Antonio Arrizabalaga and his wife Miren live in the little port of Ondárroa in Vizcaya, in a tall, narrow house with wrought iron balconies over-looking the banks of the inlet. From their balcony, where a canary sings in a cage, he gazes out towards his boat, moored alongside the small, double-arched stone bridge. Sometimes the boat is almost engulfed in mud, at others it floats on the green, but somewhat dirty waters of the inlet.
Although Antonio has been retired for years, he cannot give up venturing out to sea. In his small boat he fishes for squid most days, both in summer and winter. ‘I catch them, I clean them and I cook them’, he says proudly. He speaks Castilian slowly, like a foreign language, and occasionally his words are interspersed with one or two in Basque. When he speaks of the sea he becomes animated and his small eyes, still bright and lively in spite of the many wrinkles around them, are full of spirit and inspiration.
These days Antonio fishes just a few miles out from port, using a hook specially designed for squid. Firstly he attaches a length of very fine line and then, on top of it, a strong cord. When he casts it out to sea it is easy to tell if it has reached the bottom and reel it in a little. He knows straight away when a squid has been hooked by the slight pull and jerk on the line; usually he uses two sets of tackle at once and in very little time he catches an enormous number.
Antonio first went to sea sixty-five years ago, at the age of ten. His father, a widower with seven children whose main concern was to feed them all, found him work on a small fishing smack used mainly for catching anchovy and sardine. Twelve metres long, it was propelled by the oars of the ten crewmen. Some were old and some young, but none so young as he. They slept on a worn-out sail and rested their heads on bundles of old clothes. It was Antonio’s task to remember which bundle belonged to whom; each time that he forgot he received a beating. Sometimes he also cut pilchard bait into pieces. ‘We would put out to sea twice a day; at dusk, about five in the evening, to fish for two or three hours and again at dawn, with very little light. The bait attracted the fish from the sea bed so they congregated around the vessel. Then it was easy to net them, with a boliche, a finely meshed dragnet.’ On Saturdays, once the expenses had been dealt with, the ship’s steward would share out their meagre earnings among the crew.
At the age of fourteen Antonio went to work for his father, who had bought one of the small steamers which appeared in Ondárroa at the turn of the century. Until then, all Ondárroa’s fishing smacks, skiffs and vessels for exporting timber, had been laboriously built in the town’s own boatyards, as in every Biscay port. Their engine power, puffing out impressive clouds of smoke, promised much, but the high coal consumption was to bring ruin to more than one ship owner. The whole family used to work on the boat, yet the money they earned was barely enough to make ends meet. Antonio’s father was the boss, his brother the engineer, his three sisters the netmenders. Antonio joined the crew as a sailor and was soon promoted to stoker. The rhythm of their life was dictated by the sea and the costeras, or traditional fishing seasons. There was no fixed time for starting, no set hour for turning the boat towards port.
In those days the whole town gained its living from the sea. Since the fourteenth century Ondárroa had always been a town of fishermen, traders and boat-builders. The same details of daily life were repeated all over the town: large wicker baskets for carrying the fish awaited their daily routine; nets were mended and prepared with bait – hooks by the women, some young, others old, with one or two babies sleeping by their sides; old men sat in silence alone with their thoughts while old women, dressed in black, their lives almost over, handled their rosaries with tired and restless fingers, their eyes praying for salvation.
To an outsider’s eyes, Ondárroa was a more attractive place in those days, its sturdy, local stone buildings several stories high, but all in scale with the narrow inlet, and with their windows gazing expectantly towards the sea. Today, as then, beyond and further inland lies the magnificent Basque landscape, the deep green of meadow and woodland rises up to the imposing peak sheltering the town and inlet, farmsteads are dotted here and there and the cemetery is perched on the highest summit. In the port, the inlet itself, alongside the Fishermen’s Guild and the bridge, used to be all sorts of vessels, including skiffs and fishing smacks. When the tide was high they made a graceful picture, bobbing peacefully on the water, but when mud predominated, they lay, as though injured, on their sides, accentuating the ungainliness of the town at low tide. Txalopaundixe, sailing boats used for bream and tunny-fishing, Bolintxeruk, somewhat wider than the fishing smacks and driven by diesel engines, and various small motor vessels would be ranged in twos and threes across half the width of the inlet. Today on the town hall and bridge, you can still see the carved coats-of-arms which illustrate the history of the town: the shield of Ondárroa depicting its bridge, supporting on the one side a chapel and on the other, a castle surmounted by a crown, all guarded by a lion. Beneath the bridge is a small boat followed by a whale.
Behind this picturesque scene, life was much harder than today. Antonio has never forgotten how the rules of life were spelt out at school. On one side of the classroom sat the son of the shipyard’s owner and the boy of the local doctor; on the other were the rest of the village children, who lived in permanent poverty. His sister who in her youth worked as a netmender and itinerant fish-seller, remembers more clearly the hours which she spent as a child, with her nose pressed against the window of the village bakery and the confectioner’s. Their mouths would water as they gazed at the goodies on show behind the glass, apparently only a few inches from their mouths, but in reality many miles away.
Meanwhile, day after day, the arrantzales, or fishermen, went to sea searching for a catch on a daily, but always adventurous, routine.
In spring, when the sea dressed itself in a lighter blue and moderated its temperament, they went out fishing for anchovy. In those days, there were no sonar or sounding devices and the best method was to follow the dolphins who stirred up the fish from the sea bed. Once they could see the shoals on the surface they would throw out the net. On other occasions they would change to a finely meshed gillnet and set off in a straight line according to the direction of the wind, with the net, weighted along its bottom edge, fixed to the boat. Either way, when the shoal swam into the net they were trapped. These fish commanded, and still do, a higher price than those caught in a larger net as they were fresher when they reached the port. Once back on shore the women would come aboard wearing large waterproof aprons, and carefully pick out the fish, one by one, till they lay in glistening heaps in the basket.
As summer approached and the weather grew kinder, the boats would go out much further from the coast to fish. This was the costera del bonito, the Cantabrian tunny season. Also called albacora, this northern tunny (Thunnus alalunga) is quite different from Thunnus thynnus, which is fished on the coasts of the rest of the Peninsula, particularly in the south. Pale in colour, usually one metre long and weighing about ten kilos – bonito is the superior variety whether eaten fresh or canned. In Spain the housewife generally distinguishes it from ordinary tunny by the rule of thumb that the red-tinged flesh is tunny, whereas, as far as she is believed, bonito has white flesh. In those days, the tunny fishing rights were reserved for just a few ports – Motrico, Lekeitio, Bermeo and Ondárroa – and the prime season lasted for a month and a half between 30 June and the Día de la Virgen, Our Lady’s Day, on 15 August. At the beginning of the season drift lines, or currican lines (ending in a single hook, to which pieces of maize husk were attached to resemble live fish) were used to entice the tunny. Sometimes the women even tied multi-coloured ribbons to the hooks as these were thought to produce good results. Once the boat was moving, the lines would be thrown out from two long poles or outriggers which projected from the port and starboard bow. Each was about five metres long, and with a ring at the tip through which three sets of tackle slid. When it rained the men used to wear capes treated with linseed oil, but sooner or later they would get soaked through to the skin.
The tunny-fishing season was a time of great festivities; the catch was large and every family benefited. Antonio and his sisters and brothers would then have a great annual treat: their father would take them all to Casa Paco, the town’s restaurant, to have a dish of real ice cream made with eggs and with cinnamon sprinkled on top. More traditionally they ate barbecued tunny and marmitako, a rich fish stew which is at its most delicious in the summer when the tunny feeds voraciously, so that its flesh is rich in oil and full of flavour. Now it is renowned throughout Spain, but once it was simply a Basque fisherman’s dish called after the marmita or stewpot.
Probably there are as many versions of marmitako as there are inspired sea cooks, which is a great many. Since it invariably figures in the competitions which are part of the village fiestas to celebrate the arrival of summer and is made by chefs all over the Basque Country, there are all kinds of gastronomic versions. Some of the ingredients, such as the tunny, potatoes, peppers, oil and salt, are common to all recipes, but the others vary considerably. Some cooks add dried red peppers or chilli, while other versions contain salsa vizcaina (see page 45), which makes it richer, or a glass of whisky or brandy. The recipe which follows comes from a little book published in Ondárroa called La Cocina Popular Marinera, in other words, popular seafaring cookery, which includes a selection of the recipes presented at one of the town’s cookery competitions held annually early in the summer. The only condition of entry is that the recipes should be original ones, not culled from cookery magazines or books. This recipe did not win the first prize of twenty thousand pesetas, but was given special mention.
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To prepare Marmitako for four fishermen you need, 1 kg (2 lbs) of tunny, 1 kg (2 lbs) of potatoes, a red onion, 3 green peppers, 2 cloves of garlic, 3 tablespoons of tomato sauce, a little olive oil, water and salt. Clean the tunny well, removing skin and bones. Cut it into small chunks. In a frying-pan gently fry the onions in oil until golden-brown, together with the garlic (finely chopped). Peel the potatoes, cut them into medium-sized pieces and place them in an earthenware dish, together with the green peppers, similarly chopped. Add the fried onion to the fish and thoroughly mix everything and cover with warm water. Cook until the potatoes are almost done and then add the tunny, tomato and a little salt. Cook for a few minutes longer until the tunny is done. It is traditional to add a few slices of bread before removing from the heat. |
This was also the time of pelota matches and regattas, held in nearly all Cantabrian ports. Here, the two sports go hand in hand at fiestas and as matters of masculine pride. A poet from Ondárroa, Luis Fernández Ardavin, wrote:
| Cuando hace falta un remero | When they need an oarsman |
| para ganar las regatas, | To win in the regattas |
| Shanti acude. Agil, ligero. | Shanti will be there. Quick and agile |
| Usa boina y alpargatas, | Wearing a beret and espadrilles |
| Mueve con golpe somero, | He moves his arms |
| los brazos, y sin bravatas, | With a shallow stroke and no fuss, |
| pero seguro y certero | But safely and surely |
| su equipo llega el primero | His crew comes in first. |
| cuando hace falta un remero | When they need an oarsman |
| para ganar las regatas. | To win in the regattas. |
| Pluma leve es la pelota | When Shanti is on the pelota court |
| cuando Shanti va al frontón, | The ball is as light as a feather |
| Como blanca gaviota | Like a white seagull |
| vuela, salta, corre, bota | It flies, leaps, races, bounces |
| de la cancha al paredon | From the pitch and against the wall |
| Y en la viva animación | When Shanti is on the pelota court |
| con que el corro se alborota, | The ball is as light as a feather |
| pluma leve es la pelota | And the crowd cheers him on |
| cuando Shanti va al frontón. | With great excitement. |
The regattas organized by the local committees of the various fishing ports are exciting events; not only does man strive to win his perpetual battle against the sea – in the same vessel he used to fish in not so long ago – but also he competes fiercely against his fellow fishermen. He rows, not only for himself, but also for the honour of his locality and in Basque terms, this is a great matter of pride. The excited crowd cheers them on from the shore, as the boats cut through the waves.
At day break the next day, the men would go to sea in search of fish. In the second part of the tunny season, in September, they used a different method to catch the albacora, spreading the net to catch anchovy, which in turn would attract tunny. The anchovy would be hauled in and then, with one of them still alive as bait on a hand held bamboo rod with a short line and a hook, they would cast within reach of the tunny and catch it with the live bait. The tunny have a habit of leaping high above the surface of the water and to prevent them from becoming aware of the fishing boat, the sea was and still is today, sprayed from the decks with great hoses which produce a camouflaging curtain of water which allays the suspicions of the magnificent fish completely. In the case of the larger fish the struggle between man and fish could be most dramatic and all sorts of wiles were necessary, such as exploiting the momentum of the fish’s leap to haul it aboard. When the fish was the victor the tackle was often wrecked by being dragged down to the depths of the ocean.
Each boat had a cook who, in addition to his seafaring tasks, prepared the meals. He was paid a little extra, but not much, to do all the cooking for the season. A concrete slab, about eight inches thick, with charcoal on it and a grid over the top, served as a makeshift grill which was used twice a day, morning and evening. If they ever came across a trawler they would exchange some tunny for other fish, in order to eat something different for a change. For breakfast they would have garlic soup.
According to her family, the garlic soup which Antonio’s sister makes, simple as it may sound, has no equal. She fries the bread cut into small, thin squares, until golden and adds cubes of cured ham. Then she puts some olive oil and chopped garlic into a cazuela or earthenware dish. If you do not have one, use a metal one. The fried-bread and cubes of ham are simply sautéed in the oil, covered with water and cooked for about ten minutes.
Antonio believes that when it comes to food and particularly to fish, simplicity is unbeatable. According to him, the best fish soup of all is made from cabracho or scorpion fish. They often used to make it at sea. ‘We would put a good-sized fish to simmer in water and meanwhile, sauté a finely chopped onion in oil, until golden-brown, then we would simply add the onion to the fish, together with a little salt.’
Much of the albacora fish went to the canning industry, which has flourished here since the beginning of the nineteenth century, when many Italian families moved here and set up in business. Alongside the large factories able to process millions of cans a year, there were then hundreds of small, almost craft workshops, which managed as well as they could. One of these, in the town of Marquina a few kilometres from Ondárroa, is still producing all sorts of canned seafood today. The firm’s name is Italian as are the majority of the canning factories of the north but its day-to-day running is in the hands of a Basque couple whose name is as old as the town they live in. Their most important products are still the most traditional; canned tuna and anchovies in olive oil. The fish, weighing up to ten kilos, are cut in half, placed in large wire baskets and boiled in salted water before skinning and boning. Then the flesh is packed by hand into tins, to make either small drums for the catering industry or miniature tins ideal for salads and omelettes, and then they are transferred to a machine which covers the fish with olive oil and seals them hermetically. Finally, large steam chambers are used in the sterilization process. Luisa, who runs the factory, says that preserving tunny at home is easier than many people think. It is, after all, the domestic recipe from which the factory version evolved.
Sardines and anchovies are prepared too. The anchovies are often eaten laid on top of some very thin strips of roasted and then peeled red pepper, dressed with garlic and some virgin olive oil, on a slice of fresh country bread. The fishermen’s wives would often preserve anchovies in salt, to serve on bread as an afternoon snack. To prepare these you need several wide-necked containers such as crocks or jars. Clean the anchovies well and remove their heads. Cover the bottom of the container with some coarse sea salt and then make layers of anchovies and salt until the jar is full. The last layer should be of salt. Then cover with a lid, if possible a wooden, tightly-fitting one, and place any sort of weight on top, even a stone will do. A few days later the lid should have sunk slightly as the salt dissolves in the blood from the fish; at this stage several more layers can be added. In order for the anchovies to be properly cured they need to be left three or four months. If they are preserved in May, which is when they are at their best, you can begin to eat the top layers in September. Lift a few out of the container and soak them in water for a few minutes, then remove their backbone and cover with the best olive oil. Preserved sardines are not as highly thought of as tunny or anchovies but they have always been seen as an important part of the seaman’s diet. They can be preserved in hundreds of ways: soused (dipped in flour, fried with garlic and cooked in vinegar), in oil, or treated like the so-called ‘herrings’, arenques in Castilian, which are preserved by salting.
With winter, the Cantabrian skies are perpetually clouded and the sea darkens; at times it appears melancholic, at others, angry, almost enraged. The beaches are empty and the memory of children playing at the sea’s edge almost forgotten, but the sea is beautiful, this is when she comes to life taking on her true, subtle colours as though seen through a misted glass. ‘In the old days,’ Antonio says, ‘the life of the fishermen became hard, sometimes almost an impossible struggle.’ This was the season of red bream, one of the most sought-after of the northern fish, both for Basque dishes and sale to the rest of Spain. Centuries ago, when Christmas Eve was an obligatory day of abstinence in the regions of Castile and Aragon, it gradually became the centrepiece of Catholic Spain’s most meaningful religious celebration, and has kept a special meaning ever since. Before the opening of the season, the fishermen would meet together with the other members of their Guild and choose the señeros, three skilled sailors whose task it was to study the sea each day and indicate when the fleet should put to sea, and six faroleros, or lamp-lighters, who regulated the departure of the boats. The señeros had to rise an hour before the rest of the crew to decide if the weather conditions were suitable, and run through the streets of Ondárroa striking three blows with a club as a signal to get up. Meanwhile the faroleros would be collecting the red lanterns used for signalling and making sure that all the boats in the bay were ready to put to sea. This way each boat was given an equal chance of being the first to reach the fishing grounds and of taking up its position there.
The departure time for any particular day was set in advance throughout the various ports, depending on the distance to the bream-fishing grounds: if they were very far away, then the expedition might set out at midnight, if they were nearby, four or five in the morning would be early enough. Since it would be disastrous for anyone to be late on board, each ship would also pay two young women who would check that all the fishermen would be up and ready to go to sea on time. Usually, it took them little more than a quarter of an hour to stumble from their beds, dress and make their way to the port. Once all the vessels from different ports had converged at the chosen fishing area at the same hour, another lantern-keeper would give the signal for fishing to begin and the tackle would be lowered into the sea. This was designed to do the least harm to the flesh and consequently the flavour of the fish, and consisted of a number of hooks attached to fine strings knotted on to the main line which could be cast into the sea either horizontally or vertically. Each boat would cast out its lines, about fifty of them to a vessel, simultaneously and at great speed. The line would be left in the water for about two hours and then hauled in with the bream and the occasional much prized hake. Since the lines became entangled with each other at the slightest provocation, unravelling them caused many headaches. On each boat, the catch was shared out between all. The work was so hard and the boats so crowded that the crew usually ate packed food using the hatchway, or escotilla, as a table. Antonio would often take zurrukutuna, a soup made with dried salt-cod.
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For Zurrukutuna for four fishermen you need 4 pieces of dried salt-cod, each about 100g (3½ oz), soaked and reconstituted ready to use (see page 16), 200g (7 oz) of bread (stale will do perfectly well), 4 eggs, 1 finely chopped green pepper, the flesh of 1 dried red pepper, 2 cloves of garlic, a little chilli, olive oil, salt (if required) and a drop of water. Pour the oil into an earthenware dish and add the peeled and chopped garlic. Fry until golden brown and then add the pieces of cod and cook until the fish has lost its gelatinous texture. Remove the cod from the heat and break it up into flakes. Add the bread to the dish in small pieces, together with the green pepper, and sauté. Then return the fish to the pan with the red pepper and the water. Leave to simmer for a while. Lastly add the chilli. When it is nearly done, break the eggs into the dish and allow to poach before serving. |
The besugo, or sea bream, was rarely cooked on board due to the regular bad weather conditions and the lack of time. The most popular way of cooking bream is, a la Donostiarra meaning prepared in the San Sebastián style, grilled over charcoal made, if possible, from the holm oak tree. The grand masters of Basque cooking lay great emphasis on due care in the preparation stage. For Besugo a la donostiarra the fish must be very fresh. Once it has been cleaned, it is sprinkled with salt and hung up for a few hours. About an hour before the meal, it is brushed with a little oil, (traditionally this was, and often still is, done with a chicken’s feather) and placed over the coals. The grilling is most simply done using a fish-clamp made of wire of the sort that Basque asadores, barbecue restaurants, often use to make turning easy. When the skin is well browned and the flesh well cooked on both sides, a little olive oil is heated together with two or three peeled and sliced cloves of garlic. Just before the garlic becomes brown, this is all poured over the fish, which has previously been slit open and boned. Another traditional way of serving the fish is a la espalda, on its back, when it is boned before cooking and grilled opened flat, with garlic and a little chilli. Other fish, like monkfish, are also delicious cooked in this way.
At home, the cooking was done by Antonio’s sisters, even when they were little more than children, using the limited ingredients that they could find or buy cheaply during each fishing season. Their cooking has changed little over the years, and today they make many of the same dishes, although they are more sophisticated versions. Among them, tunny fish casserole, tunny fish balls and baked bream, all traditional Basque dishes, remain favourites.
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Albóndigas de bonito made from minced fish are very tasty. For four people you need 1 kg (2 lb) of tunny, skinned, boned and finely chopped, 1 litre (1¾ pint) offish stock, 3 large onions, 4 eggs, some stale bread (crust removed) soaked in a little milk, 2 tablespoons of olive oil, chopped parsley and 2 chopped cloves of garlic. For the sauce you need 1 glass of white wine, the juice of ½ lemon, a large knob of butter, 3 dessertspoons of flour and a little fish stock. Finely chop the onions and lightly fry in olive oil in an earthenware casserole on a low heat until golden brown. In a bowl combine the tunny, garlic, parsley, bread, onion and 3 of the eggs which have been well beaten, to form a paste. Scoop up a spoonful of the mixture and form it into a small ball with your hands. Dust with flour, coat with the remaining egg, beaten well, and fry in olive oil until golden brown. These fishballs can be served with various sauces. Antonio’s youngest sister reduces a glass of white wine and the juice of half a lemon by heating briskly. In a pan melt a knob of butter, add some finely chopped onion and about a dessertspoon of flour to thicken. Stir well then remove from the heat to cool a little. Return to the stove and add the reduced wine, a little at a time, and a little fish stock to form a light sauce. Pour into the earthenware dish on the stove to cook for a while. |
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Besugo al horno, baked sea bream, once a luxury for the family, is now a more frequent winter dish. A bream of about 1 kg will feed two to three people. For this you need 3 dessertspoons of olive oil, lemon juice, 2 cloves of garlic, a little parsley and ½ glass of dry white wine. Clean the fish well, but leave the backbone in. Put all the raw ingredients in an earthenware dish in a moderate oven. Twenty minutes cooking time is usually enough. In some versions of baked bream a form of paste, almost a crust, made of breadcrumbs, a little onion, garlic and parsley, is used to cover the fish before putting it into the oven and cooking as before. |
Although the life of the fishermen was very harsh, in many respects, the women’s was even harder. The possibility of being widowed before forty was a very real one. The women and the old people spent much time worrying each day, as the fragile vessels daily fought their battle for survival on a sea notorious for its ill-temper and capricious moods; it was only when they finally saw the figure of their loved one disembark safely that their spirits rose again. Once the men were back in port they left everything, such as the children’s education and the household expenditure, to their wives. Then was the time to enjoy unos chiquitos, a few glasses of wine, in the bar with their friends. Money was scarce, but there was always the odd copper or two for that particular moment.
The wife was responsible for everything including the family’s finances as well as the traditional tasks which always fell to her. In winter, for example, they laboriously attached the bait for bream by hand, working from one hook to the next. The bait, usually anchovies caught at the end of the tunny fishing season, would be collected each day from the shipowner’s cellar, where it was kept in barrels, covered in salt and bay leaves and prepared beforehand by the women and children. In some ways, it was pleasant work, because they could stay inside, sitting around the kitchen table, laughing, telling stories, and singing as their fingers incessantly worked away. But since each line might hold up to two hundred hooks and each fisherman would control four or five lines, it was in truth a painstaking task.
The money which from time to time might come to the family when a catch was shared out, was barely enough to live on. Many of the women would go out every day, selling the fish from great wicker baskets, often covering more than forty kilometres on foot on the journey there and back; their earnings were pitiful, but their families needed every peseta to survive. Nowadays itinerant fish sellers are a thing of the past. Nevertheless, the figure of the sardine seller from Santurce, the seaport of Bilbao, who was romanticized in the old folksongs, remains a testimony to the harshness of women’s life.
Sardines were another important part of the family’s diet. The Basques have never looked down on these fish simply because they are small, bony and rather cheap. Sardines fresh from the sea, simply grilled over hot coals and eaten outside a café or some beach during the summer months, are considered a delicacy. The great Spanish writer, Julio Camba, described them perfectly, ‘It is not merely a dish which one shares with good company. Not a dish for eating at home with the virtuous mother of one’s children, but for sharing when out with one’s loose and outrageous mistress . . .’
Anchovies too, which contrary to popular belief do not belong to the sardine family, are highly rated. One frequently hears the comment that if anchovies were as scarce as elvers then they would command similarly high prices and Antonio’s sister believes that they are probably the single most popular fish in Ondárroa, whether eaten fresh, soused in vinegar or canned. Not so long ago, they were so plentiful that they were used for fertilizing vegetable plots. Greeny or blue in colour with a very slim, elongated body, they are usually sold under the name boquerones, a reference to their enormous mouth or boca, they are at their best simply dipped in egg and flour, then fried, either in groups of three or four with their tails stuck together or just singly. The best known regional dish, however is al pil-pil, filleted and cooked in an earthenware dish in warm olive oil with plenty of slices of garlic and a piece of chilli.
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In Ondárroa, the method is slightly different. To make Anchoas al pil-pil according to this recipe the fish must be cleaned well first, then filleted in salted water so the flesh loosens from the spine, seasoned and coated in flour. In an earthenware dish put a little olive oil to heat, add garlic and a little chilli powder and cook until golden. Put the anchovies on top with a little chopped parsley. Leave to cook for a minute or two and then turn them over. As a finishing touch you can add a drop of white wine or sherry. Cover the casserole and leave the dish to cook for three or four minutes more. In dishes of this type it is usual to allow a dozen anchovies per person. The secret lies in using really fresh fish. |
Sometimes in the little market near the stone bridge, which the Ondárroan housewives visit every day, little baskets of red mullet are also to be found. Antonio cooks them in the following way.
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To prepare Salmonetes al horno you need 2-3 mullet per person, olive oil, a little butter, 3 tomatoes, 2 cloves of garlic, 1 lemon, parsley, breadcrumbs and salt. He puts the olive oil in a baking dish and then the mullet, having cleaned and seasoned them first. He makes some small incisions in each fish and puts half a slice of lemon in each. He adds 1 chopped clove of garlic, some chopped parsley and a little melted butter. Then he arranges some slices of tomato on each fish and, on top of this, a little more garlic, parsley and butter; then sprinkles with breadcrumbs and places the baking dish in the oven for about forty minutes at a moderate temperature. |
This morning Antonio has been out fishing once more and this time he has brought back a basket of squid which he is now patiently cleaning at the kitchen sink. Firstly he separates the head and tentacles and the little side fins. He removes the silvery sac which contain the ink and sets it aside in a cap. Next he pulls off the very thin rather dark coloured skin, so that it becomes possible to turn the main body of the squid inside out; it is simply a matter of pushing the tip with his index finger and gradually the creature’s flesh adapts itself to the shape of the finger. This achieves two things, once they have been filled with the stuffing and are fried they shrink slightly and close, preventing the filling from leaking out, secondly, and very importantly, it allows one to clean each squid thoroughly.
By now he has put all the squid, some fifty or sixty of them, on a plate. If they cannot all be eaten he will freeze some when they are prepared. He uses the legs, fins and other oddments to make a stuffing with which he then fills each squid, using a teaspoon. He puts them in an earthenware dish, adds half a medium-sized onion, finely chopped, a peeled and chopped carrot and three peeled and chopped cloves of garlic; he lightly pours a little olive oil over it all and cooks them until they are tender which takes little time as the chipirones, or baby squid, are small. Next he lifts out the squid one by one and transfers them to another dish; he sieves the other ingredients to form a thick sauce which he pours over the squid. Now comes the moment to add the ink, which he has diluted with a little water. He removes the ink sacs and pours the liquid into the casserole. Many Basque cooks add a little tomato, but the more orthodox reject his idea or even Antonio’s additional carrots. (Personally, I do not use carrots or garlic either since for me they alter the flavour; at home we have always eaten squid cooked in the simplest way.) The old sea dog glances at the dish of squid which he has just put on the table and humorously remarks: ‘Whoever would have thought when I was a lad going out drinking with my mates that in my old age I should be a cookery fanatic.’ He pours red wine in the glasses and cuts some slices of bread, the best of the dish is the sauce, of course!
Antonio was married with his own young family to support when he joined the crew of a small deep-water trawler. His father had decided to sell his fishing boat and left Antonio with no means of financial support. The only work that was easy to find was on the new purpose-built trawlers, which could carry enough fuel for journeys of several weeks and venture much further out to sea in search of species which were not to be found around the Iberian continental shelf and new grounds where they could fish for traditional catches such as bream and hake. They would put to sea for eight to ten days at a time and normally they would continue fishing until they were hit by a storm. In those days the trawlers had no modern equipment. Two boats would trawl the net, which would sink right down to the sea bed since it had a number of chains attached to it. They would often catch as many as twenty different species, even though the mesh was large; everything from anchovy swimming near the surface to large hake. On the deep-water vessels the fishermen classified and reclassified the fish, packing it into wooden boxes graded according to size, washing it down with a hose and then storing it in ice in the holds. During the summer they worked eighteen hours a day, though the seafarers could rest rather more in winter. So unremitting was the work that most of the time the cook would take their meals to them at their post, in a lunchbox. In this strange setting, standing between wooden cases in the hold, they would eat the best varieties of fish: turbot, hake and as many langostinos, large prawns, as they wished. It was traditional to fill jars with langostinos and vinegar and a little oil and keep them to eat at home as soon as possible at a suitable festive occasion. Turbot is still one of Antonio’s wife’s favourite fish. This is the way he likes to cook it.
Deep-sea fishing far from the home port, known as pesca de altura, was not entirely new in the Basque Country, since for centuries the cod-fishing fleet had been sailing north, loaded with salt so that their catch would not deteriorate before they reached home. This was perhaps the most demanding work of all (even compared to the long journey to the New World which was made in steam driven trawlers), since it took the fishermen away from their families for over six months of the year. The large heavy vessels, painted blue, red and green, each carrying a crew of two dozen men and two hundred and fifty tonnes of salt, would sail once the Christmas celebrations were over, the crew bidding farewell to their families until June. Of the two hundred days that these ships spent far from the Basque coast they were at sea ninety per cent of the time, put under conditions of extreme deprivation, such as shortage of fuel or foodstuffs. The voyage to Newfoundland alone took eighteen days’ sailing and there was little to occupy the men meanwhile. Sometimes, when a storm raged for two to three weeks, they would feel close to despair, cooped up in the confines of the boat with little to do but play cards and get on each other’s nerves. Worst of all was the monotony of life on board, day in and day out, for months on end. The shipowner knew that if the men were unhappy this would be reflected in their work and, more important still, in the cod-fishing, but there were few ways to relieve the boredom. Good food and drink were the men’s only real pleasures and during the course of the long journeys, life revolved around the galley to the extent that it was almost as important to the success of the journey as the engine-room. Meals helped to give a sense of time, to break up the day and provide some comfort and luxury. The harshness of life at sea demands good food and drink, as do the low temperatures of the North American coast.
The ship would come to life at about seven o’clock each morning to a simple breakfast of bread and coffee or hot chocolate. For the first three or four days at sea they ate the fresh bread which had been taken on board at Pasajes; afterwards it had to be baked in the galley daily. On days when no work was to be done the main meal would be served at one o’clock, after the basic ship’s tasks were completed. It always consisted of a stew, which might be of haricot beans, chickpeas with pig ears or simply caldeirada, a fish stew with potatoes. Traditionally the crews were made up of Galicians from the north-west and Basques and the former have always strongly favoured flavoured dishes; all the food on board tended to be rather over seasoned.
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Caldeirada can be made with a multitude of varieties of fish. To make this excellent sea stew, boil some sliced potatoes in sea water and when they are nearly cooked add pieces of different fish, including one or two heads to give flavour. Once everything is well cooked drain the liquid off and reserve the potatoes and fish, la caldeirada. In another pan fry some finely-chopped onion and cloves of garlic in olive oil; when the onion is soft and slightly coloured add a drip of vinegar and a teaspoon of paprika. This fried mixture should be poured over the potato and fish and served in a bowl. |
There were two mess-rooms on board, one for the three officers and another for the men, and the line between the two was never traversed by either group. In the men’s mess room long hours were spent talking, exchanging stories and wishing away the empty days.
By the time the vessels finally weighed anchor in the traditional fishing grounds the nets and equipment would have been prepared. The vessels worked in pairs to fish the cod; the first would throw out its net and trawl for about six hours, long hours of idleness and waiting, then the other trawler would repeat the procedure. The moment of truth came when the tackle was hauled back on board, bringing with it thousands of fish, some live, others already dead. Those were the days of plenty when the nets were invariably raised full of magnificent, healthy fish; nowadays, things are very different owing to the scarcity of fish and Spain losing the right to fish in the traditional waters.
From the moment that the fish were landed on the decks, the ship was ceaselessly busy until they had all been cleaned and stored in salt in the hold. Large, long wooden tables were lined up along the middle of the deck with the crew working along either side in such a way that they formed a human work-chain. Different men specialized in the various stages of cleaning and salting the fish. Some, working on the deck, would cut off the heads, others split open the fish and remove the spine, the next clean the stomach. Cod is a very delicate fish and if it has eaten a lot and is not processed quickly, its quality suffers. Since the advent, in the seventies, of very specialized German machinery most of these tasks can be performed in seconds so that the hardest part of the job falls to those who work in the salting chambers; nonetheless in the past a kind of battle used to take place between the crew on deck and those below in the hold. The greatest responsibility lay with the Master Salter who worked in the salting chamber. If he was not selective enough in deciding which fish was good enough for salting and which should be thrown back into the sea, the ship’s holds would have been soon full of substandard merchandise. He and his assistants would lay down a first layer of salt, carefully placing the open fish on it, and continue adding layers of salt and fish until the pile was nearly three foot high, at which point some pieces of sacking would be stretched over the heaps to hold the pile in place during the return voyage. Eventually, as the piles were stacked up, tightly packed one on top of the other like bales of straw in a barn, they would fill almost every inch of space in the hold. Stacking was also a skilled task. If it was incorrectly done the salt dissolved and was absorbed by the fish, creating spaces when it was already too late to go back for more fish, and many problems later with balancing the packing of the cargo.
While fishing was taking place, coffee would be available continuously, day and night. The assistant cook would ring the galley bell to announce each freshly brewed pot of coffee, cut half and half coffee and Spanish brandy. If that was not enough, often he added a little more.
On working days the crew would not get below to the mess-room until about ten o’clock for breakfast, a substantial meal of ham, eggs, tinned mussels and fresh fruit. Lunch, four hours later, would be soup and meat with potatoes or fish in breadcrumbs, followed by fresh fruit. Then they would return to work until dinner, often a casserole or omelette. The only things they really lacked or missed were fresh milk and vegetables, which produced skin problems among the crew.
If the trawler found itself a real ship’s cook, willing to exert himself for the sake of others, then life became much more pleasant for everyone. Some special culinary treat regularly, say once or twice a week, helped preserve their sense of time, which is apt to be lost on a vessel that spends so long at sea. One of the most popular treats easily made from store-cupboard ingredients was buñuelos (fritters), filled with confectioner’s custard, which the cook would take to the crew with large cups of warming hot chocolate.
By the time the boat was ready to turn for home, the men would be exhausted from constant work and little sleep. During the long voyage back the crew used to have a couple of hours siesta after the midday meal, after which they would work another two hours around the ship until supper at about seven o’clock. After supper they would play cards and drink to fill the long hours. For some men alcohol became a real problem. Demoralization, boredom, separation from their families, the petty disagreements between crew members – the answer to all these was to have another drink.
Sometimes, at the end of a long evening, the men would make a last visit to the galley before going to bed. By then the cook had gone and it was their opportunity to show off their culinary powers to each other. Traditionally many of the crew members were Galicians, who would make seafood omelettes or empanada, a rich pie with a fish filling. It is always based on a sautéed mixture of chopped onion and parsley with a fish as the main ingredient, be it tunny, lamprey, eel or sardine. These pies are often to be found in Basque bars.
Eventually the ship would put into port again at Pasajes in the Basque Country. The vessels remained out at sea for weeks or months on end, processing large quantities of fish which they either froze or chilled in ice. Antonio never went to North America, although he travelled several times for the tunny fishing season to East Africa and around the Canary Islands where the weather at least was better.
The life of the fishing village has changed a great deal during Antonio’s lifetime. Putting to sea has become less and less a question of men’s resources and now relies instead on the capacity of the shipowner to equip his vessels with new technology: sounding devices, sonar and all kinds of other navigational aids. For the tunny fishing, for example, great tanks are used to keep alive small fish while the ship sets off in search of the shoals of tunny. The seasons have changed considerably too. Although few people from Ondárroa still fish for sea bream in winter, the tunny season is very much alive. Now, however, the fishermen prefer May for anchovy and the September tunny expeditions continue almost until Christmas in the Canary Islands. The great deep-water ships can stay at sea for months as they freeze their catch. These trawlers catch the tunny at an amazing speed, so that it can be a lucrative enterprise if they find a large shoal, for which they are prepared to go to the southern seas of the African coast. Today the Ondárroan deep-water fleet numbers ninety-five trawlers. With a total catch of two million kilos a year it is one of the most important deep-water trawler ports. On the other hand the shallow-water fleet is gradually losing its importance. Nowadays the fishermen no longer wear the old capes treated with linseed oil as today such garments are made from rubber or plastic, but although they do not get soaked to the skin as they used to, the great drawback is that the new fabrics do not breathe.
On land too, the industry has moved on to quite a different scale. The old Ondárroa market, with its wicker baskets and long stone tables, has long gone. Now a wholesale market famous for its shrewd auctioning of the catch, the bargain-making of its shipowners and distribution to the whole of Spain, is run from a specialized office with a sophisticated intelligence system. There are two kinds of auction, one for the deep-water catch and one for the shallow. The nerve-centre of both, where all the deals are struck, is a single room with some thirty or forty traders. Even before a ship comes into port, they know whether the catch is of a high quality or not and, more important still, how long it has been lying in the holds. The traders must concentrate all the time: the slightest distraction and the lot which is being auctioned at that moment will be lost. Hour by hour they follow market prices. The particular fishing zone where the catch was made is also of crucial importance; whereas the hake which is trawled in the fishing grounds off France may make 750 pesetas a kilo, that caught in the Grand Sole grounds off Bristol might only reach 560 pesetas. Fish caught with a rod and line fetch the very best prices.
The scale of the canning industry has also changed. There is little room in the competitive open market of Europe for small, fragile firms who find it difficult to compete with the much larger ones, let alone those of the other Community countries. Gradually these small industries are disappearing from the fish-canning map of the Cantabrian Coast.
To Antonio, it is another world. ‘Nowadays it is a different story’, he says. ‘Fishermen can become rich men and the ships are like five star hotels, only the sea remains the same.’ Life has changed enormously, but he maintains that the change suits him; nowadays whatever they may say, people are better off and life is much more comfortable. He recognizes that he is growing old and contents himself with the thought of going out in his little motor-launch just a few hundred metres from the beach, from where he can almost make out his own balcony. As he sits in his small boat, his eyes scan the seas tirelessly for the glimmer of the silvery fish swimming near the surface. For at heart, he still hankers for the open sea. He says that the day when he no longer goes out to sea will be the day that he dies.