Hearty Food for Mountain People

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.

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

 The energetic owner walked us through the menu nodding every few sentences until I nodded back indicating that I was following her rapid-fire, thickly accented Spanish.  In reality I only picked up a few words here and there but it was enough to point and order some of the dishes she enthusiastically recommended.  A starter of soup filled with chickpeas and morcilla sausage was robust and filling enough to be a meal on its own.  This followed with piquillo peppers stuffed with creamy bacalao that were none too attractive when smothered in a rich tomato sauce.  But the sweet peppers balanced well with the luscious salt cod filling.  John’s chilled asparagus soup was pure summer in its vibrant color while his lamb chops were juicy and grassy as if the lambs had been feeding off the same verdant fields through which we had been hiking.

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.

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

Ode to Durango

At the base of Mt. Engineer

Oh Durango, why do I feel like singing and breaking out into a jaunty dance every time I think of you? 

I had actually never heard of you until early this year.  Maybe that is because you are tucked way down into the Southwest corner of Colorado, closer to Santa Fe than to Denver.  Yet perhaps it is that very remoteness that has kept your charm intact, years after the mining operations upon which your town was founded packed up and left.  Thank goodness our honeymoon Western road trip gave us the opportunity to pass your way.

About those mining town remnants.  That train running between Durango and Silverton- very cool, though I could do without the loud steam engine noise every half hour.  Clearly kids get a kick out of the horse drawn carriages running up and down Main Avenue, a rare street of bustling activity that actually lives up to its name.  And never have I stayed at a historic hotel like the Strater.  The petit rooms and antique décor is charmingly retro, making me think to a time of women wearing bustles and men sporting mustaches un-ironically.  But it manages the historical nod while providing service that is on par with any modern, first-class hotel- an impressive feat.

The Strater Hotel in Downtown Durango

Oh but you are more than walk back in time, Durango!  In fact, you do everything possible to inspire visitors to walk, run, hike, bike, and even kayak through the nature that surrounds you.  Hiking in the San Juan Mountains was filled with dramatic peaks (Mt. Engineer) and hidden enchanted bodies of water (the eerie cyan-colored Ice Lakes).  And when we chose to stay closer to town, running along the Animas River was a splendid opportunity to take in the city vistas on a 7-mile supremely well-maintained path shared with bikers, walkers, and disembarking kayakers.

One of the Ice Lakes near Durango, CO

For a place so remote, you are no country bumpkin.  In keeping with the grand Colorado tradition of beer making, you offer multiple destinations for sampling local suds.  Despite its ubiquity, we weren’t crazy about Ska Brewing, but loved the opportunity to sip through a variety of beers as part of a sampler at the Brew Pub. 

Homemade pastries at Jean-Pierre Bakery on Main Ave.

Dining selections are just as impressive and varied as the beer.  Dinner at Seasons, where we ate a salad with arugula, cherries, and delicious cheese from local producer James Ranch and chicken saltimbocca with house-smoked bacon, was on par with any big city farm-to-table restaurant.  And just when we started feeling a little overwhelmed with Americana, we needed only to take a walk to Himalayan Kitchen to get our fill of Nepali food including some delicious yak (local, Colorado-raised) momos.

Momos at Himalayan Kitchen

And if all that wasn't enough to inspire others to visit you, Durango, I have read you get 330 days of sunshine a year!  (Cue soggy Seattleites booking their next vacation.) 

Durango, you are the sort of town that makes me want to pen an imaginary letter of gratitude, so thankful am I that treasures like you still exist in America, just waiting to be discovered.  That is just the sort of happiness filled town you are- the singing, dancing, eating, hiking, merry-making kind of place.  Cue the music. Duran-gooooooh!

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

Where the Real Ends and the Fake Begins

Rabbit Sausage at La Boca, Santa Fe

The first thing we noticed pulling into Santa Fe was that every building looked the same, and surprisingly, it looked kind of great. Pueblo-style motels, pueblo-style strip malls, even a pueblo-Burger King.  It was a whole city of curved-edged walls in a terracotta palette to match the surrounding salmon and copper colored desert . 

Walking to dinner that night through the narrow, well-preserved streets of downtown, John and I passed by the windows of softly lit galleries, jewelry stores (heavy on turquoise and silver), and Southwestern-themed restaurants with the obligatory cactus in the cover art.  The almost full moon, a band playing in the distance on the square, it was all perfectly pleasant.  It was just…. “You know,” John said, looking down the cobble stoned street ahead, “it is hard to tell where the real ends and the fake begins.”

Our dinner that night was not any version of Southwestern cuisine but rather one influenced by a distant cousin across the ocean.  La Boca, a Spanish tapas restaurant, sits just north of Santa Fe’s main square.  The menu held some familiar tapas that were at the same time very local.  Patatas bravas, for instance, were made from locally grown fingerlings, skin left on and fried, then served with a sauce made sherry vinegar.  The gambas ajillo, another tapas staple, here felt fresh with the additional of local chiles served in a garlic broth instead of the usual oil bath. 

On a tip from an REI salesperson in Albuquerque, the next morning we woke early to head to the Pecos Wilderness, a part of Santa Fe few non-locals ever see.  Minutes after our car left the town square we were climbing out of the pink desert dotted with scrub and cacti and into a lush, conifer-filled forest. 

Gambas ajillo at La Boca

The 14 mile round trip to Lake Katherine is supposedly one of the most popular hikes in the area but for whatever reason, we were almost alone that day (save for one grumpy couple who tried to talk us out of the hike, convinced we would never make it back before the afternoon thunderstorm rolled in).  The trail rose in sharp ups and knee-busting downs until were emerged above the tree line, snow still visible in some shady patches. At the saddle we gazed to the horizon- on one side was the uninhabited wilderness stretching as far as the eye could see.  On the other Santa Fe, its dotted adobe structures almost disappearing into hillsides. 

Lake Katherine hike, Pecos Wilderness near Santa Fe

 We made it to the crystalline lake and back in time for a quick dinner at a restaurant frequented by locals and tourists alike.  At the bar we were surrounded by regulars who hadn’t seen each other in weeks or years, catching up on deceased spouses, new homes, and where they “winter”.  We might have lingered longer over our green chile enchiladas to see what the OCD woman sitting next to us would do next- she who pulled up a chair only after disinfecting it, the menu, and the bar with wipes.  But our time rubbing elbows with the locals would be short that night as we had an opera to get to.

Perched on a mesa, the Santa Fe Opera is one of the most unusual, stunning music venues I’ve seen.  The permanent tented structure seems designed to showcase the surrounding environment as much as the world-class singers who pass through the space. 

The night’s performance, Carmen, was a favorite.  But as Carmen seduced soldiers and men smuggled goods over the border, not even Escamillo’s sequined green toreador costume could compete for our attention with the thunderstorm that raged just beyond the tent walls.  Lightening cut gashes through midnight blue sky, thunder boomed over the orchestra, wind gusted through audience causing well-heeled women wearing too little clothing to huddle against their partners for warmth.  There was action on the stage that night, but the real drama was playing out in the night sky. 

Given its tourism draw, that Santa Fe felt a bit manufactured was not surprising.  Taos, on the other hand was a place that fired my imagination with thoughts of famous artists and writers.  Surely a place that once hosted such literary greats such as D. H. Laurence and Aldous Huxley, not to mention dozens of painters and photographers, had to have a palpable magic.  I was eager to have a bit of that fairy dust rub off on me.

Famous sign of the historic Taos Inn

Instead I found myself the next day looking at Google Maps and saying to John, “We can’t possibly be only a mile from our hotel.”  The hotel where we would be staying, the historic Taos Inn, was supposed to be across from the town square.  From where we were on the main road into town, all we could see were fast food chains, discount stores, and strip malls in none of the faux architecture of Santa Fe, just your standard, depressing suburban sprawl. 

To our relief on arrival, the hotel had some charm.  Each room was unique, decorated with art and furniture from different artisans working in the area.  The hotel bar, with nightly music and some of the best margaritas that have ever crossed my lips, was clearly the epicenter of Taos nightlife. 

But it turns out those were the only advantages of staying in what Taos calls its “downtown”.  An exploration of the main square turned up little more than a sad collection of junk-filled gift shops and more “Southwestern Art” galleries.  Finding a place to get a decent cup of coffee and read the paper was only possible thanks to a small café inside a hotel.  And the only restaurant with “local” cuisine was about as Southwestern as something you might find in Omaha.

What we needed, we discovered, was to head north, past downtown, as if we were leaving.  We needed a hearty Fourth of July, pre-hike breakfast the next morning and we found what we were looking for at the Bear Claw Café, a mile north from our hotel. Breakfast burritos with eggs, potatoes and bacon; blue corn pancakes; scones; food came out of that kitchen fast and furious for people of all ages and sizes looking to get fortified for a big day ahead. 

List of local suppliers at The Love Apple, Taos

The night before, up the road from the Bear Claw, we had discovered the Love Apple- a farm-to-table restaurant listing so many vendors on a blackboard that if I would have sworn I was in San Francisco or Portland, not New Mexico.  A bit further north, we found a hippie-dippie coffee shop called The Spot, a quirky mostly locals joint featuring slow service for great coffee and bathroom walls lined with art work where tin cans became canvases for space aliens and mythical creatures. It was the kind of coffee shop I could see stopping by each day for my morning tea in the unlikely event we ever moved to Taos.

The further we traveled from the center of town, the more Taos became a place where we felt comfortable.  But then food is only one part of understanding a place, and Taos still seemed a bit blurry around the edges.

Hiking to Mt. Wheeler, New Mexico

We drove north toward the Taos Ski Village nestled in the imposing mountain range jutting up from the desert floor.  We were destined for Mt. Wheeler, at 13,200 feet, the tallest peak in New Mexico. All along our hike we met people- Native American families, Bavarian tourists, a man who had last hiked the to the peak 30 years earlier and vowed to come back, as well as local hikers.  The final two thousand foot ascent was a strenuous push through a scree field with uncertain footing, screaming calves, and burning lungs.  Along the way up people would pass us on their descent saying, “you have this”,  “almost there”, “keep going, it is worth it”.

I don’t know what D. H. Lawrence and Aldous Huxley saw in Taos that inspired them.  I saw a town that is like a drive-through window, that does little to encourage you to stop, get out, and walk around.  But a bit out of town, on a mountain, we shared moments with people not unlike ourselves.  We tagged the top then shared it forward, encouraging our fellow hikers on the way down. 

At the bottom, we raised a glass and toasted with the Bavarians and other fellow hikers at the brauhaus near the base of the trail.  The beer was frosty, the mountain air crisp and clear, and our legs exhausted.  This was real. For me, Taos had finally come into focus. 

Every good hike deserves a beer. 

La Boca
72 W Marcy St, Santa Fe, NM 87501, United States

Bear Claw Bakery and Cafe
228 Paseo Del Pueblo Norte, Taos, NM 87571, United States 

The Love Apple
803 Paseo Del Pueblo Norte, Taos, NM 87571, United States

The Spot
 900 Paseo Del Pueblo Norte, Taos, NM 87571, United States
 
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