The Twenty-Year Seed

Part I: Curiosity As the Compass, Pleasure as the Question

The last time I went to Spain was in 2008. I needed two humanities credits to finish my degree at NYU. I went to college with a singular ambition: to get an exceptional education, and I did just that. After nearly 4 years of laser focus, an advanced course load packed with as much as they would let me, a never-ending stream of all-nighters, and demanding hours in restaurant kitchens filling every other moment, I thought to myself: People say college is fun – I think I forgot that part.  So, for my remaining credits, I signed up for two study abroad courses - one month in Argentina for a class about social art (incredible and a story for another time), and one month in Spain for a class aptly called Food, Folklore, and Health of Spanish Cuisine. 

As I sat on the flight to Spain, my only expectations sat inside a basic curiosity, a kind of hey, I wonder what’s over there. And with that, I set off, simply looking for a brief respite from my self-induced grind and some new experiences. I had no idea the seeds planted on that trip by 3 unlikely teachers, morning bocadillos, and a portal-like bus system, would be lessons I’d come back to time and again, but not fully grasp until almost 20 years later.

In the little town of Burgos, just north of Madrid, I entered the classroom on the first day outfitted in my 22-year-old, overly serious, dressed-in-all-black (middle of summer), card-carrying, angsty New Yorker, workaholic regalia, to a room full of students from across the University of California system. They were tan, relaxed, and wearing shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops or trainers. There was a lightness to this room, this group, that I wasn’t accustomed to or even sure I understood what I was looking at. Was this a class? I knew I stuck out like a sore thumb, and quickly realized I was standing in front of a mirror I didn’t know I needed. And so it began. 

My mornings were framed by a visit to a local cafe before or after class, where I had my first morcilla, Spanish blood sausage. I had never tried blood sausage, and what began with a kind of pretentious dare to myself to appreciate foreign foods like blood sausage (after all, I was a young chef in Spain) concluded with one of the most delicious sandwiches I’ve ever eaten (still). The richness of the morcilla, with its unique blend of spices, on that little baguette-shaped, uniquely Spanish bocodillo roll was sandwich perfection. It quickly became a highlight of my weekly routine, and I would spend many years searching for a blood sausage that could compare, Spanish and otherwise –nothing ever came close. 

As years passed, I wondered if it was only that delicious because that month in Spain turned out to be generally magical, and if so, I was completely fine with that. However, 18 years later, in a taxi on my most recent trip to Spain, I was chatting with a taxi driver about Burgos, to which he responded, "It’s the best Morcilla in Spain." I felt an indulgent pride that I’d simply gotten it right the first time. 

Among the class were 3 students who became my samurai masters of sorts for the month. From the start, I gravitated towards this little group and felt a self-conscious good fortune that they welcomed me as well. We’d hang out in the school and around the little town of Burgos, doing something, or nothing. We went on class field trips to beer breweries and bread factories (yes, it was the best syllabus ever), we hung out at the local bar, and once, we found ourselves at a local nightclub, dancing the night away in the carefree way that only seemed possible in the naivety and safety of being college students in Europe 20 years ago. I hope this is still possible. 

We’d go to the local grocery store to stock up on supplies for a local drink we’d learned called Callemocho –  an unlikely combination of red wine and Coca-Cola served over ice. I believe our red wine was of the boxed varietal. We’d drink it in the dorms of the school we were inhabiting or sometimes in the local bars. Quite refreshing and celebratory in the summer heat of Spain, however, you’ve never actually had a hangover until you’re hungover on the most sugar-packed combination of cheap red wine and Coca-Cola - even at the durable age of 22. 

What struck me about these three wasn’t what they did, but how they did it. They were as good at doing something as they were at doing nothing, hanging out. They never needed a moment to be anything other than what it was, and they were always having fun, a lot of fun. The purity of this fun was infectious. I awkwardly stumbled my way through participation, hoping I’d learn their ways through osmosis and secretly wondering if I had somehow missed an important day at school when I was younger, when this seemingly basic yet wildly important skill was taught. Over the course of our few weeks together, their influence would slowly disarm me, as I felt myself ease into what felt like sacred rhythms of ‘hanging out,’ and drinking my collemocho’s with a communion-esque reverence. 

The professor of the course was unlike anyone I’d had before. Day one, lecture one, his instruction included the edict: “This course ends each week on Thursdays at noon. Spain has a fantastic bus system. I encourage you to take every opportunity to go explore as much as possible. Be back by Monday morning.” It was a blessing of the highest order. 

On one of these weekend trips, I hopped a bus to San Sebastian, known as one of the world’s gastronomic capital cities, which, for a young chef, made it feel like required reading, or eating, as it were. While San Sebastian has long been known for a statistic about the concentration of Michelin-starred restaurants per square kilometer, or something to that effect, what was waiting for me would have nothing to do with Michelin stars, pressed linens, or the modernist cuisine that was taking hold at the time. 

The bus arrived at sunrise; the town was still mostly asleep. I began exploring this town nestled perfectly between the sea and nearby mountains on foot, a favorite pastime when exploring new places. As the shops started opening their doors, the town was gently coming to life, and I stopped at a fruit stand, where I bought a few things to snack on in my hostel later, including some nectarines. At 22, I’d never had a nectarine, as my 90’s suburban childhood came with a somewhat limited menu. I’d spent my few years in NYC catching up to things like my first brussels sprout, smoked salmon, and many others, but I hadn’t yet come across nectarines. Now, here they were. It was the height of summer, stone-fruit season in Spain, and the aroma was completely intoxicating as the mid-morning sun warmed them. I left the shop with my bag of fruits, tired from my red-eyed bus ride, and with no real plan except to follow my nose. I was, however, both unprepared and completely prepared for what happened next. 

I found an appropriate place on the sidewalk to stop, took out a nectarine, and took a big bite. It was a flavor unlike any flavor I’d ever had; it wanted for nothing. In my training in NYC restaurants, chefs were always focused on building flavor, constructing a dish, and creating an experience. But this– this was a flavor you couldn’t construct. It was already complete in every way. As the juice dripped down my arm and the Spanish summer sun beat down on my face, time seemed to stop, and the earth may have briefly stopped spinning, creating a small space for the pure pleasure of sensory overwhelm. There was me, the nectarine, the moment, and nothing else. It was the most delicious thing I’d eaten up to that point in my life, and it remains one of the most elegant to this day. What was this seemingly already perfect food, in this place, in this moment? I wanted to know more, and I would. But not yet, for now, I stood on the sidewalk, with the goofiest expression on my face, I’m sure, and savored every last bite.

I spent the rest of the day wandering, observing, and taking in the cobblestone streets, rugged mountains overlooking the sea, and the sea, a shade of blue that insisted on attention. I paused for a siesta, and as the streets started to come back to life, I was on the hunt for a pintxos bar (the Basque equivalent of tapas). I came across a small place where people were mostly standing at tall tables, socializing, drinking, and snacking, but it was the bar that really intrigued me. The bar had a display of pinxtos: skewers of olives and anchovies, croquettes (salt cod in this part of the world), various delicacies atop bread, and the drinks were being poured in a way I’d never seen before.

I sat down next to an older gentleman who looked at me and said, "What are you drinking?" I provided the only answer that seemed appropriate for the situation – ‘You tell me’. He smiled and responded, "Well then, it is Txakoli,” and then told me a story about how, in all the attempts from outsiders to conquer the Basque region, “we remained Basque. And in all of these attempts, we have protected our vines, the Txakoli vines. So, we drink Txakoli. In good times and in bad, we drink Txakoli.” I listened to his story as if her were telling me the location of the holy grail, and nodded. He then nodded to the bartender and pointed to me. The bartender grabbed a small glass and lowered it in one hand, and then with the other poured the wine from almost 1 meter above the glass, a tradition I learned is specific to Txakoli and used to aerate the slightly effervescent drink. My eyes were wide, and the gentleman smiled at my delight. We toasted our glasses and sat next to each other, drinking Txakoli and watching the nightly pinxtos go by – enjoying some ourselves, of course. 

The next afternoon, I hit the jackpot. One thing I’ve learned while traveling through small villages in Europe, Japan, and the like is that if you stumble upon a local festival – GO. They might be celebrating a season, a local holiday, or, as was the case in this instance, a local delicacy, and your chances of stumbling upon something spectacular are high. In this instance, I walked right into San Sebastian’s annual sardine festival. And what a jackpot it was. At the edge of town where the cobblestones met the sea, there was a fervor of activity as the local fisherman pulled sardines right out of the water, handed them to a group manning these massive grills, fueled by wood and charcoal, where they expertly grilled them with nothing but a bit of sea salt. The skill each group worked with made it clear that these fish were, quite simply, a part of who they were. 

I got on the line with Christmas-like anticipation and watched the show attentively. The locals around me chatted familiarly – this was clearly the place to be, families, friends, young, old, everyone was there. I’d never seen anything like it, and yet it had a deep familiarity to it. An intrinsic recognition that I’d found a truth I’d always known but not yet experienced until this moment. Within this communal ruckus, everything made sense. When the beautiful small fish came out of the water, salt and heat were applied, and this equation directly led to joy, community, and connection to each other, this day, and this place. 

I’d made it to the front of the line, where I was handed my own tower of grilled sardines on a paper plate, salt-crusted, perfectly charred at the edges, still juicy on the inside.  I was also handed a bottle of Basque cider– yes, an entire bottle, as if, well, of course, an entire bottle, and all for a grand total of €3. I found an open place at a picnic table tucked into this royal feast that had been bestowed upon me. My senses struggled to keep up, oscillating between soaking in the celebration around me and trying to comprehend all the new flavors with each bite and sip. The cider had funk and yet a crispy top note to bookend the apple base note, a flavor combination that perfectly framed the sardines' deep flavors from the sea and the grill. Apart, they were both highly notable soloist, but together a Bach-esque concerto danced all around me. I enjoyed it until the last drop of cider and sardine was gone, and couldn’t help but notice that this experience, while new to me, felt old, really old in the best possible way. As if somehow sitting there at that picnic table that day, I was celebrating with everyone at every sardine festival that had come before.

The next morning, on my bus back to Burgos, the thought of the sentence that had first instructed my visit to San Sebastian – it had more fancy restaurants, yada yada, than any other blah, blah. As I rode out of San Sebastian, I couldn’t be more bored by this piece of trivia. San Sebastian turned out as special as it was made out to be, but for none of the reasons in the magazines or the culinary hype. I’d visited exactly zero Michelin-starred restaurants, and left feeling it had revealed something more integral about how food and ingredients were experienced, what they could mean to a culture, a people, a place, and how they could provide a route to something else. Something as tactile as it was ephemeral. Something communicated through the senses that leads only to the present moment. I sat on that bus that day, overwhelmed by a feeling I simply didn’t have words for then, a kind of connection - connection to myself, the people of that little town, and that particular bit of magic that nature decided to share, nestled in that place just between the sea and the mountains.  

I sat on that flight back to New York at the end of that month with a pocketful of gold I didn’t know what to do with. The sanctity of a sandwich, a time-stopping nectarine, the daily rhythms, the people, the traditions that can only be found in a single place at a specific time, and of course, my three professors who unknowingly planted that mighty, mighty seed: joy for the sake of. I would both nurture and neglect this seed throughout my twenties and thirties with an unfortunate tendency toward the latter. Then, after many years traversing a rather indirect path, I found myself rooting around in the garden of experience, looking for something. Something I knew or maybe had just forgotten. So, I kept going on the path with a trusty guide that has never let me down – curiosity as the compass. But this time around, there would be a second: Pleasure as the question. 

To be continued…

I hope you’ll join next time for Spain: The 20 Year Seed Part II