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| Hiking beneath La Ripasa near Panticosa, Spain |
Dark was closing in, a gentle but persistent rain had soaked
through my top layer, and the lights from the village were still distressingly
far away. It was hard to remember that we
had started our day nearly ten hours earlier at an inn in that village over a breakfast of jamon, toast, and strong café con leche. Since then we had tread 28 kilometers on
rocks, road, scree, and snowpack; we had been pelted by hail and rain and
caressed by the warmth of the shy sun; we had shared beers, coffee, and tales
of the trail with fellow hikers seeking refuge from a passing storm.
But at that moment, trying to make out the rooftops of Sallént de Gallego through a grove of threateningly dark trees, all I wanted was a hot shower, a dry towel, and the hearty mountain dinner that I knew was waiting at the end of the trail.
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| Half Grilled Rabbit with aioli |
This past July, John and I spent eight days hiking in the
Spanish Pyrenees. Our journey was a
self-guided loop around the Valle de Tena arranged through the outfitter Hike
Pyrenees, a tour operator offering a variety of Spanish hiking trips both
guided and independent, as we had chosen.
The idea of setting out each day with a detailed set of directions and
map (in English) and needing to take along nothing more than our daypacks
sounded like a dream opportunity to explore a mountain range that not many
native English speakers get to. At the
end of each day, our suitcases would appear in the next village having been
spirited there by car while we traversed by foot.
When planning this trip, in addition to the expectation of epic
mountain vistas, I also harbored fantasies of pan con tomate for breakfast,
leisurely vino soaked lunches and long dinners ending in a table littered with
the leftovers of a tapas feast. As it
turned out, we would eat well and plenty, and tapas would occasionally
be involved, but the mountain cuisine of Basque country was a far cry from the
gambas ajillo, patatas bravas, and paella that many people think constitutes
“Spanish cuisine”.
As we hiked from idyllic village to idyllic village, we worked
up an appetite. Each morning we would
eat our fill of fresh scrambled eggs, tostada
con jamon (toasted bread with olive oil, crushed tomatoes, and cured ham),
and fresh juice. The proprietor of each
inn would pack us a small lunch, usually a bocadillo stuffed with grilled
chorizo or longaniza, or one layered with jamon, thin omelet, crushed tomato,
and fresh lettuce from the owner’s garden.
When we stopped for lunch, sometimes it was in a rush,
trying to eat in a breezy spot by the side of a river having found a place
where the flies were not swarming and the mosquitoes might layoff of us for a
minute. Other days we just powered through the hike, drinking our lunch in the form of an ice-cold cerveza, followed by a snack, and then the requisite siesta.
But dinner in the Pyrenees was where the cuisine really
shined. In eight nights there was not a
paella pan in sight. The seafood was more
bacalao (salt cod) than gambas. And
there was meat, well, in every form imaginable.
When it came to vegetables, the chefs did their best when the vegetable
in question was a potato- and those were always best when fried. In other words, this was hearty food for
mountain people.
In Sandiníes, a village of no more than a handful of old
stone buildings, rests a non-descript structure called Casa Pelentos. They have rooms, but you would be mistaken if
you thought this was a hotel with a restaurant.
No, this is more a famous, under-the-radar beacon of Spanish regional
cooking that happens to have a few rooms attached where you can spend the
night. We were happy to spend the night,
as it gave us a chance to taste from the chef’s much-celebrated repertoire of
Pirineos cuisine.  |
| Piquillo peppers stuffed with bacalao |
Back in Sallénte we finally knocked on the door of the
Hotel Almud at 8:30pm. Maria, the owner,
whisked away our soaking wet hiking shoes and backpacks to dry in her boiler
room over night. She even called the restaurant
to push our reservation back, though assured us that our 9pm dinner time was
still plenty early by Spanish standards.
Clean, warm, and dry, we limped our tired bodies 200 meters
away and poured ourselves into chairs at Asador Casa Jaimico. I don’t much remember ordering wine, but when
a bottle of red magically appeared neither of us objected. I will admit a tiny amount of shock at the enormity of my leg of lamb when it emerged from the kitchen a crusty oven crisped
brown in a pool of its juices, but the size did not deter me from finishing the
entire thing.
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| Leg of lamb at Asador Casa Jaimico |
Nor did John have a problem polishing off a decadent starter of
mushroom risotto with duck confit followed by half a grilled rabbit. This was almost an obscene amount of meat
between the two of us, yet we found ourselves picking at the bones for every
last morsel. It was easy to see after
days of trudging up steep mountain slopes in sometimes dangerous conditions how
this cuisine would evolve. It was food
as rugged and natural as the people who live there.
Eight days eating as they do in the Pyrenees was more than enough for two omnivores. Our hard treks behind us and back in the modest sized village of Biescas for our last night, we did as many locals were doing that beautiful Sunday evening and went out to find a plate of vegetarian pesto pasta.
Amy Powell is a food and travel writer currently on her honeymoon, en route to a new home in Hong Kong. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell
