Just had an email from Andoni Luis Aduriz at Mugaritz asking for a translation of a couple of new items on his Spring menu. Both are vegetable dishes and involve the use of such rare and exotic ingredients as aniseed buds and winter purslane. Trying to capture the mood of the menu whilst accurately describing the ingredients can be quite an effort. How to translate the texture -texturas
insípidas - without making it sound like a soggy biscuit?

This focus on greens is no doubt due to the 2^nd International Congress “Vive las Verduras” - in praise of vegetables - taking place in Pamplona and all the stars are there. Ferrán Adrià and Martín Berasategui of course, plus my chum Álex Múgica and many others from around the world are climbing onto the stage to prepare their signature vegetable recipes in front of their peers. Chinese cooking bok choi, Italians on courgette flowers, Germans praising cabbage (!) and from the United States, Anita Lo of ‘Annisa’ (avocado soup) and Dan Barber of ‘Blue Hill’ (Jerusalem artichokes) all strutting their stuff, making the most of the extraordinary variety and quality of produce grown in the Ebro valley of Navarra.

Gordon Ramsey’s recent outburst calling for chefs to be fined should they not use local produce has had its effect. There’s not a single British chef or restaurant represented at the Congress.

As a rule, you shouldn’t really name something that you intend eating which is why Freddie and Roger are cats and the rabbits are rabbits. My sister, Finola, refuses to eat anything with a mother, which excludes even eggs, but she’s a vegan and lives on rice cakes. Some of the chickens, the ones that lay eggs or hatch chicks are called Betty or Dixie and there’s Kato, of course, the rooster who wakes us at dawn (not now, Kato!). However, the capons are just ‘the boys’. Foxes don’t know this rule which is why the duck brothers Huey, Dewey, Louie and Chewy disappeared one frosty moonlit night.

Macgregor, the buck rabbit is an exception as he lives in his own segregated run whilst the rest of the does and their young enjoy Bunny Guantanamo with its imposing Taj Mahal. This enormous hutch was knocked up by Bautista out of some white insulating board and is now the home to about 40 rabbits. Because they have burrowed under the hazel trees it is impossible to catch them when the pot requires filling. As soon as I step into the enclosure they scatter and make a dash for their underground shelters. Identifying and culling the males is also very difficult but I have come up with a solution. An air rifle with telescopic sights.

I can now sit on the terrace, glass of wine in hand and keep an eye on my flock whilst enjoying the sunshine. Any hint of typical adult male behaviour by a suitably sized rabbit and ‘pop!’ coniglio in padella for dinner. Marcella Hazan, Italy’s finest cookery writer, advises stewing the rabbit in its own juices then simmering it in white wine and rosemary. ¡Buen provecho!

 

 

 

Well, we didn’t win the lottery but we did get taken to a cider-house. Bautista the Bodger and Smelly Miguel (he’s not really smelly, he just wears too much aftershave) decided they wanted to eat at Olaziola in Hernani. The brothers Olaziola are pelotaris, Basque handball players, who will probably meet each other in the semi-finals of the World Championship next month. Just as the World Series involves only US baseball players so the World Pelota Championship involves only Basques. Anyhow, the sport being awash with gambling money, the Olaziola brothers invested their winnings in an old farmhouse and turned it into a cider-house.

Whilst cider has been made around here for centuries, cider-houses are a relatively new venture. Traditionally, farmers would harvest their apples in October, ferment the juice in huge wooden casks and bottle it in April. In January they would invite their neighbours to sample the new cider straight from the barrel. Standing around a table in the cold cellar, they would drink the flat, dry cider and eat bacalao (salt-cod), steak, cheese and walnuts, helping themselves from a single plate in the middle of the table. After coffee and brandy or pacharán, (an anise-based liqueur, flavoured with sloes, tasting of cough medicine) the neighbours would toddle off across the hills back to their own farm.

About 25 years ago some of the more astute cider-makers decided to commercialise this tradition. There are now some 60 or 70 cider-houses dotted around the hills of Hernani and Astigarraga serving draught cider and simple food in a rustic setting all year round.

Smelly Miguel is an avid pelota gambler but that wasn’t the reason he wanted to eat at Olaziola. It was the bacalao, prepared in a thick, green, olive oil and parsley sauce and served in an earthenware dish that he was after. The dish is gently shaken on the hob for about 20 minutes until the gelatine from the fish thickens the sauce turning it unctuous and sticky. The steak that followed was several centimetres thick, weighed about a kilo and was barely cooked, just charred on the outside and sprinkled with salt. With the cry, “Txotx” the cellarman opened the spigot in one of the huge vats and a jet of cider crashed to the concrete floor. Or at least it would have done had I not shoved my tumbler into the flow and caught a decent mouthful. Filling the glass is considered extremely bad manners. This means queuing up and catching another splash whenever you want a drink. There were 11 vats of cider, each named after a neighbouring parish. We tried them all but thought the vat named Ezkurra was not as good as Leitza and that Berastegi was the best.

Our toddle home meant Miguel driving us along the narrow road that follows the Urumea River up to its source, high in the mountains above San Sebastian. Naturally, we stopped for a drink in Goizueta. Miguel barely noticed the wild boar that darted across the road right under our noses. He simply flicked his toothpick to the other side of his mouth and drove on. Miguel never drives fast.

Some days are better than others. DouDou knows it is going to be a good day if she sees the enormous statue of Jesus Christ on Monte Urgull overlooking the bay of San Sebastian as we emerge, blinking at the sunlight, from the mile-long Belabieta tunnel. The statue was built by Franco but it’s not nearly as impressive as Christ the Redeemer on Rio’s Corcovado which it’s supposed to emulate.

I know it’s going to be a good day if I see the family of wild boar in their pen on the side of the hill on the way down into Leitza. The boar is huge with a big bog-brush ridge of bristles down his back. The sow and her young are harder to spot.  If you’ve read Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time then you’ll recognise the symptoms. Hearts are lifted and lottery tickets bought.

For some time we have not seen any sign of life in the pig-pen. Nor have we won the lottery. Last night, our landlord, Bautista the Bodger, revealed why. The boar family belongs to a farmer, leader of a local hunting clan. One night, a gang broke into the pen by cutting through the huge padlock on the gate. They enticed the parents out of their sty with maize, shot them both with silenced rifles and stole the six little piglets. One youngster escaped and was being bottle-fed by the farmer’s wife. The rest have disappeared. Chief suspect is the town blacksmith because he owns bolt-cutters powerful enough to cut the padlock and belongs to a rival hunting clan.

Yesterday, a small wild boar piglet was spotted rooting around in the muddy pig-pen. A lottery ticket was bought from Miguel.

It’s going to be a good day.