That humble facade hides a grill that does wonders. An asador is typically a rustic place with grilled local products – some veg, much meat, often local game and the local cider or txakoli. Not this asador. AB fans (Bourdain, not Brown), will recognize it – the little place in the Basque countryside, at the base of a granite mountain range, not near anything, but next to the church and across from the jai alai fronton, where the art of grilling has reached Michelin-star status. A place that caused Bourdain to exclaim “absolutely one of the best meals of my life.” That’s quite a statement, which is why (a) this place was definitely on my list of places to try, and (b) I was worried about going there. Those words of praise raise very high expectations – the kind of expectations I had in advance of visiting the French Laundry, the kinds of expectations usually only met in New York and Paris. Could a little place in really remote Spain pull it off? Let’s go in and try it out.
To understand the challenge, consider that each item is cooked over its own fire, the choice of coals (both wood composition and temperature) dependent on the dish. Everything comes from the fire, from the starter to the dessert, so concerns about over-smokiness are not unfounded. But here’s the secret to their success: everything, which on our visit included a great deal of seafood, is cooked perfectly. Perfectly. There is always enough smoke or char to ensure that you know the food was in contact with, or close proximity to, actual fire, but each item was done to perfection, even when that meant barely cooking, say, the oyster. What else did they serve, you wonder, perhaps salivating. This is the tasting menu which we followed, the al a carte portions being such that just the two of us could not have sampled enough variety to have made the trip worthwhile.
Forks at the ready … dig in! (Sorry about the photos, as our table was a bit dark and the day a bit gloomy.)
The carrot juice was a nice, herby and fresh palate cleanser, and was served alongside the house-cured chorizo, which was even denser and richer than the good Spanish chorizos abundant over here.
The mozzarella was rich, almost burrata-like, surrounded by what I will liken to a light, refreshing gazpacho. The smoke here was a subtle, fleeting taste, reminding you of hot coals below your feet (our dining room was above the grill, but you’d never know, as the restaurant harbors no smokiness – I suspect a great deal of thought was put into ventilation).
Anchovy? Yep, fresh, barely grilled and served with fire-baked bread. Here, the smoke was a bit more assertive because the anchovy could certainly take it. Lovely, and more than one step above the anchovy pintxos/tapas we have enjoyed on this trip.
Here was a first for us. With a little instruction from the waitress (both, actually), we managed to expose the fleshy and lobster-like foot of the barnacle. Barnacle “juice” shot across my side of the tablecloth as I tried to extract the flesh that is covered by a fibrous sheath. These stains were to be joined later by stains from octopus “ink” and prawn bits. Seafood is deliciously messy, especially these barnacles. (I believe only geoduck remains on my “weird shellfish to try” list. Cool!)
Grilled oysters, which I worried might be too much like the canned smoked oysters of cocktail party disrepute, were fantastic. A bit of smoke to heighten the sweetness of the fresh oyster, these were quivering, barely heated through and tasted pure, clean and of the sea just as they should. A bit of what I’ll describe as a roasted seaweed and an oyster foam rounded out the dish. The serving plates also merit mention (how often is that true?). Each ceramic serving plate is custom-fit to the oyster serving shell, with indentations designed to keep the shell from sliding off the plate. This suggests, of course, that the serving shell was not the original home of the particular oyster you are consuming, but it’s a thoughtful, unique and very practical approach to serving which the likes of me will never see again.
Sweet, sweet Palamos prawns with a fair amount of smoke but plenty of freshness in them. Large and meaty, but not at all tough. We are on a definite roll here.
Baby octopus and baby squid are fairly common around here. The squid (chipirones) are often stuffed or served in their “tinta,” a sauce make from the squid ink. Octopus are most often fried. This dish confuses the two, and creates an octopus “ink” from the grill char. To say that this was the best octopus I have ever had is a silly and woefully inadequate platitude. It may be one of the best things I have ever put in my mouth. A combination of silky and firm textures, sweet and sea-salty flavors, all brought together with the powerfully smokey and rich sauce. Seriously good stuff; “last meal” sort of stuff.
The red mullet was a nice fish course, but frankly, a bit of a way station between the octopus and…
One of the best – top 3? top 1? – steaks ever. I always regretted never making it to Peter Luger while living in New York, though I had plenty of good expense-account beef while working there. I no longer have any such regrets, because I doubt even that esteemed chop house could have equalled this fusion of flesh, spice and smoke. I don’t know where this cow gazed, whether it was fed grain or grass, whether it was pumped full of hormones or whether it was given a massage in its final hours. I hope it lived well, of course, but I certainly know that it was put to exceedingly good use and treated with ultimate respect on the way to our plate. And one of the best signs that this course is worthy of distinction is the fact that every table seated within earshot of us, all Spaniards (with a couple of American guests), many apparently return customers, ordered this dish. Oh, why not: Best.Steak.Ever.
Yes, even dessert came from the grill. In this course, in the form of an ice cream made from milk reduced on the grill, allowing the milk itself to become infused with a sweet smokiness (and, in comparison to the assertive, spicy smoke of the beef, a clear example of the effect of the different types of woods and coals used). Rich, caramelized and very subtly smokey ice cream – who would have predicted that?
Finally, another typical Spanish dish transformed. Flan, made from sheep’s milk (or maybe a goat/cow combination?), perfectly creamy and cooked so that it would have just enough structure to barely withstand gravity. Instead of being sweetened with caramel, the typical coating, it was simply dusted with confectioner’s sugar and accompanied by a few raspberries. A lovely and elegant finish.
So did it live up to the high praise and our potentially-inflated expectations? Yes – perhaps not in the way that the experience of a French Laundry overwhelms you with it’s seamless flow and mastery of every single aspect of the restaurant – but with such dishes as the octopus and steak chop, it was simply unforgettable.
Other items worth mention:
A single bottle of wine accompanied us along the way, a white Rioja blend from Remilluri. The name, year and blend all escape me right now.
At the end of lunch I worked up the courage to ask the (obviously Basque) waitress about my last name, which looks quite a bit like the names on the streets signs around here, and most likely originated in these hills. She was amused that a norteamericano would have such a name, and excitedly ran off to see if anyone might be able shed some light on the name’s meaning. Apparently, all the locals at the bar downstairs agreed that the name must be Basque, but had no idea what it might mean (which is the way I feel about almost all Basque words). A helpful hint to look on the Euskadi genealogical website leaves me homework for another day.
AlAndLaura 