The eye- and mouth- of the beholder.

As with every overseas jaunt I embark on, half the fun of my recent trip to Spain was in planning and anticipating. I know there’s something to be said for spontaneity, and I embrace it whenever possible, but with all the information out there on the Internet, why not indulge my inner geek and do a little research? When an intriguing piece on Bilbao’s food scene from the New York Times fell into my lap, I knew I had to add Restaurant Guggenheim to my list of hopefuls. Not only is it in the Guggenheim Museum, which already hovered near the top of my non-culinary agenda, but it showcases the cuisine of Josean Martínez Alija, who trained at both El Bulli and Mugaritz (two establishments that wouldn’t even make it onto my most optimistic wish list) and is known for his cucina novella style.

Laying eyes on Senor Gehry’s creation was shiver-inducing in the way of all things truly revolutionary. It may not be my style, but the stark beauty, sheer size, and evident artistry involved in its creation are inspiring. The fact that this bizarre building with its bosomy, gleaming undulations was the brainchild of one man just boggles my mind; what twist of the imagination, what dreamlike inspiration compels someone to build such a contrivance? With practicality and functionality so clearly playing second fiddle, it is a true testament to creativity. Only after walking around the structure, retracing our steps, and mounting several flights of alternatively shallow and vertiginous flights of stairs did we finally find the entrance, and with such exertions behind us, we decided to head straight for the café.

The bright, modern space that welcomed us is as aptly suited to the exterior of the building as it is to the cuisine we were about to experience. We opted for the prix fixe, and despite only four choices for each of three courses, the decisions were excruciating. After promising to share bites, we related our orders to the waiter, and were rewarded with a diminutive goblet of pumpkin soup topped with basil oil. Already I was captivated by the delicate balance of aesthetic beauty with a sincere culinary approach. The swirl of garish green suspended in soft orange belied the intensely fresh aromas of pesto and earthy squash, and the deep flavors that followed. 

No sooner had we knocked back these initial offerings, and taken our first few sips of the bottle of txakoli we had ordered, than our first courses arrived. For him, a lightly baked egg with the most electric yolk I had ever seen atop a pillow of silky potato puree was showered tableside with a crystal-clear ‘red onion soup’- like a fragrant distillation of caramelized onions. A nudge to the egg unleashed that most lovely yolk, and a spoonful of the resulting amalgam was both simple and decadent. For me, roasted eggplant. What appeared to be an entire half eggplant, face down on my plate, concealed a bed of mushrooms beneath. The most apparent aspect, however, was the color; a purple hue usually reserved to denote grape-flavored confections shone on the skin of the vegetable, and when transferred to the white plate was truly arresting. The tender flesh was an homage to the aubergine in its purity of flavor, and a slightly indulgent, if artistic, swoosh of vibrant tomato sauce added zing.

In this moment, I began to think that the insipid Food Network hostesses who justify some clichéd garnish by crowing that we ‘eat with our eyes first’ might actually be onto something. Was my dish tasty? Sure. But if it had been served to me as a drab pile of vegetables that tasted the same, I would have thought it unremarkable- pleasant, but unremarkable. Food is about flavor, this goes without saying, but it is also an art form. If gazing upon a beautiful woman can titillate, if taking in an ocean view can relax, if looking down from a mountaintop can thrill, then why can’t seeing what we are about to ingest in a visually exciting way add to our enjoyment of that flavor experience? I might be opening myself up for criticism on this next point, but it’s the same with people. I do believe that it’s what’s inside that counts, but at the end of the day we cannot separate our overall impression from what we experience visually- it’s all one package. Anyway, the bottom line is that when it comes to food, flavor is king- just as when it comes to people, substance wins every time- but most functioning human beings have both the sense of taste and the sense of sight, and I’m not sure if compartmentalizing the two is possible.

With that tangential pondering behind me, lets move on to the second course. A large white dish coaxed a bed of jet-black squid-ink risotto into a perfect circle that echoed the plump red tomato it supported. Cutting into the buxom little vegetable (technically a fruit, I know) exposed a stuffing of tender baby squid with a subtle brininess that played well with the sweet yet acidic tomato flesh. On the other side of the table, Iberian pork cheeks were meaty, well seasoned, and complemented by a silken puree of celery root, with just the merest suggestion of vanilla running through.

And dessert. Usually the single downfall of the whole prix fixe concept for a diner like me whose sweet tooth is perilously underactive, here it was truly on par with the courses that had preceded. Both plates were a study of the monochromatic: white on white. An incredibly velvety crème caramel burst with fresh orange flavor, beside it what looked like orange pulp was teeming with floral, orange blossom aromas, and an elegant quenelle of ‘iced cheese’ was like a lightened-up version of cheesecake in frozen form. The same icy accompaniment graced my plate, along with cubes of chewy ‘rice cake’, the toasted edges of which added textural interest, and almost made it look like seared foie…very pale seared foie. The star of the dish, however, ran down the middle of the plate: a dead ringer for rice pudding, a sweep of the spoon revealed the ‘rice’ to be pockets of air amid a foam of cinnamon cream that was like a whiff of heady mulled cider.

 Combining all three components in one bite was illuminating; the formerly abrupt aspects of each became coherent in combination, and no one flavor or texture dominated. In short, it worked. A few last sips of txakoli, a demitasse of bitter espresso, and there was no more to be had. What could follow such a repast, if not a stroll around the galleries of the eminent museum that already housed us.

Much like the building that made this restaurant possible, the 
food served makes a mockery of practicality in its complete opposition to the ‘eat to live’ school of thought. It is sustenance, but this food is fun, and it was clearly conceptualized in the depths of a highly active and engaged mind. It’s certainly not for everyone, nor for everyday consumption, but I take heart in this evidence that creativity, whether a behemoth of glass and metal or an ephemeris of cinnamon cream, has a place. It was a memorable lunch indeed; would it have been the same if it weren’t within the walls of Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim museum in Bilbao? If I hadn’t begun to taste the meal weeks earlier while reading an article at my desk in Boston? No, but just as we cannot separate taste from sight, or sight from perception, this food was enjoyed as the apogee of an experience, and as the product of its place and time. Next time I cut into an eggplant or a tomato will likely disappoint, but I’d say that’s a small price to pay.