The One About FOOD 4: The Pintxos Thing

If you come to Bilbao expecting ‘tapas’, you will be disappointed: there aren’t any. Instead there are ‘pintxos’.  And it’s hard to convey just how culturally significant ‘pintxos’ are here. Sometimes it seems as though the entire society revolves around them. 

You might think what I’m about to describe is something that just a few young, lively going-out types are into, or a gimmick for tourists. You’d be wrong. First of all, pretty much everyone in Spain goes out all the time, as I’ve made clear in previous posts. Secondly, pretty much everyone in the Basque Country – of all ages and classes – goes out for ‘pintxos’.  Every bar and café in every city, town and village serves ‘pintxos’.

In Britain, people go out for beer, possibly accompanied in a rather incidental sort of way by some rather paltry crisps or nuts. Here, the drink is incidental: it’s the food that matters, and it’s what forms the focus of going out.

‘Pintxos’ are similar to ‘tapas’ in both content and function, and yet different in some significant ways: it’s quite complicated to explain – but I’ll try….

Like a ‘tapa’, a ‘pintxo’ is a small snack that you have with a drink or before a meal. However whereas a ‘tapa’ is a very small bowl of one specific dish  - e.g. a handful of ‘aceitunas’ (olives) or a few fried ‘pimientos’ (peppers), or a few spoonfuls of ‘patatas bravas’ (spicy tomatoey potatoes) or a few ‘albondigas’ (meatballs) – a ‘pintxo’ is an assemblage of food presented on a small piece of bread and (usually) held together with a cocktail stick or toothpick (a ‘pincho’ in Spanish). Imagine something like a large-ish elaborate canapé, and you’ve sort of got the picture.

Unlike ‘tapas’, you can’t vary the size of ‘pintxos’. A ‘tapa’ might be five meatballs or six meatballs, or you might decide to order a bigger plate of meatballs, which would make it a ‘racion’ of meatballs rather than a smaller ‘tapa’. But a ‘pintxo’ is a ‘pintxo’. It is what it is and it can’t be larger or smaller or different: it is a coherent whole rather than a portion of something bigger.

Unlike ‘tapas’, you don’t eat ‘pintxos’ by picking them bit-by-bit from a plate. A ‘pintxo’ is meant to be able to be eaten off the stick in one or two delicious bites (although some of the more sophisticated bars serve things in little glasses or bowls that need to be eaten with a spoon - the one below is roast beef and crunchy rice on a spinach puree...)

Unlike most conventional ‘tapas’, many ‘pintxos’ are quite elaborate creations and quite sophisticated gastronomic treats. The ‘pintxo’ has developed, in fact, into a popular gastronomic form. A typical ‘pintxo’ might, for instance, consist of a small piece of grilled red pepper with a small slice of goat’s cheese, a piece of ham and a small piece of grilled aubergine on top, all held together by a toothpick; or a succulent piece of cod with ‘pil-pil’ sauce; or some ensemble involving bits of squid or octopus (urgh!); or a piece of freshly cooked tuna with caramelised onion (see picture below); etc. Some pintxos are much simpler than this, others even more complicated.

Unlike ‘tapas’, ‘pintxos’ are never free. Whereas, apparently, in other parts of Spain, you might in some places be given a ‘tapa’ free with your drink, that would never happen with a  ‘pintxo’.

Note that in Spain (unlike in the UK) there are no ‘tapas’ or ‘pintxos’ restaurants (except in a few very touristy areas). They are eaten as a snack, usually before a meal, and always with drink; and they are served at bars and cafes. (That’s not to say that a few ‘pintxos’ might not be had instead of a meal…)

Like ‘tapas’, ‘pintxos’ are at the heart of much socialising. If making an evening of it (which many do), people go on a kind of crawl from bar to bar, having one ‘pintxo’ and one small drink at each before moving on to the next: here, this is known as doing a ‘txikiteo’.  People have their favourite bars and their favourite ‘pintxos’ in each bar, and the whole thing is highly ritualised. (Below are a few of the bars near us).

At each bar, you choose a ‘pintxo’ and order a drink – usually a quarter pint of lager (a ‘zurrito’) or a small glass of wine (a ‘txikito’) or some grape juice (‘mosto’), or a rather disgusting but very popular local sangria-type thing called ‘kalimotxo’, which is a mixture of cheap red wine and coca-cola(!).

That makes it seem simpler than it is. On a Friday or Saturday night, or at lunchtime on Saturday or Sunday, there is usually a huge crush around the bar with dozens of people trying to indicate what kind of ‘pintxo’ they want, as well as order drinks. There might be as many as 20 or 30 different ‘pintxos’ to choose from, and every bar has its own specialities, many of which can’t be found anywhere else. In keeping with the general tenor of social life in Spain, it’s a quite high energy and ‘in your face’ business – noisy and crowded, and even a bit stressful (though in a good way).

This is all well and good if (a) you know what the different types of ‘pintxo’ are and can recognise them and (b) if you can say what you want in Spanish. It’s trickier when there are people around (like us, and tourists) to whom that doesn’t always apply.  It’s often impossible to tell what a ‘pintxo’ is actually made of. Something that looks like it might just be an innocent piece of grilled vegetable might turn out to be hiding a piece of blood sausage or part of an octopus; that wonderful looking croquette could have anything in it, and often does; that nice salady thing under that lovely little piece of cod might actually be chopped crab meat. Some bars have little labels that tell you what they are; most don’t.  If you take too long ordering what you want and have to ask what everything is in a mix of English and Spanish, people begin to get stressed. The whole thing depends on being quick and efficient. The bar-people have a tricky enough job without people being slow and indecisive.

Then there’s the whole business of deciding who does the ordering and paying. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you all have to study what’s on offer and tell the bar-person what you want individually, which slows everything down and crowds the bar: much more sensible to put one person in charge of getting the ‘pintxos’ in each bar. And as for paying – there can’t be any ‘going dutch’: far too complicated. Apparently, the Basques often pool their money at the beginning of the evening, creating a kitty from which to draw. Paying happens at the end, when you’ve finished. You tell the bar-person how many pintxos you’ve had and they tot up the total: they’re usually an extraordinarily cheap 1.5 Euros (£1.20) each.

There are hundreds of places serving ‘pintxos’ in Bilbao, and thousands altogether around the Basque country. The more humble places will have a selection of three or four very simple ‘pintxos’. In many bars, the counters are piled high with many different kinds of ‘pintxo’. More upmarket places may have a big selection of ‘traditional’ ‘pintxos’; or they may have a more sophisticated modern selection, with a variety of ‘pintxos’ in different shapes and sizes and with more unusual ingredients or combinations.  There are annual ‘pintxo’ competitions, too – and of course plenty of ‘pintxo’ tourism, especially in San Sebastian, the gastronomic centre of the Basque Country, where ‘pintxos’ are a major part of the local economy.

But all this only scratches the surface of what’s going on. The structure of the week revolves around ‘pintxos’. Groups of friends go out for ‘pintxos’ on Friday and Saturday evenings from about 8pm; they might do the ‘txikiteo’ and make an evening of it, or they might just have a couple of ‘pintxos’ before going on for dinner somewhere.  ‘Pintxos’ are perhaps even more socially significant on Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes, when families and friends meet in the bars and cafes all over town for a few ‘pintxos’ before the big family meal in the afternoon.  Between 12 and 2 the streets suddenly come alive with people eating ‘pintxos.’ On Sunday, many people roll out of church straight into the ‘pintxos’ bars and then home – or out – for the family lunch.  When there’s a fiesta, everyone eats ‘pintxos’. You might stop for a ‘pintxos’ or two on your way home from work.

And the group of friends you do the ‘txikiteo’ with on Saturday night is no random group of friends: it’s your ‘cuadrilla’, a group you’ve been part of since you were at school. (Most people in Spain stay in the town of their birth: moving away for university or work is not as common as it is in the UK.) Many ‘cuadrillas’ are single-sex, it seems. If you’re married, you and your wife are likely to be going out separately, in two different ‘cuadrillas’.

‘Pintxos’ are often accompanied by singing or folk music, too. In our street, for instance, there’s often a folk song being sung by a group of Basques in berets while they enjoy their ‘pintxos’, or a little band of folk musicians playing to entertain the street drinkers.  And of course, in the end, like most things here, ‘pintxos’ are as much about the post-Franco revival of Basque culture as anything else. The ‘pintxo’ has developed from being a simple slice of bread with a piece of meat or cheese on it to being an elaborate cultural ritual and culinary art which is a symbol of the Basque way of life.