When I was a child, beyond the fact that my parents worked in the restaurant, the food we ate at home was very important. The whole family cooked. My parents would cook, of course, and whenever the restaurant was closed it was normal for me to eat ginger, truffles, mangoes and other strange, exotic things on a Sunday evening or a Monday – the one day they had off. Sunday dinners were always fantastic!
My grandmother was also a chef. And then there was Epiphania, an aunt who lived with us above the restaurant. She was my grandmother’s niece, a very kind person who didn’t talk much, but was very alive. She always wore a dress, spoke better Basque than Spanish, and was adorable. We had a garden that she loved to look after – and she looked after us too. Every morning as my sister and I were leaving to go to school, she would ask us what we wanted for lunch (my family were always thinking about food). At lunchtime, we’d come home and eat with her in the kitchen. It was the most important room in the house – everything passed through there, the real living room. The room itself was old-fashioned, but alive, always changing. We had a large, marble-topped table, a painting by Eduardo Chillida on the wall, an antique clock ...
Epiphania, my parents, my grandmother ... I learned to cook from all of them. And my sister too, she’s an art historian now, but she loves to eat, and she knows so much about food – she is a specialist of art and food. We were very close growing up, and today we still are. She tastes every new plate we make at the restaurant and she is very direct and honest with it. We treasure her palate.
I was a very calm, introverted teenager, but I had a good sense of humour. And it was always especially fun to see Epiphania and my grandmother discovering the things my father brought up from the restaurant. I remember I once made a creme anglaise with vanilla bean, which for them was completely unknown – the Basque version usually has cinnamon and citrus zest. But what I made, they liked.
Epiphania was from a farm, and a lot of what she made was traditional Basque fare. Like good Basques, we liked anything from the sea and we wasted nothing. Squid in ink sauce is an emblematic dish in San Sebastian, often served with rice or certainly lots of good bread on the side to dip in the sauce.
The flavours of the sea are what bring me home and this dish captures the essence of the Basque country for me. When I lived abroad it’s the one I would dreamed of, and my children love it now too – it’s a long-standing family favourite.
Clams in squid ink
Serves 4
12 clams
A handful of walnuts, to serve
For the sauce
40g onions, sautéed
35g green pepper, sautéed
10g toasted bread
1 garlic clove
20g squid ink
100ml water
3 tsp black sesame seeds
Salt and black pepper
For the potato confit
2 large potatoes, peeled and cut into 1.5cm thick slices
Olive oil
Sea salt flakes
For the crumble
150g fine breadcrumbs
Olive oil, for frying
200g fresh tomato juice
20g dried red pepper pulp
A pinch of salt
Black pepper
A pinch of sugar
1 For the mojo sauce, grind together all of the ingredients and mix well. Season with salt and black pepper.
2 For the potato confit, place the potato slices in a single layer in a saucepan, then completely submerge them in olive oil. Cover and cook very slowly over a low heat until completely tender. Remove from the heat and drain on kitchen paper, then season with flaky sea salt.
3 For the red pepper crumble, fry the breadcrumbs in olive oil until crispy then remove from the heat and drain well on kitchen paper. Add to a bowl with the rest of the ingredients and mix well. Set aside.
4 Lightly steam the clams.
5 To serve, divide the potato slices between the serving plates, followed by the clams. Dot with the mojo sauce, sprinkle with the red pepper crumble and, lastly, scatter with the walnut pieces.
- Elena Arzak is head chef of three-Michelin star restaurant Arzak with her father, Juan Mari Arzak, in San Sebastian, Spain. arzak.info
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