Drinking a Little From Huge Barrels, But Drinking It Often

Ficha

Autor: John Ward Anderson
Fuente: Washington post
Fecha: 2007-02-20
Clasificación: 2.0. Sidrería
Tipo documento: Prensa
Fondo: Sagardoetxea fondoa

Código: NA-009165

Texto completo

Spain It's a beautiful winter
afternoon in Spain's Basque Country. Up a steep dirt
driveway, an apple grove on one side and traditional
wooden barns on the other, buses and cars are parked
everywhere, but not a soul is in sight.
A low rumble and a faintly acidic smell come from
some timber-beamed buildings up ahead. No mistaking:
There are a lot of people inside, and judging from the
whooping and hollering and unrestrained song, they are
having a seriously good time.
Inside the Petritegi cider house, a group of newcomers
arriving at about 3 p.m. is immediately embraced by a
stranger and invited to join his group -- a band of 15
guys celebrating an upcoming marriage with several
hours of indulgence at a traditional Basque gathering
place.
An afternoon or evening at a cider house, which is
similar in spirit to a Bavarian beer hall, is a seasonal
ritual that begins in January with the opening of the first
kegs of cider made from the fall's apple harvest. For the
next three or four months, Spaniards flock to these
family-run, communal establishments in the rugged
foothills just outside the coastal town of San Sebastian.
The cider houses are steeped in tradition, chief among
them being all the hard cider you can drink,
accompanied by massive amounts of food and
camaraderie.
"In France, they make a huge fuss over food and it's very sophisticated, but the Basque
think cooking is a way of understanding life, and they don't talk about it, they simply
celebrate it and take it for granted," explains Borja Mateo, 29, a lawyer and brother of the
husband-to-be.
He yells to be heard over the background
commotion of several hundred diners
crammed around long, wooden picnic tables
that seat as many as 50 people.
Around the building stand more than a dozen
huge chestnut barrels, about 10 feet high and
15 feet long, each holding as much as 4,400
gallons of cider. People crowd around the
barrels, demonstrating the essential cider
house etiquette: Customers fill their own
glasses, but only a little at a time, because the
cider loses its taste if it is not consumed soon
after pouring.
So while the glasses are large, and in theory could hold about three cups of cider, no glass
has more than about an inch or two of the cloudy, yellowish liquid at the bottom. The
alcohol content is about 6 percent, slightly more than a typical beer.
Another rule, explains Urko Torre, 27, who has worked at the Petritegi three years: When
pouring, "You have to tilt the glass and break the cider on the side to oxygenate it" and give
it some fizzle.
During the day, a competition evolves, with admirers watching people demonstrate the
proper and most extreme pouring techniques. Some assume a catcher's crouch six or eight
feet away, their glasses almost touching the floor, as the barrel tap is opened and a powerful,
thin stream of cider arches into the room, to be captured artfully (or not) in the glass. Others
employ a bowler's style: arm straight, glass by the ankle, then swinging it upwards along the
stream in one smooth motion with an exaggerated follow-through.
The traditional cider house feast is delivered to every table, beginning with spicy
chorizo-style sausage made with apples, then cod omelets, followed by cod fillets sprinkled
with nuggets of garlic fried in pools of olive oil or buried under mountains of sautéed green
peppers. About two hours into the meal come platters of huge juicy steaks, and finally
plates of cheese and quince jelly with bowls of walnuts.
The meal is a study in constant motion. Diners must get up, all the time, to refill their
glasses, because a key cider house rule is to drink a little, but drink it often.
Although the focus is on food and drink, the essence of the cider house experience is
fellowship. Large groups come for celebrations, families have reunions, friends meet to
catch up, and they all mingle together in a boisterous explosion of fraternity.
There are no plates. Everyone eats off the communal platters, sharing tables and food -- and
sometimes knives, forks, napkins and glasses as well. Tables often erupt in spontaneous
song and hoopla.
During cider season, Petritegi usually is sold out for lunch and dinner -- about 500 people
for each sitting, according to Ainara Otano, daughter of the owner. The character of the
cider depends on the blending of the apples and the weather. "There was a lack of rain this
year, so the apples were drier. But the cider is good -- fruity and round," she said.
At about 6 p.m., thin streams of black smoke are drifting up from the chimneys outside. The
singing and shouting continue as families and friends gather in the parking areas for a final
picture. And the meaning of the traditional Basque song that fills the air achieves new
clarity:
Barrel, Barrel,
Hotel of cider.
Barrel, Barrel,
Let's fill our stomach.
Barrel, Barrel,
Look after yourself!