A Copa Con...Egoitz Zapiain

It's Tuesday. That means it's time for "A Copa Con...", and this week I sat with Egoitz Zapiain, the third generation cidermaker of Zapiain cider.  Basque cider is quite different than its anglophone counterparts, and it's shrouded in a definite tradition, that of going to enjoy cider straight from the barrels during the season, with a meal of steak, omelettes, cod, cheese and nuts.

Apart from being one of the only cider makers in Basque Country trained under an enologist, he is one of the most passionate, hard-working people I know. The fact he STILL reports to his ciderhouse every night to tap the cider barrels for jovial diners is the epitomy of inspiration. So join us as we chat and taste the season's very first cider (it's going to be a good year).

What do you do?

I call myself a "chico para todo" {handyman}. My position is an investment in quality. Before, the cider was much more variable. Achieving that homogeousness is a lot of work. In October and November, I don't have friends, I don't have family.

What of your accomplishments are you most proud of?

The secret is knowing each barrel individually. It's a living product. Nowadays, I can know what the product in the barrel will be like three months from now.

What do you think about txotx season, when everyone fills the ciderhouse to sample the fruits of the year's labor?

The season of txotx is hard, but gratifying. You see people appreciate all the work you've done.

Why is this so popular in Basque Country?

It's a ritual, but people come most of all because they like it. It's a unique atmosphere. If you tell someone foreign you're taking them to a restaurant where you can't order, you have to stand up, it's cold, and to drink you have to walk...?  I think it's a beautiful thing to be with people different from you and talk with them.

Your hobby is foraging. What attracts you to looking for mushrooms?

It's something I've been grateful for, because you learn about nature, about survival.

Do you prefer to forage alone or with people?

I don't like to go alone. Generally I go to enjoy, and you don't want to enjoy alone. One time I took my son, and he said "Look, a mushroom!" Because of my height I didn't see it and my son did. It's cool. It gets you fired up, too, because he saw it and you didn't.

Food holds an important part in the people's lives here. Why?

In other places life is in the living room. Here the life is in the kitchen. It's almost like a religion. A saying in euskara: what you see, you do.

Thanks to Egoitz for his time and his cider.  Have any questions for me or Egoitz? Leave them in the comments section.

chorizo a la sidra

Fresh chorizo and Basque cider. I know...if you live in the USA, you're probably already thinking 'Where the __ do I get those?'  Well...I can answer a lot of questions. But not all of them.  How about if I just say that I've never heard anyone regret the $1000 plane ticket they purchased to come eat pintxos in this part of the world.

Chorizo a la sidra is a quintessential Asturian/Basque dish. It's ridiculously simple and ridiculously delicious. The tender, fresh type of Spanish chorizo (made with pork and spices) is pan fried (or not) and then simmered in the local cider. This cider is quite different from the ones we see in the States, down to the manner of drinking: one gulp in the glass at a time.

Or as the owner of our local ciderhouse (bottle pictured above) told me: "Poco y a menudo. (A little and often)."

At the butcher shop in our adopted village, home and birthplace of the great Sir Anthony Worldgate, they make me order in Basque. It's funny. And I use the cider made twenty minutes down the road to infuse it with a tangy bite. It's a hands off dish that is way more delicious than it should be. I find great results as far as texture when I let the meat sit in its liquid, whether for a half day or overnight.

Eat this with bread -make little mini sandwiches- then use the leftover bread to soak up the fat juice (it's normal).

chorizo a la sidra

• 1 lb of Spanish chorizo (the fresh type, txistorra works well too)
• 1/2 bottle of Basque cider
• a splash of olive oil
• a pinch of salt

Cut the chorizo in links of desired size. I usually aim for about two inches.  Heat the olive oil and fry the slices of chorizo until they've browned a bit. Add the cider and bring to a boil. Simmer until tender, about twenty minutes. Serve immediately or later, but warm it up first!

365 tuesdays

It's highly likely that there's not a single person that knows more about cider than Egoitz Zapiain. He's always ahead of the game, an avant-garde player in the realm of this traditional drink.   He approaches cider like an affectionate scientist. 

Lovers of this beverage that go to his ciderhouse won't find shouts of  ‘TXOOOOOTXXXX’ - they'll find a subtly guided tasting, going from the softer ciders to the most developed. The season's almost over, so get there ASAP. If you can't, look for Zapiain in nearly any store (check out Lot 14).  

Sagardo Zapiain
Kale Nagusia, 96. Astigarraga

Part of the 365 Cities project.

cider house season begins!

It's that time again...January in the Basque country means CIDER. Sagardo. Sidra.

We ventured into the countryside of Astigarraga this weekend to taste the year's offerings. The txotx was placed into the barrels, and the cider began to flow. Each barrel was different, each named after a distinct mountain, and the cider ranged from extra-acidic, to sweet, to slightly soso, to one with a faint sulfuric scent.

It's a good time of year. The cold air, the walk down a dark country road to the ciderhouse practically glowing with warmth and the scent of grilled steak.  Cosy inside. A good time of year, indeed. 

making cider : zapiain sagardotegia, astigarraga

A month or so ago, a friend and cider guru invited me and another friend  to come look around his cider house and get a behind-the-scenes glimpse of how he makes his cider, which is one of the most popular in the region.

I'd been there before, for a tasting (and as the token foreigner got to also embarrass myself on Basque television), and a couple times for the traditional Basque ciderhouse dinner. For those who aren't familiar, it's basically a huge steak, bacalao, tortilla, and a traditional dessert of nuts, cheese, and membrillo with all the cider you can drink.

This man is Egoitz Zapiain, and his family's business, Zapiain Sagardotegia, is a reference and a standard. They sell their cider everywhere, but you can also find them in the hands of the old-school Donostians. I.e., a classic. And with good reason-Egoitz takes special care with the creation of his cider AND with the people who come during txotx season, crafting an experience less for the alcohol-thirsty tourist and more for the cider aficionado.  So we bypassed the empty dining room and moved straight to the action.

Apples arrived in a big old truck. Egoitz motioned them in, and the truck tilted back, dumping tons and TONS of apples everywhere.  They are unloaded into a designated area, where concrete barriers about a foot tall keep them from rolling off into the hills of Basque Country. Then, water is pumped into this area in order to float the apples like cranberries. They waft down a little apple river to the belt that carries them up to QC, also known as Egoitz's aita (dad).

He works with his hands, overlooking Egoitz's aunt's restaurant, where that day she happened to be sitting on the porch staring right back, peeling beans. Sr. Zapiain throws the rotten apples into a bin, allowing the good ones to go on to be crushed, squeezed, and the juice to pass into separate metal barrels, depending on its qualities.

Egoitz makes an effort to begin the blending of the apples (some sweeter, some more tart) as soon as possible, rather than waiting until the final step and just mixing apple juice. This creates a more balanced cider.  We tasted everything, starting with the juice, nearly fresh-squeezed. It wasn't sweet, it was tart. The sweetest apples are the ones from right around Astigarraga, but tarter apples are required to get the desired balance.

The apple orchards of the area are notoriously neglected. Egoitz cites the orchard across from his cider house, saying that the owner comes out twice a year: once to hunt, and once to harvest the apples.  That's why, according to Egoitz, ciders made with apples only from the area are bonitas in theory but not always of high quality.

That's why, in an effort to move towards total control/self-sufficiency, Egoitz is doing some experiments with growing his own apple trees. The notepad you see above is the honor system for the local Basque farmers that come to take the refuse for animal feed and compost.

We moved on all the way to the cider from last season, the last to be made which was almost entirely bottled. It was complex, worlds away from where it had started. Cider, like txakoli, has come a long way from its humble beginnings.