I was texting with a friend in Mexico City, Chef Victor Bibbins, at the end of his day while he waited for the meal he had just ordered moments before. When it arrived, he sent me snapshot of a stew with golden pieces of pork nestled in soft shrouds of dark green leaves. Try as I might, I could not guess the vegetable. Like a proud father, he introduced me to verdolagas en salsa verde con carne de cerdo (purslane in green salsa with pork). My interest in this wordy dish was immediately piqued because (1) my love for stew is infinite, (2) he said it is one of his favorite dishes, (3) I have never tried nor heard of the dish, and (4) the name gives top billing to an herb while casting the usual meaty celebrity into a supporting role. Imagine if basil was SO good that we renamed a Caprese salad “Basil in balsamic reduction with tomatoes and mozzarella.” I was sold, and the course was set to make VeSVcCdC as soon as possible.

Locating the headliner for this act was task number one. Verdolagas, generally known as purslane in the US, if it is known at all, is an herb with a wide-ranging and illustrious global history. The people of Japan, Greece, Russia, Australia, Turkey, Shri Lanka, Morocco, and Mexico have long regaled its merits. Nevertheless, the same plant is considered a weed by most US growers and eradicated on sight. To make matters worse, verdolagas have a short growing season limited to the hot but wet days of late summer when they spread like wildfire and earn their reputation as a weed.

I consulted the internet for images of the prize and I left the house to make my usual circuit of grocery stops including specialty markets for Spanish, Peruvian, Mexican, Middle Eastern and Asian items. If it would be found, I expected to need an extra stop at Specialty Produce, a restaurant supplier that is graciously open to the public. I even put seeds in my Amazon cart anticipating that I may need to grow it myself in a pinch. It wouldn’t be the first time.

My first stop was the Middle Eastern market, Harvest International. A produce clerk was stocking the refrigerator case when I unexpectedly spied my target on the shelf next to the cilantro. I snatched the bundles of leafy greens from the case and clutched them to my chest like I’d just been crowned Miss Universe. The clerk laughed out loud at my exuberance. (There may or may not have been a tear of joy too.) However, being Mexican, the grocer fully understood my elation and offered congratulations because he believed them to be the last crop of the season.

Once home, I eyed my prize. Thick, juicy pale green stems branch off into little bunches of spongy leaves no bigger than my thumbnail. I plucked one from its nubby branch and popped it into my mouth. The flavor of spinach meets cucumber to form something uniquely fresh and vegetal. The preparation is simple – cut away the thickest stems and rinse.

The recipe (approved by Chef Bibbins) is nearly as simple as the 8-item ingredient list: verdolagas, pork (I used butt), cilantro, tomatillos, onion, garlic, chile serrano, and beef stock. The result, on the other hand, is a dish that implied laborious complexity. Sautéing the raw salsa verde into the pork fond is a trick of pure alchemy. In the end, served with the customary sides of black beans and tortillas, the stew is a perfect harmony of herbaceous, tangy, and spicy notes with a distinct sweetness that can manifest only through the Maillard reaction when meat turns golden brown and leaves a umami-rich fond on the pan. So damned delicious.

Just 8 ingredients (cilantro is missing from the photo), plus salt and pepper.

You may also like to know that verdolagas is rich in potassium, magnesium, beta carotene, and an omega three fatty acid. It is clinically proven to lower blood pressure and regulate cholesterol levels. I tell you this so that you can justify a second bowl, without regard for the glorious, glistening pork fat.

Verdolagas en salsa verde con carne de cerdo.

I don’t come to San Sebastian, Spain, for “new”. I come for the comfort of a dining routine that slips on like a glove, follows the appropriate path (never missing the egg course) and which reassures me that tradition need not be staid. So, for me, to give one of my precious few meals to a new restaurant means denying myself Hilario’s pigeon, Xabi’s pintxos, Elena’s xipirones, Igor’s lenguado… The stakes are high. But, Amelia, just a couple years old, was a gamble worth taking. From the moment I contacted them to beg for a table in their already booked dining room, they blew me away. An email reply broke the bad news, “Yes, the dining room is fully reserved.” My heart sank. But it continued, “However, we can accommodate you at the kitchen table, if you don’t mind.” I did not mind.

The restaurant is tranquil and elegant with an organic sensibility and hints of whimsy. I spied a decal of street art peaking out from a baseboard in the stairwell. I was escorted from the dining room, down the stairs into the kitchen to find a singular place setting at a large wood table. Nine cooks and Chef Reyes were preparing for the first seating of the night. All looked up with polite smiles and then dove back into their tasks. I settled in, wide-eyed like a child.

The kitchen is beautifully tiled from floor to ceiling. A second room lurked behind a magical window. All night, dirty dishes were sucked into the small window through which a tireless soul clinklessly washed and sanitized. The aroma of the first dishes firing was intoxicating. I could see the treats queued in their naked perfection awaiting the fire. My dedicated server, a soft-spoken young woman from Ecuador, explained the dishes in Spanish, at my request, and the charming Sommelier descended the stairs with glass after glass of bubbles and wine. My attention darted from one to the other and back to the cooks whisking, plating, grilling. My mental state was that of an unruly golden retriever surrounded by bacon-wrapped ducks waddling about.

I’ve been in several Michelin-starred kitchens but what I saw at Amelia was different. With Chef Andoni Aduriz you can hear a pin drop. With Chef Eneko Atxa, there is the constant formal ping-pong of Oye!-Oido. With Chef Reyes, I saw a team working in concert with intense focus but also encouragement and, at times, laughter. At one point mid-way through service, Chef walked over to one of the cooks, put a hand on this shoulder and all but whispered the need for urgency. In another, he called an order and followed it with “Gracias.” I watched as Chef shook his head at the voice piped into his earpiece from the upstairs dining room. He calmly responded using the microphone dangling from his coat and quietly issued orders to his cooks. A crash of plates shattered the peace and all eyes pointed toward the ceiling while Chef Reyes flew up the stairs like a gazelle. I was utterly entertained.

Chef Mauricio Reyes leading service.

Throughout the night, the team communicated in a fluid stream of Spanish, English and Basque – even a little Japanese, as if I personally had selected the voiceover track. Directly in front of me, a burly chef de parte manned the sputtering grill station. Intermittently, a pop sounded and sparks leapt from the coals reaching my table. To my right, the rest of the team convened in a small but efficient space.

Enough about that. I imagine you would like to hear about the food and wine. Executive Chef Paulo Airaudo’s tasting menu featured the local ingredients of the season and vaguely resembled a traditional basque line-up but with unusual touches like a Criolla that hinted at his Argentinian roots.

Pate de Jamon wth pickles mustard seeds. (Blanc de Noire, Ernest Remy)

Bonito Tuna Tartar. (Bruno Rochard Pet Nat Rose, Loire Valley)

Tomatoes in consomme and ham broth.

Tomato essence

The essence of all things chicken: A low temperature egg yolk and fried dark meat beneath a crisp of chicken skin and pearl onions with veal demi glace. (Renato Kebler Chardonnay 2010)

Homemade brown sourdough with fresh butter, hyper-emulsified olive oil, and bone marrow. (A Campo Delle Oche, San Lorenzo)

Parsley risotto with sea snails and toasted rice.

A single sardine, beet ribbons and creme fraiche.

Confit and charred Hake with beurre blanc and Italian caviar.

Roasted eggplant with criolla and burrata cream. (Dom Pellican Pinot blend 2015)

This is the moment in a Basque menu when pigeon, woodcock, or other dark, rich meat would signal that the finale is near by taking the patron to the brink of satiation. But instead, Amelia twisted the rules.

Sweetbreads finished on the fire, with black garlic sauce and zucchini. (A Fralluca Cabernet Franc.)

My stomach was already convinced but, as we began to transition into dessert courses, Amelia won me over heart and mind. Desserts were bright, fresh affairs that this self-avowed sweets hater did not have to politely choke down. A moscato Lumine, Ca’D’Gal accompanied the homestretch plates.

Goat cheese with sweet potato sauce.

23-year-old rum ice cream with in-season figs two ways and balsamic reduction.

Apple finished with fennel and dill.

Petite-fours including a strawberry jelly Darth Vador and a gift of house-made limoncello.

Although I was eating as quickly as possible in my dazed state, I could tell by the orders on the pass that I was running behind the patrons upstairs. I didn’t want the show to end. As it passed 10:00 pm, the first cook shed his whites for street clothes and bounced up the stairs. The cleaning, storing, and polishing began. I had not seen my server in a while and I hoped that I had been forgotten. I’d happily curl up on the table and plan a late night refrigerator raid. But, as it grew quiet in the kitchen, the day, the food, and the wine caught up with me. With gratitude and respect, I ascended to the dining room feeling like I had stolen the crown jewels.

I am glad that Amelia is no longer new to me so I can visit again and again.

With the passing of my father-in-law, I received a well-used 1967 version of the Joy of Cooking, which I carefully glued and mended in anticipation of many years of further use.

Irma Rombauer self-published the first Joy of Cooking in 1931 with an insurance payout from her husband’s suicide amidst the Great Depression. Her goal was to instruct society wives, who no longer enjoyed a kitchen staff, to began cooking for themselves. Thus the instruction “stand facing the stove”, though comical today, was pragmatic in 1931.

Through this extraordinary archive of American history, we catch a glimpse of a novel cuisine, before the plethora of world spices and techniques washed over our country. For example, Irma provided instructions to skin a squirrel (with illustration) for a truly authentic Kentucky Burgoo (a mixed meat stew).

To my delight, page 56 includes a shout-out to the “Taco” just below the Canape snails recipe. That the recipe is billed as a “fairly mild” version with green chiles and cayenne pepper, is adorable. But the real head-scratcher is the measurement of tortillas: “1 can tortillas: about 18.” Apparently, tortillas came canned in fat. It seems that St Louis, Missouri, Irma’s hometown, was a bit too far from the growing Mexican American population in the Southern border states to gain access to the real thing.

Poor woman. As if the Depression wasn’t difficult enough already.

A Great Depression-era recipe for tacos.

I would not normally drive 2 hours into the quagmire of Orange County for dinner. In fact, I’d opt for a dental procedure over a SoCal commute, crawling along Interstate in the crapshoot that is rush hour. No, normally this would be out of the question but The Nixon Steakhouse does not fit the definition of normal.

The Nixon Steakhouse sprung from the fertile soil of a long time neighborhood restaurant in the quaint “downtown” grid of Whittier, CA. Mature shade trees and a crescent of green hills serve to give the area a surreal “Truman” like feel. The restaurant concept was designed to draw the upscale locals who would otherwise drive into Pasadena or Newport Beach for something out of the ordinary. What’s unusual about another steakhouse, you ask. Chef Katauji Tanabe’s creation is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Yes, there are all the expected mainstays of Black Angus beef, a thick cut pork chop, even a towering old school double cheeseburger. But not far into the menu eyebrows begin to raise on the faces of the “Ruth’s Chris” crowd. There is the requisite crab cake but Tanabe’s version is a lightly breaded ball seated in a puddle of cardamom cream and topped by smoked trout roe and an escabeche of cueritos (pickled pig skin.) A bite of ginger removes any semblance the dish had to a steakhouse crab cake.

I endured a 5-hour round trip knowing that Chef Tanabe would be there, a hard to predict event given the time he spends hopping from his restaurants in New York City, Las Vegas, Chicago and California. But, if I am honest, it was one menu item, in particular, that drove me to drive—a confit half pig head, served flounder style, eyelessly gazing up at its enamored patron. Understandably, a half cranium is a quantity better suited for 4-6 people but I had ventured so far that it had to be done.

I started with “Abuela’s Corn Bread” with truffle honey butter. Whole corn kernels were embedded in a dense, custard-like skillet cake with just the right balance of salty sweetness.

Abuela’s Cornbread

As I tried to pace myself through the bread, Chef Tanabe emerged from the kitchen and joined me at the table, just in time for the first departure from a steakhouse classic, bone marrow. In this case, the molten marrow was topped by crab meat mingling with a dried shrimp-based XO sauce—an umami bomb! I ignored the toasts and savored every bite, literally down to the bone.

Bone marrow with crab and XO Sauce.

One of the day’s specials was irresistible—a hamachi collar with huitlacoche glaze, salsa macha (made with Marcona almonds no less!), sweet and sour pickled chiles, and fresh watermelon radish. Tanabe’s composition was flawless, succulent, tangy, sweet, spicy and loaded with sticky, satisfying collagen. His innovative vehicles of acidity, especially through pickling, enlivened each dish throughout the meal.

Hamachi collar.

My server, Liz, kindly delivered some shavings from the leg of Iberico ham in the center of the dining room. It is one of several treats prepared table side including salad and a carajillo cart.

Back to the pig’s head… out it came with crisp golden skin on a bed of cilantro and dill- yes dill! After a quick photo opp, a return trip to the kitchen, and a pass under the broiler, the semi-skull returned to my table bare, its sweet white meat and skin transformed into a delectable mixture of soft, chewy, and crackling bites. When wrapped in paper thin, blue corn tortillas and dressed with piquant salsa verde and pickled vegetables, the result was stupefying. I mumbled ineloquent grunts and partial phrases like, “oh, the dill….” without finishing my thought. I think he got the gist.

Confit pig’s head.

The menu displays a demure block of text encouraging the diner to inquire about the “Umami Dime Bag.” Let me save you the suspense… it is a tiny satchel of spices for dusting over your mound of heady shredded pork. Use it. Trust me.

The Umami Dime Bag.

It isn’t every day that I get to dine with the Chef and especially not during a meal that so thoroughly exceeds my expectations. We discussed the dishes in great detail and I hung on every word, gathering shards of experience and immense knowledge. We intermittently talked about family and business, opportunities and challenges between bouts of geeking out over fish sauce, bacalao, our favorite tongue recipes, and mutual admiration of smelt.

House hot sauce sports Chef Tanabe’s signature pouty face.

When Chef Tanabe returned to the kitchen, he sent one last indulgence my way. Liz shook an ice cold carajillo, a boozy espresso cocktail, in a copper shaker and then torched two marshmallows to garnish the drink. I had no trouble staying alert on the drive back to San Diego.

Carajillo with marshmallows toasted table side.

So, in my final assessment, The Nixon Steakhouse is decidedly traffic-worthy… from anywhere within the continental US. And, for all of you who routinely convene for trade shows in the food wasteland that is Anaheim, you are welcome.

No trip to Spain is complete without a visit to the Basque Country, but selecting among the charming hubs of Basque culture and cuisine is difficult. The opportunity cost of selecting the wrong stop is high. On this trip, I decided to deviate from my usual pattern in which I burrow deep into San Sebastian, with only day trips out into the broader Basque lands. I was set on exploring Bilbao, the mighty seat of industry that shaped the thriving economy of Bizkia. However, late planning and few rental options in Bilbao, led me to make my home base an apartment on the river in Portugalete.

I arrived in the small town that is strewn across the steep Western embankment of the Estuary of Bilbao to find a bustling farmers market in operation by my riverfront apartment. Despite having no sleep for 24 hours, I was eager to begin my exploration in Bilbao so I dropped my bags and hopped on the train for the 17 minute ride into the city. My evening was an adventure worthy of its own story with pintxos, iconic Bar Eme sandwiches, and fish bowl-sized Gin & Tonics. But this story is about Portugalete.

The view from Portugalete across the Estuary of Bilbao into Getxo.

Afternoon pintxo seekers in the plaza by the river.

Fresh produce from the surrounding farms abounds.

Gateau Basque cakes filled with custard and cherry jam.

Business as usual
I woke early to prepare for a business meeting with potential new clients, Borja and Naiara. Besides being fabulously interesting people, they were kind enough to venture North from Vitoria to join me in Getxo, a small town on the Eastern bank of the river. With limited days, I used the meeting as an opportunity to visit Gure Extea Taberna, the work of Chef Joseba Irusta. In addition, this gave me the opportunity to transverse the river via the Puente Colgante, a Rube Goldberg-esque gondola suspended from a walking bridge 148 feet above the water. Puente Colgante is the world’s oldest transporter bridge built in 1893 by a disciple of Gustave Eifel.

The Puente Colgante Bridge, a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Once on the bank in Getxo, the appeal of the neighborhood was palpable. The vibrant lunch crowd spilled into the streets filling cafes, bar and restaurants. A mixture of traditional architecture and Franco-era red brick buildings painted a colorful canyon through which I ambled slowly, peeking into the windows of shops. I was early for my reservation, yet without the slightest rebuke, I was welcomed, seated, and served a glass of txakoli.

The quaint streets of Getxo.

I am terribly sorry to report that great conversation, some of it even work-related, kept me from doing photographic justice to the meal. Suffice to say that Chef Irusta presented us with some of the finest treats plucked from the fertile soils surrounding Bilbao. To neglect the perfection of a Basque tomato in late summer would be just cause to revoke one’s tourist visa. It was dressed only with extra virgin olive oil, which itself was not to be upstaged by its curvaceous red co-star, and sea salt. The wedges of pure summer hummed with sweetness, tang, and indisputably perfect texture. I gained even greater respect for this humble fruit when I learned from Borja how the crop had triumphed over an excessively wet growing season. Indeed, all things Basque thrive in adversity. Bravo!

In-season peppers from the grill.

Next, the day’s special, grilled red peppers, joined in the celebration of the season. Peppers in this region are unlike their North American cousins. Without the endorphin-invoking tricks of jalapeños, pasilla, and such, these gorgeous red spears deliver a level of flavor that was long ago forgotten by our staple bell pepper varieties. They were followed by perfectly plump mussels in a sauce that quickly depleted my bread supply. Finally, because I gravitate toward the products I cannot have at home, we tried ventresca tuna belly two ways: first as tartar, which while tantalizing to the tongue, was a mere prelude to the hot preparation. The portion, prepared confit, melted in my mouth, as it should between sips of a perfectly balanced Albariño.

A Fortuitous Dinner at the Gran Hotel
It was late before my satiated belly emitted pangs of hunger so I wandered out into the fading evening light with no reservation but a clear objective – I was on the hunt for foie a la plancha. I walked past restaurants, peering into crowded dining rooms and already rowdy bars. I couldn’t commit, my introvert was taking charge of things, wanting only to wander the streets, take pictures, and enjoy the solitude. But, eventually, even she got hungry and my extrovert emerged, as if a bat signal had hit the clouds. Through negotiation, the two sides of my personality came to an agreement and I took shelter on the riverfront terrace of the picturesque Gran Hotel Puente Colgante, a short distance from the crowded plaza. I ordered a gin and tonic and a piece of tortilla de patata. The alcohol, view, and music slowly coaxed out my extrovert, who was pouting over her lost bid to sit in the plaza. So, when I went for my second drink, I started a conversation with the bartender to research where I might find foie a la plancha. The answer, in short, was not in Portugalete. A pathetically heartbroken expression must have befallen my face because he gave me another piece of tortilla on the house.

Dinner on the terrace at the Gran Hotel.

I returned to my table, pleased with my gifted tortilla. Then, mid-G&T, he returned to tell me that foie a la plancha had been procured and was being prepared in the kitchen. I was stunned and stammered my most grateful “Eskerrik asko!” Shortly thereafter, a lobe of foie and a glass of Pedro Jimenez was placed before me. Thank you, extrovert Jamie.

Surprise Foie a la planca.

Deliriously happy from my foie encounter and buzzed from my second vat of Gin and Tonic, I rose to settle my tab with the bartender. A man who had been seated nearby with a couple of friends, approached me and asked if I would join them for another drink. I accepted the invitation. I ordered a patxaran, a Basque herbal liquor, because it seemed fitting, and we began a discussion about fishing, travel, and work. It came to light that Ricardo, far from being a random local, is the Director of the Gran Hotel and manager of a couple prime restaurants in town. They cut me no slack, keeping the conversation in Spanish. Fortunately, my Spanish flowed more freely, if not more intelligibly, with the lubrication of alcohol.

When the terrace bar closed, we walked a block up the road for a final drink. As that bar, too, reached closing time, Ricardo invited me to attend a special meal the next day. A fair bit more was said about the event but my translation skills had retired  for the night. So, I was happy to depart with a solid understanding of time, attire, and meeting place.

Dia de San Nicolas
I woke early to music, laughter, the clanking of pots and pans outside the apartment. I had been forewarned about the festival (Dia de San Nicolas) along the river, but I had no idea the entire town would be in the streets drinking, singing, and preparing food! I headed out for a walk to the nearby port town of Santurtzi to cure my simmering hangover. I meandered through the farmer’s market, along the river, past statuesque pier fisherman, and into the Santurtzi port. I passed a decommissioned wooden in the midst of extreme maritime recycling. I could see her skeleton peeking through from her ruptured hull, every board of the deck a memory. But, the truly extraordinary find was a tile mosaic quietly lying at the foot of a crane used to lift and lower cargo from the port. The ceramic told a heartbreaking story of the children of World War II who, at that very location, had been placed on ships by their parents bound for England to escape a homeland reeling from the fiery air assault of Wolfram Freiherr von Richthofen. Tears welled in my eyes as I considered the intense pain of that moment for each father, mother, and child. It was a bloodless horror of war, but devastating, nonetheless.

Fishing along the estuary.

Tile mosaics at the port of Santurtzi depicting the departure of the town’s children during the air raids of WWII.

Returning to my apartment, I passed through the local clubs and groups of friends who were jovially preparing to make tortilla, marmitako, paella, and more. Some were wielding kitchen knives, others drinks, and still others with both. Most wore the traditional blue and white colors of the feast day. By the looks of the Coca Cola 2-liters, there would be kalimotxos (the caffeinated way to get schnockered) aplenty. Teams stirred giant vats of sangria in plastic waste bins and ladled it into cups. The grills had begun wafting meaty perfume into the air.

Townsfolk gathered for Dia de San Nicolas.

As I sauntered through the crowd ogling the bounty, a hand jutted out from a tent holding a piece of txistorra on bread. I gladly accepted the bite just as another hand emerged from the shaded structure with a perfectly frothy cider. My kind of tent! I ducked inside to better thank my benefactors, a group of 40-something men well ahead of the festivities curve. Before I parted from my earnest hosts, I had two more drinks, learned some new Basque words (none of them appropriate for a church holiday), and was invited back for the paella at 3:00. But, if my memory of the previous night was correct, I had big plans and I needed to go get ready.

Generous givers of food and drink.

I was relieved to see Ricardo at the hotel waiting for me since I had no true understanding of my day’s agenda. The hotel was abuzz with people in for the festival. Ricardo took me to the top floor of the renovated 19th Century building to show me the view and explain some of the finer points of the maritime history of the river. I even understood a few. We left the hotel and climbed the streets to Torre Salazar, a restaurant high on the bank residing in an ancient armament tower. From the vantage point, we were able to witness a favorite San Nicolas Day event, the cucaña, in which young men attempt to walk/run along an greased wooden pole perched 20+ feet above the river in order to capture a small flag attached to the pole’s far end.

Next, we tucked into Casa Polvorilla, a bar specializing in briney treats from the sea. Plates of gambas, magurios (tiny snails), and centollos (large crabs) line the bar. The bartender poured me a white wine from Galicia and Ricardo asked her to bring me kiskillon, small, stunningly sweet prawns. As I sipped and snacked, Ricardo greeted guest after guest. If Basques could tolerate royalty, he would be a prince of Portugalete descending from three generations of hoteliers.

The menu at Casa Polvorilla reads like a fish market case.

Kiskillion prawns.

When he gave me the nod, I trailed Ricardo out of the bar, and down the cobblestone street, and through a another door. Entering the much emptier and quiet building, I finally understood the invitation I had been issued and my heart leapt! I was standing in a Txoko, a private gastronomic society dining hall. The large hall had dining tables for 40-50 people, a kitchen, and a lounge area. Below, a wine cellar of enviable stock held hundreds of dusty bottles. Earlier in the day I was taught an indelicate word for just such a moment and I used it.

In the kitchen, a hulking, kind-faced man named Aitor was sweating onions and peppers. I quickly learned that Aitor and his sister, Haydee, have a long lineage in Bizkaia, a fact substantiated by an impressive family tree on the wall spanning NINE generations.

Aitor Beitia

Haydee Iriarte

Aitor was making our entree, marmitako, a rustic, late summer fish stew that was born at sea to feed hungry sailors. In fact, marmita means ‘pot’ in Basque. When the suffix ko is appended, it mean ‘from the pot’. A simple fish stock is flavored and thickened with a vegetable base, choricero peppers, and potatoes cut cascada to release the starches. I watched like a hawk, eventually working my way to Aitor’s side to peer into the pot. Apparently, the recipe then called for sufficient time for the stew to thicken with potato starch so, as our group of family and friends grew, we venture back into the street marching toward another packed watering hole, Bar Arrieta, followed by an additional drink in Polvorilla before returning to the hall to complete the marmitako. In the last moments of cooking, the heat was extinguished and in went hearty chunks of fresh tuna. Moments later, we served the stew alongside lightly dressed garden tomatoes, fresh bread, and red wine.

Ready to eat!

Aitor’s Marmitako

The results are absolutely incredible. A savory, satisfying stew of soft potato, fresh fish, and a tangy broth that necessitates vast amounts of white bread. Given the alcohol already in my system and that likely yet to come, I understood the beauty of this carb-y, filling dish in a whole new light. After dinner, we danced like children with wild abandon. Eventually, I headed home with Aitor as my appreciated but unnecessary protector, through the streets still teaming with celebrating towns people.

When I say that I am traveling alone, I generally get a look of surprise swirled with concern. But in reality, except for a few scant hours, I am never alone. I found dear souls in that tiny town whom I will cherish for the rest of my days. I bid a bittersweet farewell to a surprise jewel in the Basque crown, Portugalete. With her sights, food, festival, markets, and lovely people, she completely made me forget that I came for Bilbao.