My Quest for the Best Pintxo in Basque Country

Ah, my terrible French, further impaired by a thumping headache. Fumbling through our rudimentary talk reminded me of the last time I felt adrift between languages: at my grandfather’s funeral. How the most basic words escaped me. Up, down. Above, below. Right. Left. The difference between “passed away,” “dead.”

Like then, I waded through the discomfort with nervous laughter. After showing me a second, larger set of trash bins, Javier lit up, suggesting he’d lead us by car to the mercado in nearby Zarautz on a more picturesque route than we’d planned.

Despite the road’s nauseating twists and turns, each lookout proved worthy of pause. Whenever Javier decelerated in front of us, we followed suit, tittering, “Oh! He’s got another one!,” charmed by our host’s desire for us to slow down, look closer, and drink in the view—wordless gestures relaying his love for this place. Judging by the green undulating hills, clear skies, and lustrous waters, I could see why.

His recommendations continued (the port-side pintxo bar, the cider house, the hike to the whaler’s hut), as did our conversation via text message, aided by a translation app. I wrote to him in Spanish, and he responded in English: Have a good day, I insist…. Ask me whatever you want…I suggest you visit the church. Inside they do not serve txakoli…. Enjoy your birthday. Remember when you turn 80, while remembering these days in Getaria. I learned about his wife, his daughter Usoa, his granddaughter, and that he resided full-time in San Sebastián—our group’s final destination. He would depart Getaria before us, to swim in the sea with Usoa.

Upon arriving in Donostia, new moments had already been etched into our lore: Kat posing by a Guggenheim outdoor mist feature in her Matrix-esque black trench coat and sunglasses. Each of us taking turns at the ginormous cider casks, spigots blasting streams of white foam. The majestic stillness of the full beaver moon, hovering pink and opalescent in the horizon. A photo of me in the background of a funicular ride, caught staring straight into the camera like a Victorian child ghost.

My friends would leave a day early, and by that final afternoon together, we’d assessed our best bites. The list aligned with well-trod standards, mostly cold prepared bar snacks: unanimously, the requisite lip-smackingly savory gilda but also the Indurain version (Gaz’s pick) from Bodega Donostiarra, stacked with a slab of cured albacore; for Carrie, the unctuous anchovy pan con tomate paired with a crisp breakfast beer at Bar Desy; Bar Antonio’s oozy, caramelized tortilla (Nicolas); or Bar Nestor’s buxom tomatoes studded with flaky Basque sea salt (Kat). None of these were on Javier’s list. There are limitations to what a person can discover as a tourist.

“Leave space in your stomach to savor the anchovies,” Javier texted me. We would meet on my last night for his pintxo picks, accompanied by Usoa, who spoke English. At Bar Txepetxa I landed on my favorite pintxo, a fishy dish Harabeoji would have loved: the Jardinera toast piled with a knoll of diced onion and red and green peppers, under which two kinds of anchoa—marinated in vinegar and secrets—laid. Javier’s top choice was the elegant seared scallop at Ikili, plated with carrot purée and white wine beurre blanc, garnished with a lacy sea lettuce chip. I wasn’t aware pintxos could be served hot. So too were the sizzled wild mushrooms adorned by a single broken yoke, at our last stop, Iturrioz. He had many things to teach me, we agreed.