'Gastro freaks' eat their way across Spain

By Adam Goldman

updated 7:37 p.m. ET Oct. 19, 2007

MADRID - Since returning from Spain, where I spent two weeks with a couple of buddies, people constantly ask: "What did you do?"

We didn't visit any museums or churches. We didn't stroll around any parks or fountains. We didn't write one postcard or buy one souvenir.

We ate.

We mastered the three-hour lunch, followed by the five-hour dinner. We toppled the world's greatest tasting menus and astounded waiters as we devoured a dizzying number of dishes. We drove a couple thousand miles, dashing from city to city, trying to get there in time for our reservations. We tacked on about 25 pounds among the three of us.

We had no budgetary constraints, blowing more than $17,000 primarily on food (mostly good; occasionally awful) and wine, cava, Campari and that American stalwart, Jack Daniels.

We tapped our savings and wielded our credit cards without remorse. We're gastro freaks. And we were completely out of control.

Our gluttonous tour was mapped around a trio of famous Michelin-starred restaurants named Arzak, Mugaritz and Can Fabes. When not bagging stars, we tackled tapas at a hodgepodge of other recommended restaurants. We always had a destination, but we didn't always make it. Complications caused us to stumble occasionally.

The trip began with the three of us rendezvousing in Madrid. Including myself, Team Spain consisted of Robert Berry and Ricky King, two chefs in Washington, D.C., with scary appetites and a deep understanding of food.

Sitting down in San Sebastian
Madrid was merely a culinary sideshow of Padron peppers and fried cod. The real action lay ahead in San Sebastian, which is nestled on the Atlantic Ocean and home to Juan Mari Arzak, who's considered the father of modern Spanish cooking.

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Arzak's daughter, Elena, who will one day run the restaurant, greeted us warmly. She led us into the capacious kitchen, where we observed 30 cooks silently preparing food with precision and intensity.

One of the chefs, Igor Zalakain, guided us through the twisting hallways and into the wine cellar, which houses a staggering 100,000 bottles and more than 2,300 labels. He then took us to Arzak's test laboratory, where 1,500 dried condiments — tapioca from Thailand, chili morita from Mexico — sit on the shelves. Here Igor experiments with recipes until they're ready for the menu. Sometimes the recipes can take a day to perfect. Sometimes a year. Sometimes, said Igor, "never."

This brief glimpse behind the scenes gave us a greater appreciation of what we were about to eat: Food rooted in the Basque tradition but with a modern flair.

The meal took hours. We devoured everything, experiencing repeated bursts of sharp, dazzling flavors. We discussed every dish, its ingredients and why it worked.

Juan Arzak, a jolly, vigorous man, came out to our table. He explained how they made the roasted lobster with freeze-dried olive oil and how they infused kefir with the essence of foie gras. In return, we praised the tuna belly and just about everything else. Then Rob and Ricky went to the car and retrieved two quarts of fresh South Carolina grits that they had brought as gifts.

They handed the Anson Mills grits to Juan. He was delighted.

Dining in Basque country
After nights in San Sebastian and Pamplona (where we feasted on braised bull), we headed for lunch at Mugaritz, located in the hills of Basque country at the bottom of a looming mountain between San Sebastian and Irun. But without a detailed map, it was hard to find.

We arrived somewhat frazzled. On our table were two little envelopes. Inside, one card said you could "submit" for "150 minutes to feel, imagine, reminisce, discover" and "contemplate." The other card said you could "rebel" and "feel embarrassed, flustered, fed up."

We chose to submit. Wise decision.

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Mugaritz, a two-star Michelin, was a completely different experience from Arzak. It's known for cutting-edge, rigorous techniques that involve test tubes, tweezers and the gastrovac, a machine that extracts flavors from foods without breaking down enzymes.

But that gadget doesn't work miracles, said wunderkind chef and owner Andoni Luis Aduriz.

"If there's a bad cook, he's a bad cook with a machine," Aduriz, 36, said. "The machine doesn't make the cook."

Mugaritz awed us.

The degustation menu embraced wondrous textures and tastes. We consumed, among other things, a buttery Idiazabal cheese gnocchi in salted Iberian pork bouillon; tuna fillet covered in pearl tapioca and roasted in the bottom of a cider barrel with basil leaves; and beef roasted and perfumed with thyme and other flavors.

Five hours later, sipping Luis Felipe Brandy Gran Reserva on the verandah, I was sorry to leave. We had to dash across the Pyrenees to eat in Barcelona.

Exhausted, we didn't make it that night. We ended up sleeping on the side of road.

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