La Vina - San Sebastián
“The freedom of the slave to crawl east along the deck of a boat travelling west.”
Richard Coe
We are all interned in the same asylum, deluding ourselves about the importance of our fantasies and the value of our airs. But, sometimes, our madhouse’s orderlies deem it fit to dress our cells and we gain the luxury of momentarily pretending that there are no walls behind the fabrics — that the mirage is material. The crystalline waters, jagged beaches and electric streets of San Sebastian — which I have been transported to by a quick flight and the dingy, portable limbo of a camper van — provide such a transitory respite. I feel almost happy.
The Basque region is renowned for its gastronomy, with more Michelin star restaurants per capita that anywhere else in world — although some statistical gymnastics have allowed Kyoto to make a similar claim. Along with the multitude of fish, steak and cheese pintxos, we have come in search of the eponymous Cheesecake — which, according to whisper and hearsay, has been perfected at an innocuous bar called La Vina.
Like most aspirations, our search seemed doomed from the start. Our intention to consummate our first evening in the city at La Vina had been frustrated by depleted stocks. The consolation cheesecake we purchased for an exorbitant sum from a chain bakery the next day was stodgy, tasteless and disappointing.
Exhibiting the all-too-human capacity to play against marked cards, we make a final, desperate pilgrimage in an empty half-hour we found before starting a hike along the coast on our last day in the City. Its shutters are open, and we see baking paper and burnt shades of caramelised sugar protruding from the top of metal baking cylinders. However, doomed stars seem to hang in the air: there is a half-eaten, gooey carcass by the entrance and the queue in front of us is extensive. The word ‘cheesecake’ is translated into a plethora of languages on an infinity of phone-screens; which are presented to staff like oblations.
San Sebastian’s dining philosophy promotes people flocking around the counter, eating upright and yelling across the room — rather than the reserved seating and sterile refinements of dining in the United Kingdom. The portions on the counter are enormous; and are both threatening and tantalising. By the time you order, through a mixture of coercion and seduction, you have selected multitudes more than you originally intended.
The service is friendly but rapacious: the man behind the counter winds his hand as if he is trying to winch my hackneyed Spanish out more quickly. Eventually, I manage to request a piece of battered fish, a Spanish omlette and two slices of the renowned cheesecake. We find ourselves a table in the backroom.
The firm saltiness and delicate moisture of the fish emerges from the batter it is encased in rather than being obscured by it. It is surprisingly fresh and light in comparison with the oppressive weightiness of Fish and Chips — the Anglican equivalent that I am, sadly, habituated to. The Spanish omelette is warm and welcoming: bound with eggs that are hearty and crisp on the outside but which transmute into a revelation of scrambled ooziness at the centre.
Despite the liberal portions diminishing my hunger, I set my sight on the cheesecake — which seems to stare back at me in alliance with its siblings standing in every nook, cranny, and cabinet drawer of the restaurant.
The first forkful is a revelation; and every one after that an ecstasy. It is not a cake I am normally drawn to — as it often seems to hover disappointingly in the purgatory between sweet and savoury, not quite scratching either itch. La Vina’s version possesses the same duality — but harnesses it into an unparalleled attribute. It floats the tastebuds from a creamy custardness to a ricotta-esque tang like a gentle cloud — while the burnt surface introduces a suggestion of firmness and a hint of bitterness that rescues you from the lactose pool that is almost asphyxiating.
The texture is some arcane combination of solid and liquid — firm enough to hold its shape on a fork, but damp enough to avoid any indication of dryness. A friend who’s mouth is clogged with the lactic delight manages to emit “It’s like being snogged by a cream God.”
Almost as soon as we are finished, we are asked to vacate the table. The efficiency is democratic; motivated by a wish to allow other diners to sit and bathe in the food. As we wander down the streets towards the mountain we are set to climb, I reflect that there are two distinguishing features of the food in San Sebastian — both of which are cruel in some ways and kind in others.
The first is its simplicity. Its appeal does not lie in its outlandishness or even, strangely, in its creativity — but instead in its faultless execution. The flavours are familiar; but they have never hit these haloed notes before. By revealing the quality that straightforwardness can be elevated to, it eviscerates every experience I have had with these tastes before — establishing a benchmark that everything else is doomed to pale in comparison with. My experience at La Vina will not mark the beginning of a triste with Basque Cheesecke — and, in all likelihood, will probably result in me being unable to consume another unless it is their’s.
The second is its lack of embellishment. Refreshingly, aesthetics are divorced from consumption — and the food’s quality requires no adornment. Since my return to reality, the offerings in the neon windows of London’s bakeries seem frivolous, cheap and baselessly flashy.
The more the Basque region’s food does away with complexity in a search of simple delight, and the more it abandons the pretences of presentation in favour of honest heartiness, the more disturbingly alluring it becomes — forcing you to ask yourself the harrowing question ‘why do we have to live another way?’ when you leave its borders.
