another #mystery

More so than Mugaritz, more so than Arzak, more so even than some of the other #mystery places I've featured on here, this spot reeked of magic.  Its super central position and incredible food should make it a mandatory destination for both residents and tourists. But half the poeple you ask don't have any idea it exists.

Its utterly unremarkable facade reveals only a poorly stocked bar at first glance.  Here's where it gets all mythological...if you can get past the gatekeeper, the patriarch of the family that owns the restaurant, and get a table, you walk down stairs into a dark, small dining room with six tables and a clock that doesn't work.

The owner recites the menu as his wife straightens up your table and brings the wine. Famously gruff, he cites offerings of seafood, truffles, and meat from a cow whose name he told us but I've forgotten.

Then the food starts...and the best kokotxas I've ever had. Punto. These confit hake kokotxas were simply perfect, tender and not the least bit chewy. The best. I'm ruined.

Then there's the dish the very special couple that took me to this spot has been raving about for as long as I've known them: the potato, egg and truffle.

Soft and perfectly seasoned crushed potatoes drowning in bright yellow egg, with huge flakes of black truffle...we were all licking our plates. Really.

May this spot never change.

#mystery time

Another mystery meal time....this time in a restaurant outside of San Sebastián, with an EXCELLENT price to quality ratio, to quote every person who spoke to me about it.

sweet, succulent king prawns.

pimientos del gernika. seared oyster mushrooms.

txipirones pelayo, or baby squid with sweet onions.

monkfish. sublime.

lenguado rodaballo, or turbot.

chocolate cake, cheesecake, and.....leche frita!!

success. 

it's the little #mysterys

 People from here are proud of their food. They're proud of the raw product, they're proud of the folks that cook it, and they're proud of their restaurants. They like to share, but often it comes with one condition: "Don't tell anyone." Or maybe that's just something they tell me since I am, as I often forget, a guiri. And a journalist. And a blogger.

Thank goodness I have friends that don't hold that against me. And even, I suspect, sort of like it when I guiri-bash. Otherwise, I wouldn't have had plate, after plate, after plate of fresh seafood at a quiet bar-restaurant outside of the city this week for lunch. A bottle of cold, salty txakoli was brought the table and the meal begin. We started with the tomato salad, above, dressed with vinegar, loads of olive oil, tuna, anchovies and guindilla peppers.

Next the anchovies (see top of post), fresh, mouthwatering, and topped with fried garlic. A plate of fried anchovies, then, battered in tiny, uniform breadcrumb. Really, just incredible. Fried fish, equally perfect. There we were, a Basque, an American, a guy from Cataluña and one from Cadiz, and we were all nodding and smiling in sheer pleasure.

The paramount of the meal were the calamari, which as our Andalucian commented, tasted like perfectly grilled calamari, but were battered and fried. These are the calamari you only dream about. If you dream about cephalopods.

I've struck the name of the restaurant my friends carried me to this week out of my mind, just so I can honestly tell people I can't remember what it's called. I took a picture of the sign, but I'm not looking at it until the day comes when the ganas to return become unbearable. Which probably isn't very far off, since I haven't stopped thinking about the calamari and the fresh seafood tasting of the air coming through the restaurant's front door.