Across the border from San Sebastian, just down the beach, is France. I never got over that. San Sebastian is so effervescent, so tropical, so fast, that its proximity to the surlier Gauls seems strange. French cooking is the best in the world and there is no point arguing. But somehow it’s been eclipsed by its neighbour on the Basque coast. Biarritz and Bayonne have nothing on this Spanish city that’s pretty much universally called the ‘culinary capital of the world’.
Of course, it isn’t quite: that’s still Paris or maybe Tokyo. But San Sebastian might be the best place in the world to eat. There’s a difference. You can’t go to Paris just to eat: even by day two, un autre confit duck leg begins to make you feel sick. Meanwhile, San Sebastian – which has one of the highest numbers of Michelin stars per capita as well as a fun pintxos scene (small bites of food for you to try) – sees taste as democratic.
Right, where should you go? You should go for a drink first. I find a delightful town square, sit myself down, ready to soak up some Basque listlessness and find… fine examples of The Brit Abroad. Look, there’s nothing more tedious than snobby invectives against The Brit Abroad. I myself am this moment a Brit Abroad. But The Brit Abroad should also have told their kid to turn down the fucking volume on their iPad.
Unfortunately, they – fine, we – are the only ones here having a beer because the Basques don’t ever drink without food. As a veteran of the three-pints-and-toast-for-dinner routine in London, my instinct is to expose some sense of weakness, to shout ‘pansies!’ at them or something. However, when the food is this good, why drink?
First, I head to Bar Antonio. Their thing is the tortilla – and good, it was! Tortillas are basically always bad in my experience but Bar Antonio’s was given some proper ballast by potatoes that hadn’t been taken too far. Then on to Bar Borda Berri for cooking in a more modern fashion. First, there was ox cheek (or carrillera de ternera): collapsing at the brush of a fork, rich and mouth-drying, crying out for red wine. Then, a whole pig’s ear, not cut up and pressed like in Chinese cuisine, but cooked until crunchy and covered in garlic and ‘tximitxurri’ (yes, that’s chimichurri to you). An ‘orzotto’ followed, backing up my thesis that all risotto would just be better if they used pasta.
Then, to Itxaropena, where, I was told, the real chefs come. There I had one of the best pintxos of the trip and it was… a plate of green beans. So, so good though: crunchy and mineral-y like samphire. A little lobe of foie gras followed. Basically every bar was doing foie gras. I was kind of fascinated. I mean, cooked at this volume and for this many people, the foie doesn’t quite taste like heaven as it does over the border. But for such a (sorry) ‘woke’ place (anti-Trump, anti-Netanyahu, anti-Putin, even anti-Milei flags everywhere), animal rights don’t seem to have much purchase in San Sebastian.
The ‘culinary capital of the world’ is still Paris or maybe Tokyo. But San Sebastian might be the best place in the world to eat
Bar Tamboril was perhaps my favourite. There wasn’t just a lovely plate of rare tuna but the type of thing that really excites your author: offal! Particularly here, callos y morros, a tripe and snout stew. The Basques cook that most fiendish of offal – tripe – better than anywhere else, including France. What you’re here for is the gelatinous sheen provided by the snout, the thing that makes your lips stick together. At Tamboril, it’s braised and served in a stew. It’s a wobbly and fortifying triumph.
Then, the best pintxo of the whole trip at Mimo: a txuleta. Because of mad cow disease, most cattle in the UK are slaughtered before they turn three. Here, cows have a better quality of life: they live to an average age of about 12. Do you know how much better the flavour is if we let them do that? Beef like beef in high definition, 1080P beef, beef for breakfast after eating beef in a dream. The fat – a deep, butter-y yellow – is just prettier.
Those are just the pintxos bars – but you could do this more intensely. You could get a cab to Casa Julian, often regarded as the world’s best steak restaurant. You could go to Asador Etxebarri, a Michelin-starred restaurant that’s ranked as the second best in the world (by the World’s Top 50 list). Or there’s Amelia by Paulo Airaudo, which has two stars, in the Hotel Maria Cristina where I was lucky enough to stay. It’s a lovely Belle Époque building with some ornate stonework and lovely rooms. I’m there during the film festival, so I get to see a rogue Mark Strong in the corridor and an errant Colin Farrell. Rests are important amid all the eating.
What’s funny is that this could exist in Italy if the Italians could be bothered. Their produce lends itself well to some kind of pintxo-bar situation, to a night hopping through Naples with an arancini here, a fritto misto there. That this doesn’t really exist anywhere else in the world proves something: San Sebastian is a minor miracle.
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