(no subject)
I'm still sad that Oñati has gone from Boise, but I understand there are other Basque restaurants not far away, one called Epi's. That's terrific news, and I'm going to make a point of going there the next time I have occasion to be in the area. God only knows when that'll be, but it's definitely a goal. Oñati was special. It was in the back of a dark tavern in a not-especially-nice part of Boise, and the sign was small- you had to know it was there. Nevertheless...
...here are some excerpts from a letter I wrote to the owner last year:
Dear Maggie,
An acquaintance of mine in Boise told me recently that Oñati closed down some time ago. I was a very big fan of Oñati and had lots of wonderful meals there, so I wanted to write and thank you for them. I hope you won't mind if I share some memories.
In the summer of 1991, when our family lived near Denver, my father and I took a road trip out West. On the fourth night of the trip, we were thumbing through the AAA guide to Boise. I don't recall where we were at the time; it might've been Pocatello. There was the predictable list of places specializing in "chicken and steak" (with a few places specializing in "steak and chicken" for variety!)...and there was Oñati. A Basque restaurant? We'd never tried one, so we set our sites on Boise and motored on. Wow! What wonderful food, and what courteous staff. We loved every minute and every bite of it, including the amazing flan. Dad asked for the recipe and the server came back and said "Well, you start with 72 eggs," and laughed. Clearly, the flan was to remain a justifiably-guarded secret!
A few years later, I went to school in Oregon. I made a point of stopping in whenever I drove between Colorado and Oregon. Sometimes I got to have one of those uniquely wonderful Basque dinners, and sometimes I arrived at the wrong time of day. But I did have several more excellent meals there over the years. If I'm not mistaken, dad was with me for at least one of them.
In 1997, dad got sick with Lymphatic cancer. His condition went up and down; during one of the "up" times when it seemed OK to chance it, I went out West. The trip was going to be a much-needed vacation from the pressure that serious illness exerts on a family, but it got cut short with a phone call while I was in Oregon-dad was in the hospital again. I pointed my old Volvo Eastward and hit the highway. Along about the middle of the state, it occurred to me that if I used the right route, I could stop at Oñati!
No time to pull over; I dialled information, got the area code for Boise, dialled Boise information, got the number for Oñati, dialled Oñati, and spoke with a very helpful employee named Jamie(?) who told me the restaurant's opening hours. I glanced at my watch and was unsure I could make it at all, and I hadn't even crossed into the Mountain time zone; that'd cost me another hour.
I made very rapid, somewhat illegal progress, with absolutely no unnecessary stops. But as the afternoon wore on, I could see I would not make the dining room hours. I called Jamie back, asked him if the restaurant could package up a meal for me to take away. He said that they could. Terrific, I was happy. I ordered the daily special-meat with a bunch of irresistible side dishes-and hung up the phone. About 75 miles later, I reached into the cooler I had on the passenger seat for a can of pop...and suddenly an idea hit me. I called Jamie back and told him to triple everything and add a bottle of the red wine. (What was it called? King Philip? King Edward VI? I just can't remember, and I certainly haven't been able to find it anywhere other than the restaurant.)
Jamie and I had some tense conversations as the hour grew late and the Volvo and I chewed up miles, but 10 minutes before everyone was to lock up and leave for the night, I pulled into the parking lot at the bottom of Orchard off Chinden. Jamie was waiting for me, and all the food was packaged up in take-away boxes. I tossed all my pre-packed provisions out of the cooler and carefully packed two of the dinners into it, taking care to make sure nothing would spill. I was exhausted from my flat-out drive, found a local motel with refrigerators in the rooms, and headed for bed...but not before snarfing-down one of the dinners. The other two went into the room fridge; they'd be untouched until Denver.
The next day's drive started not long after sunrise, and ended at another motel with room fridges. And the day after that, I arrived back in Denver in the middle of the afternoon. I headed directly to the hospital and hoisted that big cooler up to dad's room. He had no idea what was inside. I warmed everything in the microwave, put it on a wheeled cart and brought it round to his bed. You should have seen his face light up. He recognized it immediately and it just put the brakes on a day that had been going from bad to worse for him. I hadn't seen him smile that widely since he first got ill. We happily ate one more Oñati dinner and drank that bottle of wine.
I would say that was our last Oñati dinner together, but I'm reasonably sure it wasn't. Dad died in March of 2000, just shy of his 58th birthday. A few months later, I headed out West to try to recover somewhat from the shock and sadness. When it was time to head back East, I carefully planned my route to include dinner at Oñati. This time, because of the advance planning, I didn't need to bend any speed limits or forego bathroom breaks to get there on time. I arrived in plenty of time for an early dinner. The dining room wasn't very full; there were lots of tables available. Without asking or being prompted, the greeter led me to the very table where dad and I had eaten our first Oñati meal nine years before.
I looked at the menu, decided on something-I can't remember what it was-and ordered it. The waiter went away, but came back a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, but we're out of what you ordered," he said. "May I suggest you try the lamb shank instead?" Wow. Lamb shank was always dad's most favorite dish. He ordered it on special occasions or when celebration was called for. There were a few other coincidences(?) like this that night, though I cannot now recall all of them. Perhaps dad came a great distance to share one more dinner with me at Oñati. I could not have thought of a more appropriate place for our farewell dinner if I'd been given the time and the choice to make.
So I'm sad that Oñati is no more, but I'm very grateful to have experienced it. Thank you so much for great food and great memories.
I never got a response to the letter. Maybe it came across too freakylike. But I'm glad to hear that food is still available, and I'm definitely going to have to visit Epi's, now!
...here are some excerpts from a letter I wrote to the owner last year:
Dear Maggie,
An acquaintance of mine in Boise told me recently that Oñati closed down some time ago. I was a very big fan of Oñati and had lots of wonderful meals there, so I wanted to write and thank you for them. I hope you won't mind if I share some memories.
In the summer of 1991, when our family lived near Denver, my father and I took a road trip out West. On the fourth night of the trip, we were thumbing through the AAA guide to Boise. I don't recall where we were at the time; it might've been Pocatello. There was the predictable list of places specializing in "chicken and steak" (with a few places specializing in "steak and chicken" for variety!)...and there was Oñati. A Basque restaurant? We'd never tried one, so we set our sites on Boise and motored on. Wow! What wonderful food, and what courteous staff. We loved every minute and every bite of it, including the amazing flan. Dad asked for the recipe and the server came back and said "Well, you start with 72 eggs," and laughed. Clearly, the flan was to remain a justifiably-guarded secret!
A few years later, I went to school in Oregon. I made a point of stopping in whenever I drove between Colorado and Oregon. Sometimes I got to have one of those uniquely wonderful Basque dinners, and sometimes I arrived at the wrong time of day. But I did have several more excellent meals there over the years. If I'm not mistaken, dad was with me for at least one of them.
In 1997, dad got sick with Lymphatic cancer. His condition went up and down; during one of the "up" times when it seemed OK to chance it, I went out West. The trip was going to be a much-needed vacation from the pressure that serious illness exerts on a family, but it got cut short with a phone call while I was in Oregon-dad was in the hospital again. I pointed my old Volvo Eastward and hit the highway. Along about the middle of the state, it occurred to me that if I used the right route, I could stop at Oñati!
No time to pull over; I dialled information, got the area code for Boise, dialled Boise information, got the number for Oñati, dialled Oñati, and spoke with a very helpful employee named Jamie(?) who told me the restaurant's opening hours. I glanced at my watch and was unsure I could make it at all, and I hadn't even crossed into the Mountain time zone; that'd cost me another hour.
I made very rapid, somewhat illegal progress, with absolutely no unnecessary stops. But as the afternoon wore on, I could see I would not make the dining room hours. I called Jamie back, asked him if the restaurant could package up a meal for me to take away. He said that they could. Terrific, I was happy. I ordered the daily special-meat with a bunch of irresistible side dishes-and hung up the phone. About 75 miles later, I reached into the cooler I had on the passenger seat for a can of pop...and suddenly an idea hit me. I called Jamie back and told him to triple everything and add a bottle of the red wine. (What was it called? King Philip? King Edward VI? I just can't remember, and I certainly haven't been able to find it anywhere other than the restaurant.)
Jamie and I had some tense conversations as the hour grew late and the Volvo and I chewed up miles, but 10 minutes before everyone was to lock up and leave for the night, I pulled into the parking lot at the bottom of Orchard off Chinden. Jamie was waiting for me, and all the food was packaged up in take-away boxes. I tossed all my pre-packed provisions out of the cooler and carefully packed two of the dinners into it, taking care to make sure nothing would spill. I was exhausted from my flat-out drive, found a local motel with refrigerators in the rooms, and headed for bed...but not before snarfing-down one of the dinners. The other two went into the room fridge; they'd be untouched until Denver.
The next day's drive started not long after sunrise, and ended at another motel with room fridges. And the day after that, I arrived back in Denver in the middle of the afternoon. I headed directly to the hospital and hoisted that big cooler up to dad's room. He had no idea what was inside. I warmed everything in the microwave, put it on a wheeled cart and brought it round to his bed. You should have seen his face light up. He recognized it immediately and it just put the brakes on a day that had been going from bad to worse for him. I hadn't seen him smile that widely since he first got ill. We happily ate one more Oñati dinner and drank that bottle of wine.
I would say that was our last Oñati dinner together, but I'm reasonably sure it wasn't. Dad died in March of 2000, just shy of his 58th birthday. A few months later, I headed out West to try to recover somewhat from the shock and sadness. When it was time to head back East, I carefully planned my route to include dinner at Oñati. This time, because of the advance planning, I didn't need to bend any speed limits or forego bathroom breaks to get there on time. I arrived in plenty of time for an early dinner. The dining room wasn't very full; there were lots of tables available. Without asking or being prompted, the greeter led me to the very table where dad and I had eaten our first Oñati meal nine years before.
I looked at the menu, decided on something-I can't remember what it was-and ordered it. The waiter went away, but came back a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, but we're out of what you ordered," he said. "May I suggest you try the lamb shank instead?" Wow. Lamb shank was always dad's most favorite dish. He ordered it on special occasions or when celebration was called for. There were a few other coincidences(?) like this that night, though I cannot now recall all of them. Perhaps dad came a great distance to share one more dinner with me at Oñati. I could not have thought of a more appropriate place for our farewell dinner if I'd been given the time and the choice to make.
So I'm sad that Oñati is no more, but I'm very grateful to have experienced it. Thank you so much for great food and great memories.
I never got a response to the letter. Maybe it came across too freakylike. But I'm glad to hear that food is still available, and I'm definitely going to have to visit Epi's, now!