Let's start at the beginning; part II

I can’t tell you too much about my first impressions of Sweden. I was far too absorbed in the biggest heart break in the history of the world, to register the postcard perfect scenery speeding by the window, as the train made its way from Stockholm to Båstad, my destination of self- imposed exile.

I spent my first night at the home of one of the three couples who own the hotel. In the morning I met Karin , whos English is generally very good, but due to the quirky kiwi accent and habit of speaking very fast, wondered what language I was speaking. She took me by the arm, spoke very slowly in English so I could understand and announced that she was my Swedish mother and I was to come to her at any time of the day or night for whatever reason.

 She is partly responsible for my love of Sweden. In the following year she treated me just like a daughter. I was always welcome at her home, my room always ready, should I feel the need to come ‘home’ for a few days after the summer, when I moved north to Lund. Midsommers, Christmas, Easter ( more on Swedish celebrations later) and birthdays were all celebrated with my Swedish family.

Karin on Midsommers day

My arrival coincided with Bjäre Potato week. In nearby Båstad, along with celebrations dedicated to potatoes, ten restaurants from the region had to showcase their food every morning for the week. In order to encourage people to begin dining out again after a winter spent in hibernation, each restaurant also had their own set menu for the week, at a reduced rate. So my first day was spent prepping the courses on our menu as well as a few hundred canapés for Tim ( my new boss) to take into Båstad the following day. The next morning I spent a few hours adding the finishing touches to the canapés. Tim left Viktoria and I to it, reassuring us that it would be fine with only twelve people booked for lunch and in any case he would only be gone a couple of hours. I should mention at this point the kitchen was in the middle of being refitted so there were only two big barbeque's, to cook on until the new equipment arrived. All was set to go, tables set for maximum capacity of around fifty inside and out, gleaming glassware and cutlery, plates warming and the first course of soup, heating. I was even quietly congratulating myself at having prepped extra, just in case we had one or two drop-ins. This was going to be a breeze.

The first few tables arrived and got their courses on time, the chicken was even cooked right through.
 I must have repressed the memory of what happened in the following few hours. I am told that on top of the twelve booked the anticipated few drop-ins escalated to more than fifty. Anything we had ordered in for the dinner service was used, after that was gone; alternatives to the menu were offered and ordered.

I remember looking up in horror as Viktoria came through to ask if we could do another table of six that had just walked in. I told her no way in hell, she told them of course not a problem, let me show your table and I’ll ask the “chef” what we can offer you. Somehow Viktoria managed to serve all of these people, reset tables, settle bills and wash the mountain of dishes, all the while with a smile on her face. I wasn’t so graceful; too traumatised to even be grateful that none of the customers seemed to contract food poisoning.
I will never forget the sensation of that first lunch service, the feeling of the wheels only just hanging on by one loose nut while you’re speeding out of control down a zigzagging mountain road.
Tim returned in time to see the last guests leaving and suffice to say was over the moon with the unexpected turn out. Stocks were restored for the dinner service and we went in for round two. After finishing for the evening, with just one tearful breakdown from me, quickly remedied by Tim with a shot of brandy, I crawled into bed to face reality.
Let me tell you the glee at having pulled off such a big scam, convincing someone I had capabilities I now quite clearly wasn’t in possession of, was fast replaced with sheer terror. I was not looking forward to the next day.


In the end, life in the kitchen was made easier, with the realisation that going home wasn’t an option. After restaurant week, things calmed down to a far more reasonable pace. An al a carte menu was offered for the remainder of the summer and gradually my confidence in the kitchen grew. We can’t have done too badly as we were awarded highly recommended in the national restaurant guide after just one summer.

Down time at work: Tim and Viktoria

So it was definitely more of a learning cliff than a curve. I am now fully aware that ‘have experience making school lunches for my family’ does not translate to ‘can run a commercial kitchen.’

Despite its curious name, Kvinnaböske, which translates directly to woman's bush, couldn’t have been in a more picturesque setting. Set out in the countryside, about 8km from Båstad, the hotel, with its thatched roof and red exterior, looks a little like the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel. One direction looks out over fields of horses down to the most beautiful white sandy beaches just five minutes away by car. Behind the hotel, lays an expanse of forests where, depending on the season, you can go foraging for wild mushrooms, Raspberries, Blueberries or Hjörtron berries ( Cloud berry). I was even lucky enough to spot a baby white reindeer and her mother, when out riding with Viktoria one winter’s morning. 

Cloud berries, Blueberries and Chanterelle mushrooms

Looking across the restaurant to the sea

Viktoria riding into the forest

I moved into a derelict old farm cottage 200m down the road. One day I returned from a day off to find five young Swedish guys had also moved in. They were friends of Tim's who were promoting their kitesurfing school at the Swedish tennis open, held annually in Båstad. Apart from Viktoria they were the first Swedes I had met my own age. As therapeutic as working 15 hour days 6 days a week is, having the attention of five lovely, entertaining Swedish boys will do the same job in a fraction of the time. Delusions aside, the following three weeks were great fun. Mornings would start with a walk down to the beach for a swim (that summer was almost as good, weather wise as the following one, with sunny skies and 24 degrees plus the norm) followed by work for Viktoria and I, with the boys occasionally coming in to serve later in the day once they had finished doing kitesurfy stuff in town. The evenings were spent in Båstad.

                        Boys donning the fetching uniform of Kvinnaböske Krog

Erik doing some nifty trick

Now is probably a good time to describe what happens over the weeks of the tennis. The permanent population is about 4700, this swells to more than 25,000 over these weeks. This is when a number of businesses make their profit, enabling them to close down for the remainder of the year. The attraction as it turns out, is not the tennis, but the opportunity for the Stureplan Brats to sail their yachts into the harbour, spray champagne over the plebs and climb a few rungs in their social hierarchy, before sailing off to the next summer hot spot. The pampered spawn of Stockholm's fabulous, Brats tend to operate in packs, easily identified by their slicked back hair, pink pressed shirts and never empty glass of champagne. Brat spectators also account for the swell in numbers. Although slightly disturbing to watch, tennis weeks in Båstad are well worth experiencing. Brat behaviour is by no means the norm for the average Swede, nonetheless it is a fascinating phenomenon.

Ageing Brat

It was during these weeks that our first proper cultural exchange took place. After one of the boys ran out of the kitchen, close to tears and clutching his throat, having mistaken my Vegemite for chocolate spread, they decided to introduce me to a Swedish delicacy.

Vs

Literal translation 'sour herring'

 Surströmming is the name given to fermented herring. As Henrik's mother was from the north, where surstörmming has its origins, he was self-appointed expert on the dish. Alarm bells should have been ringing when he herded us all outside just to open the tin. (In the north many homes have an outhouse far away from the main house, especially for eating surströmming). If you are game/stupid enough to partake in such event, it’s advisable to wear old clothing and stand well away from the tin, as it bursts open, drenching unwitting bystanders with a nauseating spray of rotten fish. To be fair Henrik had put a lot of care and effort into doing the dish some justice. Each of us were handed a piece of hard bread with boiled potato, dill crème fraiche and a sliver of the herring. Erik went first and put on quite a display of theatrics just getting it to his mouth followed by projectile vomiting and a torrent of swearing in Swedish, The others all followed suit, each meeting the same fate, until it was my turn, and I can tell you my senses have never been so horrendously violated by anything like it before. Words cannot describe the smell that would linger for the rest of summer, in the garden, in the toilet, on clothes that little flecks of other peoples vomit had unknowingly landed on and in the resulting nightmares for the months to follow. I can smell it now two years later and hundreds of miles away in my bedroom in Spain. Any thoughts that the others before me were being overly dramatic were dispelled as I too wretched into the neighbours garden.


Despite our reactions, which may have been due to Henrik's inexpert preparations, I am told that many people actually do enjoy this dish, although I think it unfair to place it in the same category as our beloved Vegemite.

 Between Karin, the kite boys and Viktoria's family alone I never once experienced the supposed coldness of the Swedish. In fact I was often overwhelmed by their total kindness and hospitality toward me.
So after such a great summer I jumped at the chance to stay longer when my friend, Charlotta offered me her room in a small student corridor in nearby Lund, while she went on exchange to Cork for three months.

Let's Start at the Beginning

 
After more than two years away from home, and numerous half written stories about adventures in France and life in a tiny Spanish village, I am going to start at the beginning.

I know Sweden cannot compete with the romanticism of Southern Europe. With the information we are fed at home, when thinking about Southern Europe, we may conjure up pictures of year round sunshine, an abundance of fine wine and food, and of course people whose main priorities in life are to enjoy these things. We may imagine they have the work / life balance figured out just right. Family is at the core and work does not dictate life’s priorities. The numerous religious festivals serve as an excuse for a week off from work to dance and indulge in cervezas.

If asked to describe the characters of these people we may use adjectives such as passionate, sociable, impulsive and hot blooded. My own impressions so far, are more or less in line with these stereotypes. This is perhaps why I have struggled to write anything I feel is interesting or original about my time in France and Spain.

 For most people I talk to, the choice between a story from southern Europe or Sweden is an easy one. Like being asked which would you prefer: a three course meal, starting with a bowl of the freshest mussels, steamed open in a broth of white wine and garlic, to be followed by a Beef Daube where the slowly cooked beef is so tender it melts in your mouth leaving just a hint of orange on the palate and finally, Madame can I tempt you with a selection of our regions tastiest cheese and fruit pastes or perhaps you would prefer the house special, the chocolate fondant, a decadent dessert with a molten chocolate centre? Or would you simply prefer a jar of slimy pickled herring? Bit of a no brainer.

Or...

Tough choice

We hear so little about Scandinavia from home. Those without fear of exposing their geographical ineptitude, may venture a few tentative guesses; IKEA, high cost of living, polar bears roaming the streets, relentless cold and the only light source, the illuminating blonde hair on the heads of all the blue eyed beauties. The general conclusion (even to be found in guide books) is that Swedes are a humourless and distant people. The recent popularity of Stieg Larssons brilliant but chilling novels probably hasn’t done a lot to promote tourism to the area either.

I confess to not knowing much about Sweden until I arrived. However, as I had no intention of being left at home, while my then boyfriend went on a boys trip around South America, I accepted the first of the many jobs I applied for on the internet. I didn’t care where I went; I was just desperate to leave first! Not that I admitted my ignorance to anyone, scornful of those who confused Sweden with Switzerland, including my boyfriend who reassured me that I would be fine in Sweden with all that Swiss chocolate. In fact I doubt I could have even pointed to where on the world map I was, until at least three weeks into my stay.
I hope this convinces you of how truly underrated and wonderful this part of the world is, if not to persuade you to visit it yourself one day, then at least give you an idea as to why a three month trip lasted more than a year. 


Excuse the preamble, but I should explain how I found myself in a Swedish kitchen.  From a young age I had a passion for cooking. However, I was always fully aware that it was to be more of a hobby rather than something to be taken seriously as a path to the land of grown-ups; hence the not to be mentioned, failed attempt to study something respectable at university. I don’t mean to implicate my father in the aforementioned crime of: formerly high achieving daughter, drops out of Law school and coincidently the Real World, leaving parents to try to explain to family and friends, what exactly it is she’s up to (lets plead insanity, far tidier no?). But this passion certainly wasn’t inherited from my mother (I’m sure she feels she’s failed somewhat, in setting an example, in finding the perfect husband. If it’s any consolation I think my sister has that lesson well in hand). I’m afraid it has to be said it comes from Dad, who—with his love of fresh home grown food, curiosity with new styles and habit of spending hours in speciality stores searching for treasures from around the world to experiment with—always had an exciting, delicious and lovingly created meal on the table, even after a hard day’s work on the farm and with the added challenge of accommodating the finicky whims of teenage girls.

So the obvious and sensible course of action while waiting for a bruised ego to heal, would be to enrol in a course for culinary arts, gain a formal education and take it from there. Or you could take an audacious shortcut and tweak your CV just enough to convince the owner of a restaurant to let you run their kitchen. I left home with a few merino thermals, my shiny new knife, one cook book and an astonishing amount of ignorance.

If this muppet can pull it off...

Slice of Heaven ; Part II

After much protestation, my parents finally convinced me to join them on one of their weekly bike rides.They, along with a group of friends have taken up bike riding over the past few years, taking advantage of the many tracks around Hawkes Bay. I on the other hand have developed a strong aversion to anything exercise related. However considering the state of affairs between myself and my Wii Fit trainer, a bike ride didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

                                               Heading towards marine parade

The ride starts at Clive river where vehicles can be left for the day. From here riders can either take a left towards Napiers marine parade and continue as far as the airport or right, where the tracks take in the picturesque scenery all the way out to Te Awanga beach. Over the course of two weekends we took in both routes. With a number of other bikers out enjoying the spring sunshine, it’s easy to see the potential for these tracks to generate a bit of tourism for the region. My parents particular style exercise involves stops for ice cream on the marine parade or coffee at Clifton cafe. Before stopping at the turn around point for a quintessential New Zealand packed picnic lunch of muffins, bacon and egg pie and coffee from a thermos. Good company and Hawkes bays stunning vistas. If only all exercise was this appealing.

                                                          Refreshment station

                                                       Refuelling              

While up in Napier we used the opportunity to pop into Vetro,www.vetro.co.nz a great little shop around West Quay, Ahuriri. Here you can find a great supply of Mediterranean and European, as well as local products at a decent price. It’s well worth a look if you are in the area. On this particular day we were after Italian Prosecco, for a Guy Fawkes BBQ.

I’m not sure anyone in New Zealand really knows nor cares what Guy Fawkes is about, other than a great excuse to throw a party and legally blow things up for one night of the year. I love the casual approach to entertaining in New Zealand. Could there be a better term than everybody ‘bring a plate’, to sum up the way in which we entertain? Well with Dad on the BBQ and everybody else having brought a plate, nobody could have complained of hunger before heading out to light the fireworks. It has to be said this year the fireworks were a little disappointing, what ever happened to those sky rockets of the early 90’s?

The night was topped off with huge slices of rich chocolate cake, sandwiching sweet, black cherries and whipped cream.

                                 

               The beautiful Alex with a cake good enough to bring tears to the eyes

This also marked the end of my trip home, which felt far too short but which has left me with a new appreciation of how good we have it in our little corner of the world. I may be biased but for me there really is no place like home. xxx

A Slice of Heaven

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.
I’m unsure where I stand on this one. I have recently returned home to New Zealand, after two and a half years away. With the hope of returning to Spain I left behind all my lovely warm winter clothes and packed clothes only suitable for a tropical holiday. Somewhere along the line I must have confused the tropical, idyllic New Zealand I had been falsely marketing to other travellers with reality. Perhaps absence in this case has made the memory a little blurry.


However weather aside (it is improving) the past month spent at home has served to reminded me of all the small things that make this such a great place to grow up.
I tackled the cold issue by donning a fetching pink polar fleece onsie and planting myself in front of the kitchen heater. To my joy I discovered it was possible to function through each week without actually having to extract myself from the suit. To fill in time between meals and to add a sense of purpose to my days, I embarked on an intensive regime of kick-boxing, step aerobics, jogging, yoga, bubble balance, hula hooping and sword fighting. Replenishing energy with delicious meals courtesy of dad. I had intended to remain in the beloved suit for the duration of my stay,late last week an unfortunate accident soon put paid to that idea. The relief in mums eyes was evident ( as was the horror in my sisters , kind lender of soiled suit)  Having read all of Nicky Pelligrino’s fabulous books and after falling-out with my Wii fit personal trainer, I conceded it was time to start venturing out a bit (and perhaps bathing a little more regularly).


With mum on a girls trip, in a house boat, up the Murray river, Dad suggested a trip out to the beach was in order. Having spent every childhood summer out at Pourerere , no beach I have visited abroad since can compete. It is typical of the wonderful rural beaches all over the coastline of New Zealand. Few houses, no cell phone coverage, long stretches of sand ,great crashing waves and an abundance of seafood!
                                       

                                               Em with a giant Kina


I have memories of us kids helping dad get the nets in early morning, taking what we wanted and putting the rest back. Natures own fish market. We would then sit down to a breakfast of fish so fresh, all that was needed was a quick dip in egg, fry in the pan in clarified butter and a squeeze of lemon.

My father is a bit of a hunter gatherer like many kiwi men. However he has really perfected the art of catching crayfish ( spiny rock lobster to those non-kiwis). I am yet to hear of any method to rival his, in success rate or speed. It’s a simple method which requires little attention to tides or weather. In fact dad hardly gets his hands wet. Suffice to say I wont be sharing exact details of this method but I can offer a few clues. The first may sound unfeasible but proven – beer. The second is slightly harder to obtain but may be substituted with store bought equivalent- a dozen eggs laid by your own free range chickens.

                                                               

                                                               The bait
                        
                                 

                                   …..?


We really are spoilt here in New Zealand. Our rocky coastlines are abundant with this delicacy and  the average kiwi can indulge year round, while our fishery laws ensure the supply is not depleted. Those who do not fancy getting wet, or who are not good friends with a diver, can look to pay between $100 –$200NZD a kilo!
Whatever the preferred method of acquirement  may be, few of life’s pleasures match a meal of fresh crayfish. There are countless recipes available, but for me nothing beats a cray straight from the pot, plunged in cold water to arrest the cooking process. Then cracked with your fingers, starting with the legs, prising the succulent meat from the shell and dipping it in either vinegar or a marinara sauce. To avoid unnecessary  tension, it is advisable to cater for one cray per head, as I for one cannot bear to share, not even with my nearest and dearest. I also strongly advise against encouraging the uninitiated to try even a little mouthful. 
With a successful gathering expedition from Dad, our night at the beach was spent watching rugby with the heater on full power, wind howling at the door, bottles Hawkes Bay Pinot Gris and freshly caught and cooked crayfish.
Simple perfection

                                                                 

                     Could there be anything better?

San Sebastian; A Gastronomic Paradise

It was while planning a trip to St Malo, where I work as a cook for a lovely British family holidaying there, that a friend asked me to accompany her on a foodie’s research trip to San Sebastian. Was I interested in two days of sampling as much as this city has to offer? Well if it’s in the name of research…

To work in an Andalucían kitchen can be somewhat discouraging, especially in a small conservative village. The clientele at the restaurant is mainly expat English or tourists. Like the local Spanish, they know what they like and aren’t particularly open to change. So while it hurts to include the likes of beer battered fish and chips on my daily menu it is undeniable that dishes like these are some of our best sellers.

However, I have found the variety of available produce in the region is limited - anything unusual is picked up either at the coast or by request to friends arriving from overseas. So by falling in love with a dashing Spaniard and deciding to make Montejaque my home, I couldn’t help but feel I was doing myself a disservice in terms of culinary growth. I was definitely not unhappy with my life there but I couldn’t help but feel there was something I was missing; I was yet to fall in love with Spain.

This all changed the moment I stepped foot in San Sebastian. It was love at first sight or amor primo de vista, in Spanish. I’ve been abroad for a while, and I’ve become a bit jaded after visiting numerous cities, each one beginning to seem more or less like the last. So to arrive in a city and find it answers your hearts song completely, is a wonderful revelation. To have only 36 hours there struck me as being very unfair!

August in San Sebastian is peak tourist season and finding a room, let alone being able to afford one, on a traveller’s budget, is near-impossible. I was lucky to be able to stay with a Spanish family for the two nights I was there which also gave me the chance to interact with locals.
Basque people will go to great pains to distinguish themselves from the rest of Spain. And the difference between the people of San Sebastian and Andalucía is immediately obvious.
Andalucíans have this incredible hot blood. They wear their passion on their sleeves. To look at they are what all romantic fiction heroes are made of - dark and smouldering, luscious hair, dark eyes framed by thick dark eyebrows. This is Hemmingway’s Spain, the land of matadors, flamenco and fiestas. Women will show you what it is to be a woman, and the men will make you feel like one. It’s a beautiful region, with a passionate people, but I have never really relaxed here, there is a slight air of danger. The lack of this feeling hits me immediately on arrival in San Sebastian; it is what helps me put my finger on the source of my discomfort in Andalucían cities.
      Searing Andaluz Passion, or is it the next Mills and Boon cover

So who are the Basque people? Aside from having an extra language from the rest of Spain, in appearance you struggle to single them out among the crowds of tourists, a large proportion of whom are Spanish and French holidaymakers. However, according to one Philadelphian girl who was our guide and who had been living there for a year, the Basque are known for their dark hair, deep-set eyes, skin typically a lighter shade from their Andaluz cousins, and more interestingly, a big nose and long earlobes!
The people here are more open, immediately accommodating and laidback. Perhaps it’s the sea breeze blowing in from the Atlantic, or is it the lack of obnoxious tourists typical of the Costa del Sol. A feeling of being at ease and safety sweeps over you the moment you set foot in San Sebastian.
                     Lovely Rebecca in front of the beach

So how to spend limited time and budget, in a city with so much to offer? With my culinary inclinations, the answer was easy.
Michelin-starred restaurants? This city has one of the greatest concentrations of Michelin stars per head of capita than anywhere. It is also famous for its pintxos, a Basque version of tapas. The distinction is well deserved as here in the Basque country they have transformed this style of dining into an art form.

So forget the Michelin restaurants. Instead head to the old part of town where you can happily hop from bar to bar sampling all the delights on offer, the Basque word for this activity is txikiteo. With each dish just a mouthful and rarely over the €3 mark, there is no need to worry about food envy or anxiety over ordering the right thing, you can have them all! And sample them all we did. Begin your Txikiteo on Calle 31 de Agosto and from there follow your nose and you can’t go wrong. Each bar has its own distinct personality, and house speciality, ranging from those with hanging legs of Iberico ham served simply atop a slice of bread, to the more seafood inclined bars with bacalao and boquerones galore.

Don’t be afraid of the crowds, this is usually a good indicator of a bar worth visiting. Dive into the good-natured crowds until you find your way to the front, where you can either shout your order or simply employ the universal language of pointing. Be sure to order the txakoli, a white, slightly fizzy and very moreish wine, to wash your pintxos down with. Include in your sampling a few of the more simple looking dishes on offer, they are often the most memorable. Once you have had your fill and settled the bill, be sure not to linger but allow the next lot through, and continue to the next bar your senses lead you to. Be warned though, although most other bars are friendly and accommodating (even to the extent of allowing two mad kiwi girls behind bars and into kitchens) , if you attempt to charm your way into one of the gentlemen’s cooking clubs, expect to be roughly escorted out with a torrent of abuse in Spanish


                          Pouring the txakoli from height to aerate                         Muscling our way behind the bar
Although we weren’t disappointed with any of the bars we visited, there are a few particularly outstanding places that really must not be missed. The first is Fuego Negro, a bar with a more avant-garde style. Sample the pickled pig’s ear with a tiny scoop of mole or avocado, crab and liquorice in the form of a trio of frozen delights.

  A Fuego Negro: Black Liquorice, Avocado and Crab
However, the battle for the favourite is between Zeruko on Calle Pescaderia and La Cuchera de san Telmo, on Calle 31 de Agosto. What you notice first about the former is the painstakingly perfect presentation of the vast array of pintxos on display. Squeeze your way to the front, and allow the friendly staff or fellow diners to guide you in your selection. So unpretentious is Zeruko that you can expect to help yourself to cutlery from behind the bar, have a peek in the kitchen and engage in lively conversation with the charming staff who are only too happy to help. Everything here is good, but you must try the bacalao, a salted cod which arrives on its own miniature grill and burning coal where staff will instruct you to smoke it yourself for 30 seconds before placing it atop a herbed crème fraiche blini and downing it in one, finishing off with a palate-cleansing herb shot. Try the pistachio crumbed croquetas, the apple and goat’s cheese bruschetta, the miniature quail egg toad in a hole, the pork cheeks, the smoked eel…. actually you will need to extend your trip, call in sick at work and dedicate three days to making your way through every item on offer here                                           

                                                              

 Zeruko: Smoked salt cod, with herbed emulsion and shot.

                                                             Zeruko: Apple and goats cheese bruschetta              Zeruko: Bacon wrapped banana on figs                  

I thought Zeruko had ruined me for any other bar and was set to call it a day. However, a friend had insisted we visit La Cuchera, so we did. It is a small, lively and crowded bar. We were nearly put off by the crowds, fearing we would never get served. However, the crowd here was well versed in tikiteo etiquette and we barely waited long enough to look at the menu. At this point I should mention that until I arrived in San Sebastian and in particular this bar, I had been a vegetarian for the last four years. My fall off the wagon was spectacular. Strictly in the name of research, I ordered the seared foie gras and apple compote, so rich, buttery and delicate and the braised beef cheeks, so melt-in-the-mouth tender, that any trace of guilt was pushed aside by an overwhelming gluttonous need for more.

         La Cuchera de san Thelmo: Seared Fois Gras with Apple compote

Our evening and unfortunately the trip was concluded all too soon with one final stop at a street side gelateria, where the little remaining space was filled with crème Catalan gelato.

It was short but oh so sweet San Sebastian, you have stolen my heart. I shall return