silly things as juices and water, but by doing exactly as we had done all week except substituting our normal small shots of beer for the readily available “sin” alcohol versions as we tootled from bar to bar.

Bilbao, is one of the best places is Spain to peregrinate in search of good tapas because, alongside the excellent range of montaditos (stuff on bread, remember?) excellent hot and cold tapa are available in most bars, from meaty bocquerones in vinegar to small bowls of chunky oxtail stew.

Many people, when they visit this city, stick to the old town with only the possible short walk up to The Guggenheim taking them away from the concentration of bars on the seven streets heading from one of Europe’s biggest markets.

HP, however, had done his research, well of course he had, and had selected two or three possible areas in the new town where many of the locals head for post work drinks of glasses of local wine, Txacoli, poured from a height to give it a little fizz.

It had been at least three weeks since our last hunk of steak so, almost inevitably, the last meal of the trip was going to involve a visit to an asador. HP’s research had offered up another suggestion in the new town, Asador Oteiza which, unlike many asadors who get their beef from outside Spain, specialises in Chuleton de Buey from Corunia, just down the road in Galicia.

There is no point trying to finesse a meal in an Asador. Just begin with some morcilla, in this case a particularly good artisnal specimen served appropriately with sweet, roasted red peppers.

Then, the Chuleton for two (usually just over 1kg) with no extraneous vegetables to distract from the meat, in this case, perfectly cooked and of exceptional quality.

Help it down with a suitable red, in this case, a bottle of Rivola.

Follow up with a couple of perfunctory, but harmless bowls of helado and finish up with a coffee and a couple of shots of Orujo Blanco or Patxaran.

It is a simple, but faultless, formula and one DH have stuck to hundreds of times in Spain. It is what Spain does best and , while people may flock up the coast to San Sebastian in search of places that have been swooned over by journos across the world, it is unassuming places such as Oteiza which keep DH coming back to our favourite country time after time.

As I said at the beginning of the post, after all of that and the week that had preceded it, our last day was one of almost biblical abstinence and HP felt all the better for it as he headed back to London this morning

Me? I am off down South where their may well be some plates of fried fish I my immediate future.

After the indulgences of the last week, however, I suspect I shall be living in “sin” for a while yet

The last picture is for those of you who like courage in the face of almost impossible odds. Promoting vegetarianism in Spain. About as likely as someone from outside Eastern Europe ever winning the Eurovision Song Contest again.

"The Ukraine jury gives douze point to the people who supply our gas and oil"

VITORIA: THE BASQUE IS A DIFFERENT COUNTRY

And, it really is. They do things differently here.

You notice it the moment you leave the tranquil gentility of Haro and head from rolling vineyards of La Rioja to the tough uncompromising landscape of the approach to Vitoria.

It is not just the landscape, everything seems different.

You may as well not be in Spain. The architecture is different, the language changes from Castelano to the gruff unfathomable language of The Basques, the people are tough as old boots and look as if they could kill you with a flick of their eyelashes (that’s just the women) and of course, the food where the pintxo holds sway particularly in the form of Montadito, in other words “stuff on top of bread”

This can range from the simple, in the form of bits of cheese or ham, to the incredibly elaborate with slabs of foie, quail’s eggs, local asparagus and fried fish.

Vitoria is probably the least fashionable city in Basque country and it may surprise many that this small town of 200,000 people is, in fact, the capital of the region. It may not be Bilbao with its tourists heading to The Guggenheim and it may not be San Sebastian filled with people swayed by the silliness of the UK and US media who claim it as the best place for food in Spain (undoubtedly after visiting nowhere else in Spain) but it has its own quiet charm that makes it well worth a detour from the tourist trail.

Unlike many towns, in Vitoria, the old town is best left alone, filled as it is with bars catering to the students at the large university and the best places to eat are to be found in the “tapa triangle” of Calle Rioja, Datto and Florida where there are enough places to pass an agreeable few hours.

It is better at lunchtime when the selection put out is fresh and appetising and we hopped from bar to bar pointing hopefully, while HP practiced his nascent Basque, at different samples which we sank with the help of beer (here the small measure changes from a cortos and becomes a zoritos) wine and Asturian cider.

By supper, the turnover is low enough that the remnants of the afternoon can remain on display looking slightly dispirited. Mind you, that was fair enough because, by then, after four days on the road, so were me and HP.

So, after a short hop around and a few average bites to eat, we finished early and headed back to our small, cheerful hostel to get some sleep. Of course, the rest of Vitoria had other ideas and our little room, overlooking Calle Datto, which had seemed so welcoming before, became an echoing box for a nightmare of night time sounds from late revellers to early morning street cleaners.

It is little surprise that we both slept soundly on the bus to Bilbao and, as I write this, HP is making unpleasant noises from the neighbouring bed

Perhaps tonight’s planned excursion to a local asador will gee us both up

HARO

California tumbles into the sea
That'll be the day I go

After the valiant attempt by DH to eat Calle Laurel we were a little, shall we say, delicate the following morning. It was somewhat compounded by the half a mile walk to Logrono’s estación de autobuses (HS was a particularly brave soldier in lugging his 30kg backpack for the duration).

In common with many parts of Spain, if you don’t drive you take the bus. No hardship when they are this cheap, frequent and in our experience, very reliable. A 2.70 Euro ticket gave us a very comfortable hour-long journey from Logroño to Haro. As a bonus we got a front row seat for the incredibly beautiful countryside that is La Rioja.

Haro, the capital of the Rioja Alta (and not the Northwest burb of London), is a small town of about ten thousand people. While thinking about our trip I thought it might prove a nice stop to break up the journey between Logroño and Vitoria.

Haro is also the home of the López de Heredia Bodega where Viña Tondonia wines, amongst others, are produced. I’d tried a few bottles of the white before and had been very taken by their very individual taste. I contacted them earlier in the year and they’d very kindly organized a tour for us. Unlike more commercial wineries there’s no charge because as our host, Lidia, said “you are our guests”. They’re still family-run, don’t have any shareholders and apart from their bottling operation still use traditional techniques in making their wine, even down to having their own cooperage. It’s a thoroughly delightful tour which I can heartily recommend. At the end we spent a very pleasant hour or so sampling some of the wines and eating a few snacks in their visitor centre which was designed by the British architect Zaha Hadid.

Afterwards we walked back into the town and had a wander around the Herradura (horseshoe) a famous tapas zone in the town. Unfortunately, most places were closing up for the afternoon break, a very common occurrence in places outside Madrid. We did pop into particularly grim bodega called Beethoven I where we had a decent tinto crianza but where the pinchos were given a pretty short blast in the microwave and which subsequently gave us upset stomachs (a first for DH after sampling what must be several thousand bar tapas over the years). Anyway, following the locals lead we went for our siesta at the hotel and ex-monastery: the remarkably good value Los Agustinos.

We ventured out in the evening with the intention of watching Chelski stuff Manure in the Champions League but owing to gross stupidity we went out too early and ended up walking from one closed bar to another. We eventually ended up at Café Suiza in the main old town square where amazingly (although we really shouldn’t be surprised) we had some superior Jamón Ibérico: really well cut, fantastic quality and at seven euros for a media, top value. The weather had turned by now so we nipped round the corner to Mesón Atamauri where we had a couple of copas and decent pinchos and caught the end of the first half.

One of the by-products of the wine industry are vine branches which are used to filter the wine. Once these are dried they can be used to cook Chuletillas de cordero al sarmiento, a speciality of the region. Lidia had told us that Casa Terete in the old town was one of the few places that still cooked this dish but when we arrived they were off (bad weather ?) so we forced to eat the excellent Lechazo. It is a hard life sometimes.

Before that some decent Morcilla which was more Leon-like in its consistency and some simple grilled peppers. With Larry we had some lettuce and a side order of chips. The crianza, Viña Cubillo (made by López de Heredia) was the perfect stuff to wash it all down with. We were too full for postres and even though we had promised ourselves we would take it easy we soon found ourselves back in Suiza knocking back orujos. I think you can say that we slept well that night.

LOGRONO: HEY BROTHER POUR THE WINE

Logrono is a few hundred miles and about fifty years away from Madrid.

It is in a Spain situated before Europe happened. It is Spain where people still take long lunches and close up shop for a civilised nap in the afternoon and it is Spain where the evening doesn’t begin until at least 9pm when the entire population seems to take to the streets for the night’s paseo, a few drinks and then a damn good meal.

It is also a town which boasts Calle Laurel, a street which lays claim to the highest density of bars of any street in the whole of Spain with over forty occupying a small stretch, each offering up their own speciality.

Although the town is smack bang in the heart of La Rioja wine country and on the Camino De Santiago, it was, in late May, still pleasingly bereft of tourists with only ourselves and a handful of walkers joining the locals as they hopped from bar to bar for the evening meal.

After a three and a half hour journey from Valladolid on a train, which appeared to come from an age when Franco was a lad, arriving in a city that too seemed trapped in time, seemed fitting. We found our way to our hotel and headed straight out to see what was on offer.

The answer, plenty. Each small bar proudly trumpeted its signature dish from dishes of pickled garlic, grilled baby squid on skewers, ears of baby lamb in batter, lambs intestines fried until nice and crispy and then served on a layer of sweet red peppers and a particular favourite, meaty mushrooms griddled on the hot plate with lots of garlic and butter.

We interspersed glasses of refreshingly cold beer with small shots of wine from the region which, it will come as no great surprise to find out, are chosen from a huge range of Bodegas and quality at great prices.

Inevitably, this morning, we awoke slightly less than bright eyed or bushy tailed for our bus to Haro. But, I didn’t mind. I didn’t even mind the long walk to the bus station lugging my unfeasibly large rucksack. After all the travelling, that bit is easy and after all, I am back in Spain a country I have been in love with for over twenty years.

Coming to towns like Logrono, where Brussels is a place in another country not a threat, reminds me, if I still needed it, just why I fell in love in the first place.

Next stop, Haro

MADRID & VALLADOLID

Perfect weather for a streamlined world
There'll be spandex jackets one for everyone

As you have probably read my dear Hermano (Segundo) has come to the end of his Eat My Globe journey. But before retiring to his garret to fulfil his contractual obligations he requested one more visit to Dos Hermanos’ second home Spain. After much research and head scratching I thought that a little trip through La Rioja and the Basque Country (neatly side-stepping Catalunya) would provide a small but perfectly formed itinerary at the probably the best time of the year: Clement weather, spring lamb and crucially, no tourista.

Flights were arranged and a meeting point of Madrid (where else) was agreed. I’d booked a train to Valladolid at a time which had a BA screw-up factor built-in but because it was early in the week (or maybe they are getting better at this flying lark) they managed to get me in bang on time. Likewise with Alitalia for HS. The result was we had a couple of hours to kill before our train left Chamartin station for Valladolid. We dumped our luggage and ventured out into the barrio near Plaza de Castilla.

Of course, this being Madrid we were in our first bar after about a minute sucking on cold canas and chowing down on a free tapita. Of course this being Madrid there were about a dozen (probably more) bars within five minutes of the station. Of course this being Madrid we became overexcited and manfully attempted to drink in every single one only giving up when we realised our train would be leaving without us. HS did posit that we could forget about our trip and just carry on bar crawling and maybe stay in Madrid for the week but this idea was vetoed when we realised we had prepaid for a number of hotels and, well, we ought to vary our MO a tad.

Yes, we varied MO so much than when we arrived in Valladolid - the hard-working capital of Castilla y Leon - our first port of call after checking-in was the nearest bar to see what was what. Beer, wine and tapas. In Spain ? What are the odds ?

You can usually tell whereabouts you are in Spain by the bar culture. So for instance in Madrid one orders Canas, or small shots of beer whereas in the South they become just good old Cervezas and in the North, Cortos (or Zoritos in the Basque Country). For food, Canapes or Mondatitos hold sway in the North, Seafood (boiled or fried) is the munchy of choice in the South. Valladolid was of the “bits on bread” persuasion washed down predominantly with wine (it lies at the centre of four major wine-producing areas).

Although not a huge tapas town there are however enough places such that you could visit several bars a day and still not exhaust the possibilities after a year. During a couple of hours we sampled some pulpo, cut into carpaccio-thin slivers and grilled, an odd speciality of a spicy chorizo encased in bread and baked and some simply steamed mussels that were absurdly cheap even with the bad pound/euro exchange rate. Best of all was our final snack of the evening. Some sweet and tender chuletilas de cordero had been perfectly grilled, sprinkled with rock salt and served on a bed of chips cooked in Olive Oil. With a glass of a suitable red it summed up everything we love about Spain: honesty, quality and a commitment to the good things in life. That’ll do us just fine.