Saturday Special: Basque Tripote Jatea Gathering
Basques still know how to talk, to tell stories, and turn a routine event into a celebration. We just couldn't understand most of what they said.
The annual Tripota Jatea Membership Lunch opened with cocktails in the bar at JT's Basque Restaurant in Gardneville, NV. Sunday is usually a day of rest for JT's hard-working staff, but setting up a barbeque grill to cook Basque chicken marked this as the major event on the Mendiko Euskaldun Cluba's calendar. Membership fees were due. Time for local Basques gather and catch up on the gossip.
The chatter was deafening. Jeff and I tried to find an empty spot to stand out of the way until the dining room opened. Master bartender, Etienne Lekumberry, who also teaches Basque language lessons, served picons, wine, and whatever from behind the century-old oak-topped bar, then mingled with the crowd. It was a casual party day for the JTs crew even if they did have to serve food and drinks as usual. In fact, it always seems like a party at JTs.
Finally, we found a few square feet to park near a table of Mus players. As one of the players explained to me, pairs of players try to get a King or two with the single hand they are dealt. If a King isn't in hand, an Ace, Queen, or Jack will have to do. These men play every Tuesday at lunchtime in preparation for the biannual Mus tournaments. That's when Basques swarm to JT's from as far away as California, Idaho, and Utah for the Sunday morning breakfast the day after the tournament. Most folks are bleary-eyed from their Mus and picon bacchanal of the previous night. The conversation becomes quite boisterous and animated. (Here's a long, involved explanation of Mus.)
Once seated at a long, family-style table, we met our lunch companions, Guillaume Etchechury, Tara Dannom, and Dominique Berhan. Tara has lived in Carson Valley all her life while Guillaume spent his early years in Central Valley, CA. Tara's family once owned the French Bar across the street from JTs. She pointed to a photograph on the wall of a line of lovely young dancers in traditional costumes.
"That girl on the end is my granddaughter and the one in the middle is my daughter. That was back in 2014." What? She didn't look a day over fifty. Or maybe I didn't hear her right. Already, the conversation became obscured by the cacophony of voices.
Marie-Louise and J.B. Lekumberry, owners of JTs, grew up in the building in which we sat. Their father, Jean, owned and operated the place and expected them work from an early age. They still run the family business with great pride. In fact, JT's Basque Restaurant has become the de facto community center for this community. All the other Basque restaurants in town have succumbed to other culinary offerings as Carson Valley fills with retirees from outside the area.
Tara and Guillaume began telling me that Dominique lived on a main road through my neighborhood in a house with a red tile roof. I laughed and pointed to Dominique, jarring him to attention.
"I know exactly where you live. I drive past your house every day."
He feigned horror then joined our conversation as soup and bread arrived at the table. A platter of salad and fries followed. Instead of the usual stew and beans of a normal Basque dinner, however, the waitress served a bowl of barbequed chicken and a plate of blood sausage.
I gasped. After soaking up the home-made chicken rice soup with a slice of buttered French bread, I already felt satiated. Those two items are a hearty meal by themselves. Thinking the waitress would return to take my order for the traditional entrée seemed dreadful at this point. I didn't pace myself properly. For some reason, I hadn't connected the huge grill we passed while entering the buildng. It was a clue something unique would be the center of attention at this lunch.
Not smothered in spicy sauces usually served at BBQ places, this juicy and succulent chicken fell apart with a slight touch of the fork and exploded with smoky flavors imparted by the coals. This dish came from generations of old shepherds who held the recipe in their heads, carefully guarding it even from the young men who hoped to learn by working beside them at the grill. This food was sacred as well as tasty and only the properly initiated could step up as Masters.
The plate of blood sausage made its way around the table. I grabbed one, believe it or not, because past experience with this concoction of rice, onions, leeks, and … sigh … pig's blood was a rare and flavorful treat. Just don't think of its ingredients as its texture rolls around your mouth. YUM!
As I decimated the last bits of chicken and sausage, the waitress set down a plate of cheese, signaling the cool down from what can be a marathon feast. The bowl of chicken WAS the entree. Of course, I thought, this is a Basque lunch, a relatively light meal to carry one to dinner. Had it been dinner, the choices would have been steak, lamb, chicken, sweet breads, or tongue stew. Beans and a hearty stew would join the lineup alongside the salad and fries. This is not a vegetarian cuisine, but highlights local beef and lamb.
As if cocktail hour wasn't enough opportunity to catch up on the gossip, everyone shouted their conversations over the clatter of dishes. Jeff and I tried the best we could to follow our new friends as they shared stories of their work and other various topics. On and on, the decibels increased as the wine flowed
.Guillaume announced there was a leak in our bottle of burgandy and Jeff offered to catch some of that leak in his glass. I'd already enjoyed two shot glasses when Etienne appeared with a pot of coffee and bottles of brandy and anisette for the aperitif. Sure, why not? I've never had a proper Winnemucca coffee.
I was getting a nice little buzz going when the final course arrived. … vanilla ice cream. Of all the magnificent flavors of ice cream out there, what is it about vanilla ice cream that stands up to a Basque feast? Was it the sweet palate-cleansing finish of this simple flavor or did they score a creamier brand? Everything just tasted better at JTs.
Or was it the camaraderie? Jeff and I are newcomers to Mendiko Euskaldun Cluba. For decades, we enjoyed coming to Basque restaurants throughout California and Nevada because there's a hint of Basque blood running through Jeff's veins. His father, who grew up on a ranch and hung out at the Westerner Motel in Gardnerville years before he introduced us to the valley. As a teen, Vic went with his father, Francois, on a cattle-buying trip. Decades later, he escaped a family vacation at Lake Tahoe to explore Carson Valley just down the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada. He recognized the area immediately and returned many times. When we started haunting the Carson Valley, we only touched the edges of the Basque community through the dinners. It was like a pilgrimage.
Most of this community has lived here, sharing each other's lives, raising their children in this one place. Most of the old men came to America in their twenties, speaking no English, to herd sheep in the stark wilderness of the Great Basin. They are so attuned to the land, they could almost be considered indigenous. Far more so than urban transplants like me and Jeff anyway. Yet they recognize our faces from the few events we've attended. They pat us on the back and welcome us, laughing and joking as if we're old-timers. We learn more names every time we sit down at these dinners. We don't see them between these events, but today, it really settled in that we are accepted as part of their landscape.
It took everyone a long time to leave the tables. Stories continued after the wine bottles emptied. Laughter grew louder and it no longer mattered if we could only snatch fragments of their tales through the din. Accents are thick among these men. Dominique told me he spoke Basque, English, French, and Spanish, but I regret that I couldn't understand much of what he and Guillaume tried to tell us.
We are slowly relearning how to listen and respond to people these days. Conversation is a casualty of the pandemic, yet this community holds on to the art and practices it often. I keep whispering in Jeff's ear that we need to hang out at JTs more often, maybe just to enjoy a drink with Etienne and whoever is there. The last time we did that without having a dinner to soak up the alcohol, however, he had to carry me to the car.
Photos and video listed below, unless otherwise indicated, by Aline Elicagaray and Amaia Sarratea.
Here's a video taken of the Tripote Jatea turnout this year. OR if that link doesn't work, HERE
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All my books, Paradise Ridge, When the Horses Come and Go, and Ghost in the Forest are currently available on Kindle. Ghost in the Forest, is also available in paperback. Paradise Ridge is out-of-print, but the Kindle version is re-edited and better quality.
Book Review of Ghost in the Forest:
"Ghost in The Forest' is a great read! Take note People. If you love stories about environmentalism and nature, its clash with urban mindsets, as well as personal transformation, this is the book for you!
"Ghost in The Forest" is a quick 126-page read. It's the story of Dori, a woman trapped in a mix of grief over parental loss and refusing to accept how her hometown and her friends have changed over the years. Because of this, Dori has become a recluse and a self-imposed misanthrope who finds more comfort amongst the hiking trails around her hometown of Morristown than in her dealings with the raw reality of other humans.
The book, in some ways, resembled Edward Abbey’s “Desert Solitaire” in that the story follows a protagonist's love of nature and angst about humans encroaching on it. In this case, it’s how Morristown is transforming into a mountain biking destination where cyclists run rampant on trails and nature.
However, a tragedy involving said mountain biking becomes a major pivot point for Dori, leading to a series of events that eventually bring about personal evolution and discovery.
If you're a nature lover, this book is a must-read. It beautifully portrays the clash between environmentalism and urban mindsets and the journey of personal transformation. The book's vivid descriptions of nature and the protagonist's love for it will surely intrigue you.
Paradise Ridge Review by western author D. B. Jackson:
If you draw circle roughly around an area that includes northern Nevada, southern Oregon, and southern Idaho, within that circle exists a culture and people who live a lifestyle largely untouched by modern values. These are the "buckaroos" and Basque characters author Sue Cauhape brings to life in her literary novel, "Paradise Ridge".
Leandro, the illegitimate seventh son of patriarch Xavier Arriaga and his mistress, Gisela, is at the center of this intriguing story that travels exceedingly successfully at both the personal level of the characters, as well as the compelling level where the story is told.
Cauhape writes in a literary style that reminds me of Annie Poulx. Paradise Ridge, on the surface, appears to be an upscale Western novel...once inside the pages, you will soon discover a potential classic waiting to be discovered.
I rated this book a 5...because that's all the stars there were.
What a wonderful day, Sue. Thank you for taking me along. I especially loved your photo of the five old men in the kitchen. I immediately thought of my old mother, Katy. She would have been in absolute HEAVEN to be able to join them. She was such a flirt - even at 90. And I appreciate your comment that we all have to learn how to hold a conversation again. What a perfect place to practice. ( I have recently taken on a " housemate", a stranger, and realize how out of practice I am relating in person....)