Asturias: the secret foodie paradise on the Cantabrian sea
Glimpsing the Asturian coastline for the first time as we flew in over Aviles felt strange. Strange to be landing in Spain among such dense greenery. Into churning green seas slamming wet cliffs, green peaks scribbled in just behind them, bathed in spring mist. Northern Spain is unlike the rest of the country. The weather is different, the food is different. It isn’t clear to me whether the people of Asturias even consider themselves fully Spanish. You get different answers depending on who you ask. Regional identity is a subtle thing here. Asturias has its own language and a distinct history. A place guarded by its mountains and cliffs, never truly conquered. Not by the Romans, Visigoths or Moors. Asturias is Spain, and the rest is conquered land, as the saying goes. Though just a slither of verdant green and jagged hills along the Cantabrian sea, the region has a disproportionately rich food culture. The menu reflects the landscape perfectly. Blood sausage and pungent Cabrales cheese from the pastures, cider from the orchards and the rest plucked from the foaming green sea. The tiny airport arrivals lounge had an even tinier café. A one-woman operation that serves pastries, espresso and Estrella Galicia on draught. For the cost equivalent of a sandwich from Gatwick WHSmith you could have all three.
Our first venture took us to Lastres, a fishing village built into the cliffs like a great cobbled staircase. Reached via a semi-perilous walk across the rocks from Playa de La Griega that leads you past symmetrical cottages painted the colour of grapefruits and lemons, with round wooden doors facing out across the port. This spills out at the splayed base of the stairs, the beginning of Lastres’ crooked, winding vertical thoroughfare. At regular intervals in the ascent, stony capillaries shoot off to restaurant terraces and balconies that seem to hang out over the water. About halfway up, on a sloping side-street, you will find the long thin terrace of La Botica. Like all the other terraces, this one has the same view of sky and sea bookended by cliffs, framed by bursts of pink and yellow from the flower pots lining the terrace. As is commonplace for lunchtime in Lastres, we were informed many times, La Botica was ‘totally full’. The long wait did however, present the perfect opportunity to initiate ourselves in the art of pouring cider. Asturian sidra is natural cider made from native bitter, sour and sweet apple varieties. It’s unpasteurized, unfiltered, contains no added sugar, water or carbonation. The modesty of the liquid falls in sharp contrast to the performance of serving it.
Lluis, a retired miner who spent many Asturian summers pouring cider in his youth, joined us to demonstrate the ancient art. He explained that the traditional methodology calls for a wide stance, with the bottle to be held above the head and the glass directly underneath it, at full stretch in either direction, ‘like the 12 and 6 on a clockface’.
Luke was the first of our group to raise the green bottle of Trabanco, the nation's favourite, the original, with the yellow label. Made for the last 100 years in the village of Lavandera, near Gijón, it is ubiquitous in these parts. Much like everything else Luke tries his hand at, he was instantly successful as an escanciador, the esteemed pourer of cider. With a symmetry that I’m certain was very pleasing to Luke, an engineer, an amber stream slipped from the fluted cork, the tapón, and a healthy 70% of it ended up in the glass. Lluis doubles down multiple times on the importance of hitting the spot as close to the lip as possible. ‘If you do not hit the glass high enough the cider will not mix with enough air.’ He adds, with a smile: ‘Flat cider is not acceptable around here. Some strange people prefer it but they are the minority. If they take a sip and the cider has no air in it they will know it is because you are not skilled, or strange, or from England!’
The liquid is aerated as it hits the glass just below the lip, churning and sloshing around like the sea out beyond the terrace. It turns out there are many other cider related customs that we were ignorant of. Lluis was happy to educate us. A glass of cider must be drunk immediately after pouring, to taste the temporary fizz your escanciador has lovingly added for you. There is no swirling, sipping or stopping to appreciate the ‘dry tannin and noble taste’. At this point, Lluis took some time to lament the spread of automatic cider dispensers which are sometimes provided at the table - the contraptions introduce air as they pour, but he feels it would be a shame if they replace the escanciadores. ‘It is true that they are easier to use and less wasteful, but I think that people come here to see the cider being poured, not to press a button on a little machine.’
As we took turns pouring, I watched the cider splattering the cobbles. Despite my anxieties, it is actually traditional (and probably completely ineffective) to leave a thimble at the bottom of your glass to swill out onto the floor in between refills. Apparently the aim here is to cleanse the lip for the next drinker.
Thinking about the self-preserving nature of Asturias it seemed only proper that a portion of the cider would be thrown back onto the land, to eventually be given back to the orchards as rain. Or maybe I was just experiencing a very British spasm of guilt at the half-pint or so that was sliding down the lane.
On hand to interrupt this was a waiter in a black butcher’s apron with leather cross-straps and a booming voice who called to us from the door. We were seated by the wide front window that looks out across the sea. Saturday lunchtimes are uniquely busy, particularly at La Botica, where the fare is coveted. About a dozen other tables were packed in around us, big Asturian families; abuelas, cousins and babies included. There was another group clustered around the stacks of cider barrels at the bar jostling for drinks. To my joy, this is the kind of institution where warm bread is always on the table and drinks are offered on every pass. Although the menu has been elaborated on, it is built around the same handful of dishes you will find in every other restaurant in Asturias. Ordering everything seemed like a good way to start.
Beginning with the seafood, plates arrived periodically over the next hour. Zamburiñas, grilled king scallops, served in their shells in a little garlic oil bath. Mussels, razor clams, grilled whole octopus, purple with crispy legs, drizzled in olive oil and dusted with Maldon salt and pimentón. Then after a brief respite which involved more cañitas, a steaming, silky black risotto with calamari aioli. Earthy, meatier dishes started coming out. Croquetas de jamón, a staple all over Spain - yet unsurprisingly, Asturians claim to make the best. Based on the exquisite creaminess of these ones, they have reason to. Chorizo too, in a sticky cider reduction, about as great as it sounds.
Two dishes in particular stand out. One of which is the reason we are here. Fabada Asturiana. The fat, bearded king of Asturian cuisine. Hearty enough to make you loosen your belt before the first mouthful. It is a very simple dish that has the entirely undeserved ill luck of looking like a full English tipped into a pot. Fatty pork belly, blood sausage, called morcilla and chorizo. Yet the stars of the show are undoubtedly the beans. These aren’t ordinary beans. These are fabes, cultivated originally in La Granxa, a village not far from Lastres in the foothills of the Somiedo. Fabes are a type of giant white runner bean, but with an extraordinarily high fat content, making them luxuriously smooth and greasy. Simmered low and slow with only onions, garlic, stock, pimentón and a pinch of saffron, the resulting stew is intensely rich and meaty. La Botica’s Fabada is a king among kings. If you glance at any of the walls inside or outside of the restaurant you would have noticed that this stew was one of the winning dishes at the 2021 edition of ‘The World’s Best Fabada’.
La Botica is the home of another prized dish. Somehow we had overlooked it. At some point in the hot, greasy chaos of communal eating, we noticed another dish going out in volume to almost every other table except ours. In brisk baritone, our waiter informed us this was the house take on Cachopo, traditionally a breaded veal cutlet stuffed with Cabrales, formidably sour blue cheese. This maritime version was a considerably lighter hake fillet, a pair of grilled prawns and a rich sauce not unlike a fishy french bouillabaisse.
Bodies brimming with fish, meat, cheese, beans and beer, we trickled back down the vertical town to form a weary puddle right next to the ice cream shop. The turrón ice cream from Heladería Hedi was marbled with sticky nougat and toasted almonds. Although it was certain not to make the crawl back across the cliffs any easier, it was very good. In fact, even the trudge back was good. Good and green in the sea breeze under the swaying eucalypti.
