University of Nevada, Reno Through the Language of Food: Creating

University of Nevada, Reno

Through the Language of Food: Creating Linguistic and Cultural Value through Basque (Euskara) Semiotics to Market Local Gastronomic Products

A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Basque Studies

Kerri Lesh

Dr. Sandra Ott and Dr. Jenanne Ferguson/Dissertation Advisor

May, 2019

THE GRADUATE SCHOOL

We recommend that the dissertation prepared under our supervision by

Kerri Lesh

Entitled

Through the Language of Food: Creating Linguistic and Cultural Value through Basque (Euskara) Semiotics to Market Local Gastronomic Products

be accepted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

Sandra Ott, PhD, Co-Advisor

Jenanne Ferguson, PhD, Co-advisor

Joseba Zulaika, PhD, Committee Member

Agurtzane Elordui Urkiza, PhD, Committee Member

Begoña Echeverria, Committee Member

Ian Clayton, PhD, Graduate School Representative

David W. Zeh, Ph.D., Dean, Graduate School

May 2019

Abstract

Basque gastronomy has become world-renowned over the last few decades, drawing locals and tourists alike to savor regional products, congregate over food and drink in neighborhood bars, and indulge in six-course meals in Michelin star establishments. This dissertation uses the concept of a functional pairing, uztartzea or maridaje (“pairing” respectively in Basque and Castilian), by analyzing the theoretical and practical ways in which Basque linguistic and cultural practices are being used in the promotion of gastronomic products, how such use of material goods affects the value of this minoritized language, and how these practices and material goods contribute to cultural maintenance and efforts related to language revitalization or normalization. 1

The theoretical framework for this work has informed in-depth considerations of core-periphery dynamics, shedding light on tensions regarding language commodification, the effects of tourism, concepts of authenticity, and language materiality. Various intersectional categories are interwoven throughout the chapters as a way to help observe practices and opinions that contribute to issues related to language, power, and identity in relation to Basque culture. This dissertation makes a new contribution to the scholarship on linguistic commodification and materiality by looking closely at the Basque case, and specifically analyzes the use of Euskara. Until now, there is no known ethnographic study of this type that examines the relationship between

Basque language and food with such breadth and depth.

1 While I use “language revitalization” in reference to halting or reversing the decline of language, I also use “language normalization” as a translation from “normalización lingüistica,” which derives from the laws approved in Spanish Basque Country Article 3 of the Constitution (Ley 10/1982), that seek to “normalize” euskara (Ley 10/1982). The phrase itself is mentioned by Lluís Aracil (1965) in Conflit Linguistique et Normalisation Linguistique Dans L’Europe Nouvelle.

The first chapter will provide a brief history of the Basque culture and language. Within this chapter, a description of the setting will contextualize my research by describing aspects of the current political, economic, linguistic, and social climate that influence the use of the Basque language and other semiotics can be seen in local, national, and international markets. The second chapter will lay a foundation for this dissertation by introducing various dimensions of the Basque gastronomic society. It will provide a timeline of the milestones and development of present-day Basque gastronomy, as well as reference the social spaces where food and drink play an integral role in Basque culture. Chapters 3 through 7 will each discuss the use of Basque in relation to a particular beverage to demonstrate the ways in which each drink indexes Basque culture through semiotics. I will summarize the dissertation’s main themes and address additional products, regions, and approaches that can be analyzed in future research to assess how the value is created for the products as well as the Basque language and culture.

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Dedication

I dedicate this work to my mother Lois Jean Lesh and my father Gregg Lesh, for all your support.

Acknowledgments

This project embodies a dream of mine that I have had for over a decade. With so much time having been spent working towards this goal there are many people to whom I owe gratitude and wish to acknowledge. This project has given meaning and a sense of accomplishment and fulfillment to my life, providing me with some of the best memories that I will always hold dear to my heart.

I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to the people of the Basque

Country—those still living there, and those that have found a home in other parts of the world. You have shared your lives, homes, time, cars, as well as plenty of food and drink with me to satisfy my thirst for knowledge as well as for Txakolina. A special thank you goes out to Leire, Egoitz, Beñat, Xabi, and Andrea. Andrea, thank you for introducing me into Aldamar; I will forever remember you and everyone there as part of my first home in the Basque Country. To Mikel and Fatima, for sharing your home, lives, and knowledge with me. Your patience with my Euskara is unending, and I cannot thank you both enough for your continued support and for having me in your home. To Pilar and Iñaki, you both provided so much love and support from day one. I am forever thankful for your hospitality, knowledge of geology, and support in my work, transportation, and friendship-muxu handi bat ! To the interviewees that I have met along the way that have become friends, introducing me to Basque culture from various perspectives—Bittor,

Gorka, Andrea, José Ramon, Roberto and Esther, and many others with whom I keep in contact—I am lucky to have deepened my relationships with you all along the way. I would never have been able to conduct my interviews without the months of education at

Maizpide in Lazkao. “ Eskerrik Asko” to all the teachers and friends I made while living there.

I would like to give a special thanks to the co-chairs of my committee, Dr. Sandra

Ott for meeting with me during my first visit to UNR back in 2014, giving me opportunities to teach, and for guiding me throughout this whole process by keeping me on track, and to Dr. Jenanne Ferguson who encouraged me endlessly by providing me with professional opportunities, personal advice, and unending support when I doubted the validity of my work. I would like to thank the rest of my committee members, Joseba

Zulaika, Begoña Echeverria, Agurtzane Elordui, and Ian Clayton—you all provided support when needed, each sharing your own advice and encouragement along the way.

Xabier Irujo, I thank you for helping me combine my passions and interests. I would not have been able to start my research on time had it not been for Margaret Bullen. Thank you, Maggie, for helping me come over to the Basque Country, and for welcoming me in and giving me a place at the University of the Basque Country in Donosti.

Although not on my committee, a special thanks to Cameron Watson, who from day one was not only supportive, but excited about my work. You were my earliest set of eyes and ears in the Basque Country, introduced me to many helpful contacts during my research, and provided helpful material and resources before, during, and after my fieldwork. Your mentorship, friendship, advice on learning Euskara , and respect for both my abilities and ineptitudes never ceases. I cannot begin to enumerate the things you have done in support of this journey. Words and one paragraph alone cannot express my gratitude.

There are many people who contributed to the personal and academic foundation that encouraged me throughout various points in my academic career, which started long before my entry into the Center for Basque Studies. I would like to thank Anita Herzfeld who first inspired me to study minoritized languages, sparking an interest for me in my undergraduate years at the University of Kansas. I so enjoyed spending time with you and keeping in touch over the last twenty years. While at the University of Texas, Austin, I had the pleasure of knowing Dr. Ian Hancock who supported me in applying to the

Basque Studies program.

I would not have been able to research this topic without the help of friends who supported me in so many ways. I raise my glass to Matt Camp, Leslie, and everyone from

Max’s Wine Dive who provided a supportive environment to learn about wine, and for helping me get through some of the more difficult moments in life. To my Pili, Francisco, and Monica who accompanied me on one my favorite adventures to find el Tesoro de

Chacoli , it was you all, too, who fueled my obsession with for this drink.

I would not have been able to develop myself professionally had it not been for the financial support provided to me in the way of grants and stipends, some of which came from the Center for Basque studies and the Graduate Student Association at UNR. I completed the last portion of my program with the generous help from the Bilinski

Foundation who awarded me a fellowship that supported me during my last year of writing.

To my family and friends that continually remind me that there is more to life than work. Your support, distractions, and visits reenergized me throughout these four year. To my dad, who encouraged me to be adventurous, independent, and different,

vii whether it was through intellectual curiosity, or through our own adventures as travel buddies, thank you. Your emotional and financial support made this process less stressful than it otherwise may have been. Finally, to my mother, Lois Jean, I have realized through this process that there is more of her in me than I thought there to be while she was alive. Her own strength, independence, desire to learn and travel, grace, patience, and loving kindness to all are qualities I have either gotten from her, or try to emulate. I have great memories that remind me of your continual support in achieving my goals, no matter how far-fetched they may have seemed at the time. I dedicate this to you

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Table of Contents

Abstract……………………………………………………………………………i Dedication…………………………………………………………………………iii Acknowledgments…………………………………………………………………iv List of Tables………………………………………………………………………x List of Figures……………………………………………………………………..xi Summary…………………………………………………………………………..xii Chapter 1: Introduction and Setting ……………………………………………1 Theoretical Framework……………………………………………………1 Methodology……………………………………………………………….7 Language……………………………………………………………...... 22 Social Structures…………………………………………………………..28 Socialization through Commensality……………………………………..34 Social Economy…………………………………………………………...41 Political Environment…………………………………………………….43 Notion of Linguistic Terroir………………………………………………47 Underlying Themes…………………………………………………...... 50 Uztartzea…………………………………………………………..50 Gure……………………………………………………………….52 Authenticity……………………………………………………….51 Dialects Bertako/Bertoko…………………………………………55 Gender…………………………………………………………….56 Historical of Basque Gastronomy………………………………………...56 Chapter 2: The Gastronomic Society …………………………………………..76 Gastronomic Societies……………………………………………………76 Kresala……………………………………………………………76 Gaztelubide……………………………………………………….83 Tolosa Gastronomic Societies……………………………………88 Gazteluleku……………………………………………………….89 Txokos……………………………………………………………………90 Bilboko Umore…………………………………………………...91 Uri-zara…………………………………………………………...92 Chapter 3: War of Milk …………………………………………………………95 Relation to the Baserri………………………………………………………….. 95 Article 18………………………………………………………………… 96 Kaiku versus Euskal Herria Esnea………………………………………. 97 Marketing with Bertsolaritza ……………………………………………..98 Production with UHT……………………………………………………. 103 Eusko Label. ……………………………………………………………..108 Igeldoko Esnea……………………………………………………………117 Larreta ……………………………………………………………………123 Iztueta……………………………………………………………………..124 Mahala…………………………………………………………………….131 Chapter 4: Cider ………………………………………………………………...139

Irrintzi…………………………………………………………………….139 Language…………………………………………………………140 Gender……………………………………………………………141 Production methods………………………………………………………143 Txotx……………………………………………………………………...147 Euskal Sagardoa D.O. ……………………………………………………154 Creating the local…………………………………………………………156 Marketing Sagardoa Internationally……………………………………...157 Zapiain Cider House Experience…………………………………………163 Basque Cider in the United States………………………………………..168 Txotxing with Txakolina…………………………………………………169 Chapter 5: Txakolina …………………………………………………………...171 History……………………………………………………………………171 The Txapela and Txakolina………………………………………………172 Gender……………………………………………………………………173 War of Wines…………………………………………………………….177 Linguistic Terroir………………………………………………………...183 Typography………………………………………………………………188 Modernization of Txakolina……………………………………………...190 Chapter 6: Wine and Rioja Alavesa …………………………………………..204 Marketing using Euskara…………………………………………………204 Marketing the Matriarchy………………………………………………...208 “Our” Wine……………………………………………………………….216 New Designation of Origen………………………………………………219 Chapter 7: Craft Beer …………………………………………………………...228 Craft Beer Movement……………………………………………………..228 Pagoa ……………………………………………………………..229 Keler and Arzak…………………………………………………..230 Boga………………………………………………………………233 Font……………………………………………………………………….242 Social Activism…………………………………………………………...243 Gender…………………………………………………………………….244 Txotxing with Beer………………………………………………………..249 Chapter 8: Conclusions and Further Research…………………………………...252 Applying the Semiofoodscape…………………………………………….252 Products as Platforms……………………………………………………..254 Marketing Strategies………………………………………………………258 Maori Marketing…………………………………………………………..258 Indigenous Tourism…………………………………………………….....259 Comparing to Northern Basque Country………………………………….261 Potential Labeling…………………………………………………………261 Products……………………………………………………………….…..262 Decolonizing Indigenous Marketing………………………………………262 Tourism……………………………………………………………………268 Culinary Nation……………………………………………………………269

List of Tables

Table 1. Glossary

List of Figures

Fig. 1 Map of the Basque Country within Europe

Fig. 2 Provinces of the Basque Country

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Summary

This dissertation analyzes the theoretical and practical ways in which the Basque language is being used in the promotion of local gastronomic products, how such use with material goods affects the value of this minoritized language, and how such use contributes to cultural maintenance and normalización lingüistica, a term that is similar

(but not synonymous) in meaning to language standardization, but one that is not often seen outside Spain. Simply put, this term involves the sociolinguistic process of language standardization, by becoming an unmarked choice in public and private domains, derived from the 1983 Law of Linguistic Normalization in Spain (Laitin and Gomez 1992, 150).

A variety of scholars have contributed to scholarship on topics such as language revitalization in relation to the production of “added value” (Jaffe 2007), authenticity and commodification (Duchene and Heller 2012), language fetishization in tourism (Kelly-

Holmes 2014), language materiality, linguistic landscaping, and the role that food plays in the development of these concepts. In addition, recent work by Sari Pietikäinen and

Helen Kelly-Holmes (2013) and Jillian Cavanaugh and Shalini Shankar (2017) contribute theories about the role of peripheral languages within a capitalist economy. Järlehed and

Moriarty (2018) provide the semiofoodscape as a lens through which semiotic landscapes pertaining to food can be examined (Jaworski and Thurlow 2010). The organization of this dissertation was inspired by Paul Manning’s book, Semiotics of Drink and Drinking

(2012), in which he titles each chapter after a drink, discussing the materiality and meaning of each.

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These works have informed this dissertation greatly as they have investigated language through core-periphery dynamics, shedding light on tensions regarding language commodification, the effects of tourism, concepts of authenticity, and language materiality. In these chapters, various intersectional themes are interwoven word throughout the chapters as a way to observe practices and opinions that contribute to issues related to language, power, and identity in and around Basque culture.

The first chapter will provide a brief history of the Basque culture and language.

Within this chapter, a description of the setting will contextualize my research by describing aspects of the current political, economic, linguistic, and social climate that influence the use of the Basque language and other semiotic images that are be used in local, state, and international markets. The second chapter will lay a foundation for this dissertation by introducing various aspects of the Basque gastronomic society. It will provide a timeline of various milestones in and the development of present-day Basque cuisine, as well as reference the social spaces where food and drink play an integral role in Basque culture: among others, the rural Basque farmhouse or baserri, sociedades gastronómicas or txokos (the Castilian and Basque names, respectively, for private, male- only dining clubs). Chapter 3 will introduce the use of the Basque language, Euskara, in relation to milk production and market consumption. The significance of this chapter lies in the use of Euskara to promote milk products, and the issues that have arisen when milk is produced in small cooperatives, or in multinational companies. Chapter 4 will describe the various aspects that make up the world of cider in the Basque Country and touch on the changes occurring in the regulatory and marketing process of sagardoa, Basque cider, as the industry has modernized. Chapter 5 transitions into demonstrating the plethora of

xiv ways in which Basque is used in the marketing of the emblematic Basque wine,

Txakolina. Another, perhaps more internationally known zone from the Rioja

Denominación de Origen provides the setting for the use of Basque in an interior part of the autonomous community in chapter 6; the use of Basque for marketing purposes in this winemaking region is less common because its population often relates more to Spanish culture and language than to Basque, and due to a perceived appeal of Castilian for international marketing. Chapter 7 will cover the relatively new movement of craft beer production and view how it compares with other beverages in its use of Basque in local and international markets.

Chapter 8 will summarize the conclusions I have drawn by applying previous theorists work to my own research. It will also address additional products, regions, and approaches that can be applied and analyzed. It will reiterate the importance of acknowledging the previous theories and work conducted on related topics, which, as I highlight, may not be an applicable way to approach all efforts in language revitalization, maintenance, or standardization; not everyone may find merit in the way that culture and language can be used for capital gain, despite the success of some examples provided in this dissertation. An overview of such gaps not covered in this research will be addressed in this final chapter.

Photo credit: my friend and roommate, Leire Ercilla

Jan, Edan, Entzun, Ikusi eta Ikasi

(Eat, drink, listen, see, and learn)

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Glossary/and Basque English and Spanish/Castilian List of terms

Basque English Castilian ardoa wine el vino Alde Zaharra Old Part/ Old Town Parte Vieja Arabako from Araba de Araba barnetegi Basque language school internado baserria Basque farmhouse caserío bertso sung, improvised poetry bertso bertsolari person who sings improvised bertsolari poetry bertsolaritza Improvised poetry sung in bertsolaritza Basque bote/pote kitty bote bixigu sea bream bixigu Bizkaiko from Bizkaia de Bizkaia buruko mina headache dolor de cabeza Donostia San Sebastian San Sebastián esnea milk la leche eguzkilore sunflower (related to the flor de sol thistle) esnea milk la leche etxea house la casa Euskal herria The entirety of the Basque el País Vasco Country (literally "country of the Basque language") Euskal Sukaldaritza Vasca New Basque Cuisine Nueva Cocina Vasca euskara Basque language (Batua el vasco, vascuence spelling) euskera Basque language (dialectal el vasco spelling) euskalduna Basque speaker hablante vasco garagardoa beer la cerveza gure our nuestro Getariako from Getaria de Getaria ikurriña Basque flag bandera vasca kaiku Wooden milk receptacle kaiku kuadrilla Friend group la cuadrilla kilometro zero (km0) zero kilometer kilómetro zero

xvii lauburu lauburu (literally four heads) lauburu (literalmente cuatro cabezas) lehengai base ingredient/raw material materia prima maridaje (loan word) (food) pairing pairing nortasuna identity, character la identidad, cáracter odolki blood pudding pate de morcilla pintxoa small portions of food, tapas usually with a stick through them sagardoa cider sidra tamborrada drum parade La tamborrada (terroir) terroir (French concept not (terroir) uniformly translated) Txakolina(na) Txakolina(na) chacoli(na) txapela traditional Basque beret-style la boina/chapela hat txikiteo barhopping with friends potear txistularia Basque flute player chistulari txoko male-only eating societies sociedad gastronómica (literally “corner”) txotx txotx/little stick/ txotx/palito uztartzea pairing el maridaje zuri white blanco

Chapter 1 : Introduction and Setting

Review of Theory and Literature

When the idea of this dissertation was being developed, the most important and contrasting Basque beverages that I wanted to research were two distinct types of wines-

Txakolina and wine from the zone of Rioja Alavesa. The original idea arose from thinking about wine as a commodified drink that can command up to thousands of dollars per bottle. In thinking about qualities such as prestige and concepts of authenticity that can be attributed to wine and language alike, I presumed both prestige and authenticity could be attributed to language if coupled with a wine that was seen to embody such qualities. My argument begins from Karl Marx’s and Pierre Bourdieu’s contributions to our understanding of the social economy with commodity fetishism (Tucker 1978, 319) and social distinction through the attainment of cultural capital (Bourdieu 1984). Within the economic context of capitalism, the combination of these theorists’ ideas support the notion that value can be created for a commodity, which can then become a tool—in this case through taste—to be utilized in the creation of social and economic distinction.

Sari Pietikäinen, Helen Kelly-Holmes, Alexandra Jaffe, and Nikolas Coupland’s book, Sociolinguistics in the Periphery : Small Languages New Circumstances (2016), highlights the changing center-periphery dynamics in four minority language communities. The movement between the peripheries and the centers is experientially and culturally consequential for all social actors, whether they are “locals” or “visitors” in these mobile environments (ix). Issues of identity and language are foregrounded as peripheral spaces throw contemporary globalization processes and economic condition

2 into relief (x). To carry out their work, they use the theoretical lenses of reflexivity, authenticity, commodification, and transgression, which feed into each other as language practices are enacted, attributed, contested, and changed across different places.

The aforementioned Sociolinguistics in the Periphery grew out of Multilingualism and the Periphery edited by Sari Pietikäinen and Helen Kelly-Holmes (2013). They look at how minoritized languages’ functions are shaped by center-periphery dynamics, or the political, economic, or geographic relationship between a perceived center and peripheral sites. In this book scholars such as Monica Heller cover topics about class, language, and transitional markets in Francophone Canada, while Nikolas Coupland writes on linguistic processes in relation to Welsh tea. I use these books and the frameworks they present to demonstrate how value is created for both food and language through the authenticating uses of Euskara in efforts of language resistance in the Basque wine-making region of

Rioja Alavesa.

In Sociolinguistics in the Periphery the first chapter gives examples demonstrating the use of a minoritized language for marketing different brands and services. They describe a hotel in northern Finland that uses a Northern Sami word that refers to the hotel’s location and claim this is the first time that this language was used within a touristic context to brand a hotel. A Corsican T-shirt is adorned with the

Corsican language in the style of a global brand. In Ireland, a web-based enterprise markets slogans such as “Luke, I am your father” in Irish. The book’s final example takes places in Wales, where artisan potato chips use Welsh-language-branded sea salt to create a distinctive and exclusive brand identity (1). It is through examples such as these, and

3 especially the food-related latter, that we can see the use of minoritized languages to create value in a process that supports language resistance.

These authors claim that place can function as a trope in authenticating food products within discourses of localness. Producing, supplying and consuming local foods constitute a “food regime,” exemplifying how localization is mobilized against globalizing food forces. “The transformation of mundane commodities into elite ones … are not seen as directly indexing essential and unreflexive elements of the experiences and practices of people in peripheral places; rather localness and local transformation are cast as something that can be consumed and experienced as a reflexive, intentional act by mobile consumers/tourists” (90).

The authors show how products and languages both become commodified to create symbolic value. A sort of linguistic fetish is then created with tourists and consumers valuing authentic products, niche markets, and products of distinction marketed by the local language of a place (111). It is through this process that minority languages such as Basque can be used to create distinct, authentic products that represent the niche market of Basque gastronomic products, indexing the people and the places where they are produced.

Jillian Cavanaugh and Shalini Shankar's book Language Materiality (2017) contains themes like those found in Multilingualism and the Periphery , such as Keith

Muphy's work on the use of fonts, Paul Manning's chapter on the semiotic ecology of drinks and talk in Georgia, and Monica Heller's chapter, "Can Language be a

Commodity?" This book uses some of the same lenses, such as language commodification, to examine how materiality may be approached as a feature of the

4 political economy, a vital dimension of social life and signification in global capitalism, connecting inquiries on subjects such as food, media, and fonts (2017). Shankar and

Cavanaugh see the “language of everyday life as material practice: embedded with structures of history and power, including class relations and markets, but also having physical presence” (2017, 1) Their goal is to combine language and materiality together to shed light on processes of meaning-making and value production, and to show how incorporating materiality into linguistic analysis can ground “distinctive material processes within social, cultural, political, and economic structures of power (1). Part of viewing language materiality is to view it as a material presence with physical and metaphysical properties, embedded in these political economic structures. The goal is to view the materiality of language rather than conceptualizing materiality alongside but distinct from language (1).

In chapter 9 of their book, Nikolas Coupland and Helen Kelly-Holmes look at the place branding and marketing of material objects offered for sale, made and sold in bilingual Ireland and Wales. They see language in the same way as Pietikäinen, Kelly-

Holmes, Jaffe, and Coupland do, identifying language in terms of its distance from centers of power, which can include a measure of power gained from a concentrated number of language speakers (Cavanaugh and Shankar 2017, 166). Products are imbued with linguistic and cultural value by embedding fragments of Welsh and Irish visual themes and tropes onto the material objects they manufacture, incorporating language and iconography into the materiality of culturally resonant “things.” I will show, however, in later in my dissertation that this added value depends on various factors, some of which can weaken the value of language as seen in the chapter about milk. By incorporating

5 language into the materiality of cultural “things,” Coupland and Kelly-Holmes state that these practices show how it is possible to reconfigure what might be minority, peripheral, traditional, and artisanal national spaces, into sites of elite and global production/consumption. These product labels are not only “linguistic objects”, but through language commodification, they become material forms of things that are

“stabilized” metacultural objects (166). The value of these products not only depends on the product presentation itself, but also on the material conditions of production and consumption. They state that while the products are “strongly themed in national and local terms (such as the use of Basque flag colors and Euskara, for example), their very successful marketing and sales efforts transcend local- and national-level structures and networks that invoke local linguistic, semiotic, and cultural resources in their product designs and marketing discourses, but project them into both national and international markets (174). For the cases put forward by Coupland and Kelly-Holmes, language planning and revitalization initiatives have played a significant role in commodifying the languages they target. Each establishes a commercial niche by offering culturally authenticated products for global as well as local consumers.

They use this theory to investigate how language exhibits material qualities, whether alone or in conjunction with other registers of materiality. This is precisely what

I demonstrate throughout the chapter in Rioja Alavesa with the materiality of labels found on commodified products such as wine, as well as with other mediums of the linguistic landscape that sell products of this wine-making zone. The material in this case becomes relevant as it is associated with wine, a commodified product that has been fetishized to create social distinction (Bourdieu 1984).

Scholars such as Agurtzane Elordui and Estitxu Garai are looking at various ways in which positive value is created for Euskara, and have contributed significantly to the development of my research. There is, however, a lack of literature addressing the role of gastronomy in relation to culture and more specifically language for the Basque case and support for language normalization. Järlehed and Moriarty (2018) provide an exception with a timely article (published as I was writing this dissertation) titled “Culture and

Class in a Glass: Scaling the Semiofoodscape,” which provides the semiofoodscape as a lens for examining semiotic landscapes pertaining to food (26). It is especially relevant as it puts forth this concept to study the interrelationship between food and language, and in particular, Txakolina . I am able highlight the different ways that Euskara interacts with wine and food products in relation to the ingredients of the semiofoodscape as laid out by this work. I can look at each product as seen through the spaces (stores, festivals, and markets), actors (such as producers and advertising agencies), practices (eating and drinking, and branding) norms (implicitly as defined by class in the Bourdieuian sense), and inscriptional genres (labels, for example) (27). Their work provides a framework for looking at gastronomy and semiotics with Txakolina, while mine provides a broader ethnographic look into how value for Euskara and gastronomic products function toward language normalization.

While a subtheme of gender was originally included in my outline, its role in my dissertation increased throughout the writing process. Over the course of my fieldwork, most of my interviews were with men. They were primarily the ones who owned

Txakolindegis, bodegas in Rioja, cider houses, and craft beer cooperative, Boga. Women were more present as interviewees when talking with language professors, milk

7 producers, and oenologists. Although over all women were the minority for my interviews, they were the leading protagonists in food sectors when language issues were concerned. Estitxu Garai (milk) and Itxaso Compañon (Rioja Alavesa) were two main language activists, which challenges the traditional notion that men are the linguistic resources in Basque culture (Echeverria 2003). I therefore explore the role of gender in relationship to value, language, and marketing throughout my dissertation and especially in the Rioja Alavesa and beer chapters, using the work of Teresa del Valle (1985),

Margaret Bullen (2003), and Echeverria (2003).

These scholars support the role of peripheral languages within globalized capitalism. All of them have informed this work greatly as they have investigated language through core-periphery dynamics, shedding light on tensions regarding language commodification, the effects of tourism, concepts of authenticity, and language materiality. There is not just one lens used to examine the relationship between culture, language, and food. The ideas put forth by these theorists, the intersectionalities that I analyze and weave through this research, and the concepts that function as subthemes throughout this work function more together to form a focus point.

Methodology

Ethnography allows us to investigate the nuances of everyday life, and is used in this case to better understand how the use of semiotics when marketing local products demonstrates the political, social, linguistic, and economic climate in which they function, and in return how marketing practices reflect the culture in which they are employed. Employing ethnographic methods such as participant observation requires

8 cultural immersion so that nuances of daily life can be observed, discussed, and documented, while the more formal interviews I conducted allowed for a deeper understanding of the subject by asking specific questions.

As an ethnographer who has studied the Basque language and culture by living in the Basque Country for over a year, I identified a range of linguistic and social norms before allowing my cumulative experiences to inform my observations. Although providing a completely objective picture is the goal, it is necessary to acknowledge that I entered my research in the Basque Country with a certain positionality, and that positionality changed over time, place, and according to with whom I interacted.

Positionality, the self-awareness of, for example, gender, class ethnicity, family, personality, and age define work as a researcher (Harding 1986). To shed light on some of my own positionality within my research, I will reveal some of the ways in which my biases were grounded in certain social, linguistic, political, and economic influences on my life that, in turn, color my work. This means that I am looking at my research in comparison to my own experiences; in other words, from the perspective of a thirty- something white female, born and raised in Kansas, who has spent the adult portion of her life as a relatively transient person who thrives in attempting to create understanding between myself and others. Linguistically speaking, before conducting fieldwork, I had studied several Latin-based languages, but never Basque, until I arrived at the Center for

Basque Studies. These few facts position me within the ethnographic space of observation, leading me naturally to compare my experiences in the Basque Country with those I previously had. Because of this, my influence and subjectivity are always present despite my attempts to present information from an objective perspective. My previous

9 experiences in the service and wine industries allow me to compare various aspects of the profession in the various settings I researched, such as bars, bodegas, vineyards, street life, during festivals, at food conferences, and other sites of food and cultural production.

The ethnographic component of my studies in the Basque Country, known in

Basque as Euskal Herria, commenced during the summer of 2016 when I was enrolled at a barnetegi (Basque language immersion school) for two months. It was there that I intensively learned about language and culture in a strictly Basque-speaking environment. I returned to the Center for Basque Studies in Reno for comprehensive exams and several classes in Basque. In January of 2017, I moved to San

Sebastián/Donostia (which I will refer to as Donostia from this point, in Euskara)

Gipuzkoa, to start living in the Basque Country for my official year of fieldwork. After having Donostia as my home base for approximately seven months, I lived in a small town called Lazkao at Maizpide again for a couple of weeks, then in the neighborhood of

Gazeta outside of the town of Elorrio for two months, and finally in Bilbo for just over two months. While living in each of these cities, I traveled often to many other sites throughout the Basque Country. Over the course of the year I observed and interacted with people from various cultural, linguistic, and gastronomic sectors and institutions in efforts to contact and interact with the key players of Basque gastronomy. I will refer to these names throughout the dissertation and why I contacted them.

Figure 1.1. Map of the Basque Country within Europe

Map edited from Wikimedia Commons by Iñaki Arrieta Baro, April 10, 2018

Figure 2. Map of the Basque provinces and towns where I lived

Bilbo Donostia

Elorrio

Map modified from Wikimedia Commons.

I completed the Institutional Review Board (IRB) process and was authorized to conduct research. This process prepared me by requiring me to think about who I wanted to study and interview, how, and what the social consequences could be. Through this process, I developed a consent form that participants could sign (included below), but also received permission to receive verbal consent should signing consent forms not be typical of the local research culture. I presented myself and my goals to almost everyone I interviewed, and when possible received verbal consent on recordings, therefore did not ever need to receive signed consent. During and afterward I assured them that I could create anonymity or disregard information collected.

The methodologies that I used during research were based on an ethnographic approach comprised of both qualitative and quantitative components. The qualitative research consisted of formal and informal interviews that were either recorded with audio

(later to be transcribed) or written by hand. I engaged in participant observation, during which I interacted, observed, and recorded notes on my surroundings in various environments. Examples of this include observations made while reading social media, taking part in traditional celebrations, along with living in a Basque immersion school as well as a homestay with native Basque speakers.

I interviewed an array of people informally and formally for which I have no specific list. However, if I were to enumerate the places or people as categorized by my dissertation chapters, my year of fieldwork included visiting and/or interviewing (in person, phone, email): four Michelin-star chefs, ten gastronomic societies, six milk producers, seven cider producers, twenty-one Txakolina producers (three from Arabako

Txakolina DO, nine from Getariako Txakolina, and nine from Bizkaiko Txakolina), ten

Rioja Alavesa producers, and three beer producers. In addition, examples of the other people I interviewed were those from the food related organizations such as Eduardo

Aguinaco (provincial deputy for agriculture in Áraba/Álava), and leaders of organizations

Errigora, HAZI, and ABRA, and associations such as the Cofradía Vasca de

Gastronomía, Euskal Sagardoa, Bizkaiko Txakolina. I also focused on interviewing those in the language sectors such as my own professors from Maizpide barnetegi, the euskaltegis in Bilbo and Donostia, sociolinguist Dr. Estibaliz Amorrortu from Deusto

University, and employees from the group Soziolinguistika Klusterra (Sociolinguistics

Cluster). Notes were taken in both formal and informal interviews, some of which I had prepared questions prior, and some for which I had not (either because I had not anticipated or wanted prescribed questions, or because questions veered from what I had prepared).

The quantitative research I collected was derived primarily from interviews and studies that were gathered from local Basque organizations, businesses like HAZI, data provided by government and local authorities. However, not much of this was used directly in my dissertation as my work focuses more on a qualitative approach.

Before departing from the Basque Country, I conducted one focus group inviting

Txakolina producers, teachers, and friends I had met while learning Euskara, and professors from Basque universities. I wanted this opportunity to serve several purposes: to say thank you for their time over the course of the year, to give them a formal wine tasting that included a competition with prizes (books related to Basque culture) a presentation on research and a summary of my findings, as well as one last chance to gain

14 information with a questionnaire about the value of Euskara, definition of Txakolina, and other questions that pertained to marketing the product and language (see attached sheet).

Figure 1.2. Sample Questionnaire

Nombre (opcional):______Eres de (opcional):______

1. ¿Cómo se define el Txakolina?

2. ¿Hablas euskara?

Si la respuesta es sí, ¿dónde y con quién?

(Productores) Si la respuesta es sí, ¿se usa euskara para promocionar?

Si la respuesta es sí, ¿cómo? (etiqueta, página web, señales, etc.)

3. (Productores) Si no hablas euskara, ¿cuál idioma se usa y por qué?

4. ¿Piensas que los productores que se usan euskara tienen un valor añadido?

Si la respuesta es sí, ¿cuáles? (leche, cerveza, vino, sidra, u otros)

Si crees que hay un valor añadido, ¿por qué? ¿O por qué no?

Otros commentaries:

Outside of my interviews I placed myself in living and working conditions that provided me with multifaceted ways of viewing gastronomically and linguistically related issues. Examples of this include having observed those in the winemaking industry to become familiar with the production process; touring Basque farmhouses, or baserriak ; attending local conferences organized by universities and regulatory boards that were related to food tourism; interviewing members of gastronomic societies and txokos ; taking part in local festivals; and speaking with language activist groups.

At the beginning of my research, I took copious notes during interviews, translating and clarifying details during the interviewing process itself. As I grew more confident about conducting interviews and how my presence was perceived, I eventually felt comfortable asking for verbal consent to audio record interviews. Most of the more formal interviews took place in Castilian due to my own linguistic competence in speaking and understanding Castilian better than in Euskara, while informal interviews took place in both Castilian and Basque. I transferred the audio files to myself so that I could then transcribe the information through a computer program, and for less pertinent interviews, transcribed by hand the most relevant information. I also took notes daily that

I used to supplement the research. I relate the audio data collected with other visual data, and experiences recorded in notes. For example, if an interviewee mentioned that he or she values the Basque language to the extent that all the restaurant’s service employees speak Basque, but a menu written in Basque is not available to the customers, I consulted pictures and notes from the interview to see what degree Basque language or culture is integrated into the dining experience. I might then compare that experience with my other

17 dining experiences and interviews, as well as incorporate other ways in which the restaurant might use Basque, such as in media promotion.

Figure 1.3. consent form.

Consent Information Script or Sheet Template I am conducting research to learn more about the role that gastronomy plays in building cultural identity, which includes the use of the Basque language.

If you volunteer to be in this study, you might asked: • to describe your food preferences • to comment on whether authenticity is important in buying food products • to reflect on what might contribute to a product’s authenticity

Questions may be asked regarding food production methods, marketing strategies, and regional variances of specific food products (such as wine, beans, cider, peppers, and other food and drink). Audio/video taping, or photographs might be utilized to record the language used during discussions about food, and to capture various food production methods and environments.

Your participation will take as long as you like, but may vary from a matter of minutes, to a number of hours or days over a prolonged period of time.

This study is considered to entail minimal risk of harm. This means the risks of your participation in the research are similar in type or intensity to what you encounter during your daily activities. You may be asked about regional preferences regarding food, and opinions regarding the Basque language and others’ attitudes toward them.

Benefits of doing research are not definite; but I hope to learn more about Basque food and drink and how they affect identity and use of a minority language-in this case, Basque. This could possibly add to our understanding how food and drink affect the economy, political entities, local and regional markets, and language use. There are no direct benefits to you in this study.

The researchers and the University of Nevada, Reno will treat your identity and the information collected about you with professional standards of confidentiality and protect it to the extent allowed by law. You will not be personally identified in any reports or publications that may result from this study. The US Department of Health and Human Services, the University of Nevada, Reno Research Integrity Office, and the Institutional Review Board may look at your study records.

Required Language You may ask questions of the researcher at any time by calling Kerri Lesh at 001.316.680.5114, or by sending an email to [email protected].

Your participation in this study is completely voluntary. You may stop at any time.

You may ask about your rights as a research participant. If you have questions, concerns, or complaints about this research, you may report them (anonymously if you so choose) by calling the University of Nevada, Reno Research Integrity Office at 001.775.327.2368.

Thank you for your participation in this study!

Figure 1.4. Photo/Video release form.

University of Nevada, Reno

Photo/Video Release Form for Research

Title of Study: Basque marketing through Language, wine and gastronomy Principle Investigator: Sandra Ott Co-Investigators: Kerri Lesh IRB Number: 995750-1 Sponsor: Universidad de Nevada, Reno

[Fotografías estarán tomados, o video hecho de ti durante su participación en este proyecto de investigaciones. Por favor, indique cómo podemos usar sus imagines. Estar de acuerdo permitir tus imagines estar usados para las investigaciones es voluntario. El uso de las imagines, tu nombre, y cualquier cosa mas no va estar usado si no prefieres. [Photographs will be taken, or video-recordings will be made] of you during your participation in this research project. Please indicate below how we may use your images. Agreeing to allow your images to be used for research is completely voluntary and up to you. In any use of your images, your name will not be disclosed if you so wish.

Por favor, pon las iniciales en los espacios, al lado de los usos que permite.

For all uses to which you agree, please initial in the spaces provided in the following table:

Initiales Usos 1. Las imágenes se pueden utilizar por el grupo de investigadores para este proyecto de estudios. The images may be studied by the research team for this research project. 2. Las imágenes se pueden utilizar para publicaciones científicas. The images may be used for scientific publications. 3. Las imágenes se pueden utilizar en reuniones de científicos, quienes son interesados en el estudio de vino/comida/producción de comida, el uso de lenguas. The images may be used at meetings of scientists interested in the study of wine/food production, language use, etc.

4. Las imágenes se pueden utilizar para enseñar a los estudiantes sobre el vino/ comida/producción de comida, el uso de lenguas, etc. The images may be used in classrooms to teach students about wine/food production and language use, etc. Las imágenes se pueden utilizar en presentaciones en blogs o al público (a quienes no son científicos).

5. La grabación de audio se puede utilizar en la televisión y radio. 6. The audio recording may be used on television and radio. Tienes el derecho a solicitar que la grabación se detenga o borre en cualquier momento.

Al firmar a continuación, está de acuerdo en que ha leído las descripciones y dar su consentimiento para el uso de sus imágenes como se indica por sus iniciales.

You have the right to request that the recording be stopped or erased at any time. By signing below, you are agreeing that you have read the above description and give your consent for the uses of your images as indicated by your initials.

Nombre de participante Participant’s Name Printed

Firma de participante Signature of Participant Fecha

Firma de Kerri Lesh Signature of Person Fecha Obtaining Consent

Linguistic, Social, Economic, and Political Background

Knowing the recent history of the Basque Country is an integral part of understanding issues that the Basques have faced over time, and how that has shaped the current climate. Looking at the linguistic, social, economic, and political settings in which food, and more specifically in this case, beverages, are produced and marketed is necessary to understanding how and why each functions independently from one another.

The social structures that influence the Basque people’s way of life and language use when marketing commodities are key to understanding the political and economic goals of producers and businesses, and the Basque Country consumption patterns. More about this will be discussed in chapter 2, “The Gastronomic Society” and tied into every following chapter. The economic setting will demonstrate the concerns and obstacles that producers and industries face when advertising to local and global markets. The political setting defines not only the geographical boundaries in which the marketing of commodities takes place, but also provides a historical link to present-day laws that govern language use both in and outside the marketing sector, thereby influencing how and why the social-economy functions as it does. To summarize I will look at all four— linguistic, social, political, and economic—dimensions of Basque culture and how they contribute to one another separately, as well as in relation to one another.

Language

Throughout recent Basque history, Euskara has played an important role in constructing

Basque identity. In the eighteenth century, the crown was attempting to centralize the state. The Basque language at this time “was considered a barbarism,” and as a result,

23 during the eighteenth-century language loyalists like Jesuit priest Manuel de Larramendi wrote various texts as a retort to the linguistic slandering of Spanish philologists (Urla

2012, 25). Larramendi also fought to retain the special political rights of the fueros — granted in medieval times to allow for a certain degree of self-governance. Eventually, in

1876, the fueros were lost and “Basque nationalism as a political ideology subsequently began to take shape” (Urla 2012, 28).

As a result of nineteenth-century industrialization and the demographic movement of the rural Basque speakers to urban areas that had experienced immigration from other parts of Spain, many Basques abandoned the use of Euskara. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the Euskal Pizkundea or the Basque cultural renaissance started to unfold, and language loyalists portrayed Euskara as a romanticized part of rural life. A once fairly stable diglossia of Basque and Castilian evolved into a linguistic divide with the demographic movement from the countryside, where most Basque speakers resided, to urban areas that had experienced immigration from other parts of Spain. The differentiation between vascos (Basques) and euskaldunak (Basque speakers) would create an ongoing tension with the Basque-identified community (Urla 2012, 28–30).

Various networks of Basque language loyalists formed while Sabino Arana Goiri, creator of the Basque Nationalist Party, was simultaneously writing a treatise defining what for him were the five fundamental elements of the Basque nation. While race, traditional democratic self-governance, intelligence, and even cleanliness were included in their unique historical character, Euskara played an important role (Urla 2012, 32–33).

In addition to the treatises and grammar books, in 1896 Arana published an orthography for the western province of Bizkaia’s dialect, Lecciones de ortografía del euskera

24 bizkaino (Urla 2012, 86). Since Basque had previously been primarily an oral language, the transition to writing came to depend on the Roman alphabet and spelling conventions of French and Castilian. Arana’s writing sought to eliminate some of these conventions to make Basque differences more apparent from French and Castilian—something I will comment on and illustrate through various labels and signs written in Euskara. Some of these changes can still be observed today, such as the replacement of “j” with “x,” “k” for

“c” and “qu,” as well as a way to write Basque sibilants written as “ts,” “tx,” and “ts”

(Urla 2012, 86). The creation of the Euskaltzaindia (Basque Language Academy) and the

Eusko-Ikaskuntza (Society of Basque Studies) in 1918 marked a key development for the

Basque culture and language (Watson 2003, 243). This first wave of Basque nationalism and language revival used language as evidence for the Basques’ identity based on their origin and distinction from Spanish culture (Urla 2012, 50).

After the end of the Civil War (1936–1939) and under Francisco Franco’s strict regime (1939–1975), two of the Basque provinces were deemed “traitorous” and attempts were made to exterminate all vestiges of Basque culture, which included targeting the use of Euskara. (Watson 2003, 306-307). The regime prohibited the teaching and use of the

Basque language in all public places under the dictatorship (Clark 1979, 79–106). In the early 1950s, a group of male students known by the name Ekin had been actively involved in clandestine meetings. They began to organize themselves more formally by shifting from general research on Basque culture to more intellectual investigations and even the publication of Basque historical and cultural information. They concluded that

Basque independence was the only rea l goal of Basque nationalism, returning to the

25 political issues of Basque culture in comparison to the Spanish and French states (Watson

2003, 320–321).

Ekin had a twofold purpose: to serve as an educational organization aimed at diffusing Basque language, history, and culture among its membership, and to create a more clandestine nationalist political organization (Watson 2003, 322–323). Thereafter, an Ekin-inspired activist faction came up with a new name in 1959, Euzkadi ta

Askatasuna (ETA), which means “Basqueland and Freedom” (Urla 2012, 51). With increased activity from the Basque Language Academy, always within the constraints imposed by the Franco regime, and a move to increase clandestine Basque-language schools in the 1960s, the indexical property and semiotic function of Basque became a principle marker in Basque culture within the national liberation movements; Basqueness had become centered on language and culture, evolving in importance as it transitioned from heritage to practice (Urla 2012, 51–52).

Toward the end of the Franco regime a number of interests were represented within ETA, and eventually violent confrontations between ETA members and the Civil

Guard escalated to include incarceration, torture, and death. Despite a previous twenty- year nonviolent history, more violence and attempted negotiations would take place on both sides for years to come (Watson 2003, 322–332). The 1978 Constitution granted more autonomy to the Basque Country, including language rights, and in 1979 under the

Statute of Autonomy, Basque became an official language (Amorrortu 2003, 42). In

1982, the Ley Básica de Normalización del Uso de Euskera, known as the Law of Basque

(Urla and Burdick 2018, 4) Act of Normalization of the Basque Language (Amorrortu

2003, 43), provided an impetus for supporting and quantifying language use in public

26 domains and linguistic landscapes (Urla and Burdick 2018, 4). I summarize this more recent history of Basque culture and language here to demonstrate its central role in constructing Basque identity.

The vitality and value of Basque continues to play a significant role in constructing Basque identity. According to The Network to Promote Language Diversity, in all of the Basque Country to include the Northern Basque Country in France, there are a total of 751,500 speakers, of which 479,400 are native (NPLD, 2016). These figures match with the 2016 Sixth Sociolinguistic Survey (VI Enquête Sociolinguistique en

Euskal), which says that out of entire Basque Country, 28.4 percent of the population over sixteen (those who were measured) can speak Basque as a bilingual. The total number of Basque speakers has risen by 223,000 people (6 percent) since the 1991 survey. Additionally, 16.4 percent are passive Basque speakers who can understand but not communicate fully in Basque. That leaves just over half (55.2 percent that are non-

Basque speakers). The Basque Autonomous Community, which is made up of Bizkaia,

Gipuzkoa, and Álava, respectively 27.6 percent, 50.6 percent, and 19.2 percent. These are the areas where I conducted most my fieldwork, while living in Gipuzkoa (Donostia) and

Bizkaia (Bilbo and Elorrio).

Basque historian Cameron Watson translates the findings from this French survey in a blog post for the Center for Basque Studies. He notes that “55.8% of all people aged

16 or over is in favor of pro-Basque language initiatives; 28.2% is neither for or against such initiatives; and 16% is against any such initiatives. Moreover, 85.5% of people aged

16 or over believe that in the future everyone should speak Basque and either Castilian or

French in the Basque Country, while 9.2% think that just Basque should be spoken, and

4.1% would prefer that just Castilian or French was spoken” In regard to the models of

primary and secondary education, 57.6 percent of the population favor complete immersion in the Basque language for their children (Basque as the vehicular language with Castilian or French as subjects), while 23.7 percent favor a bilingual model, with equal teaching hours devoted to Basque and Castilian or French (Watson 2017).

Various studies aimed at measuring the vitality and value of Basque as efforts for language normalization and revitalization are carried out. Street surveys such as the Kale

Neurketa measure the percentage of Basque spoken in public spaces throughout the

Basque provinces with the goal of assessing the success of language revitalization efforts in making Basque a “public” language, while linguistic landscape studies examine language use in visual contexts, such as on public signs (Urla and Burdick 2018, 6–10).

Both the street surveys and the examination of the linguistic landscape problematize the use of language in comparison to the knowledge of language.

Performing these studies sets the table for arguing in favor of Basque language use through added value in using minoritized languages (Duchene and Heller 2012) and for challenging prejudices about the uselessness of a regional language with demonstrable social economic value (Urla 2018 on Baztarrika 2016). Certain questions highlighted by Urla and Burdick (2018, 19) point to the need for qualitative information such as that gathered by my fieldwork: what kind of “Basque” is being spoken and why, for example. However, while my fieldwork revealed that this is a necessary step toward increasing the use of Basque, “value” is not the only factor in preventing Basque from being used in all gastronomic spaces and on signs such as wine labels. Through qualitative research I identified some reasons why other languages are chosen over

Basque in the practice of Basque gastronomic traditions and in the marketing of Basque

28 beverages. Many of these have to do with the fear of not selling their product, whether it is due to the perception of Euskara within Spanish markets, or the fear of tourists not understanding.

Basque Social Life

Understanding the role that language played in history folds into the pertinent elements of

Basque social life. One of the most basic, primary institutions of rural Basque society originated largely in the rural farmhouse, or the baserri (Douglass and Zulaika 2012,

224). As mentioned in Sandra Ott’s The Circle of Mountains (1981), this physical structure is also a domestic establishment in which typically the female head of household presides, and a socioeconomic unit to which all members contribute their skills

(41). I use this structure as a reference point as I look at social and economic influences that are weaved into extending practices in daily life, as well as their influences on how commodities are being marketed.

Many social practices, structures, and commodities found in Basque daily life can be linked to the baserri . Starting with the traditional structure of the house, Ott describes the typical kitchen in Sainte-Engrâce as the social center of the house. Throughout the day, it provides a place of rest, commensality, and communication. Men, women, and children eat together and are intermixed, not segregated by age or sex. In her book, she also describes it as the domain of the elder female of the house (40). While I observed that the notion of these gender-related spaces had evolved, their relevance still plays a role in the formation of gendered spaces, such as gastronomic societies. I will continue describing these gendered spaces in the following chapter.

Knowing that the rural home is the foundation of the culture—providing a cradle for the Basque language, the dynamics of cooperative relations, and a sense of

“localness” for food products typically made on the farm—informs the way in which advertising is used. Products that were most commonly made around the house tend to signify more Basque identity through the marketing of language and symbols than do products not associated with the baserri farm life. The social structure of the baserri and the cooperative way of living that prove helpful in rural areas can be replicated in social groups elsewhere, such as in kuadrillas (tight friendship groups), txikiteos (barhopping with a group of friends) , and gastronomic societies (traditionally male-only clubs for eating and socializing), and even in the social-economy with business cooperatives.

In discussing my drinking experiences upon my return, I was asked about my experiences in drinking as it embodies many importance components of Basque values: communication, movement, primal needs of eating and drinking, economic structures, cooperativism, localism, and friendships. In response, I recalled my own experiences in performing the txikiteo with my classmates at barnetegi, flatmates, and their friends. In each of the situations we would establish a plan for approximately when we would go out and where we would start, typically coordinated with a Whatsapp group text. Most of us would head out together, with a few people joining later if necessary. Depending on the company, Euskara was the form of communication when possible, sometimes slipping into Castilian if speakers had low level knowledge of Basque. We would typically spend just enough time at a bar to enjoy one or two drinks before moving on to the next one.

Thursdays were the typical “pintxo pote” night when most people went out barhopping, grabbing a few pintxos to accompany a beer (caña or zurito), a smaller glass of wine,

30 cider, or sometimes even a mixed drink. For longer evenings out, one person usually took care of ordering and paying with the bote or collection of money. No matter where we were (accept for when I lived up the hill from the town of Elorrio) we always visited places within walking distance, maintaining a close connection with the neighborhood bars. Not always, but often the conversation revolved around events, news, or socials happenings in the community.

When asked to comment about consuming alcohol in excess and getting drunk, I paused to think about my drinking experiences there versus in the United States. What immediately came to mind was the phrase I often heard, “Little and often.” I could easily say that I drank much more in the Basque Country in my year there than I did here. Much of that could be because I enjoyed trying the various kinds of pintxos, but it had more to do with being part of the prominent street culture while eating and drinking. Serving sizes for beverages were generally smaller and therefore cheaper than in the U.S. and were accompanied by smaller portions of food. This type of consumption, coupled with intermittent walking from bar to bar seemed to allow for a marathon-speed of consumption rather than a sprint-style often seen in the United States; mixed drinks were not consumed as often as lower-alcoholic beverages, and rarely were shots of hard liquor drunk. Thus, the social drinking in the Basque Country left me with few stories of being completely inebriated.

The one exception that came close to level of drunkenness was the celebration of

Carnaval. It was meant to be an all-nighter or gaupasa for most, making the costumes we wore that night worthwhile. Having studied wine, I dressed as a male sommelier wearing a dressy black jacket and a penciled-on mustache. After several drinks had been bought

31 and consumed—most of which had been shared between several people—I was beginning to feel the effects. The bars were packed like sardines and lines to the bathroom were endless. The loud music and constant shoving and bumping into people had begun to make me feel claustrophobic. I suddenly needed air.

The slight dizziness, lights, loud music, and bumping around had turned me into a ball inside pinball machine as I tried to find the exit. I reached the street and sucked in a breath of air. I barely remember how I managed to obtain a cigarette from someone— something I rarely did as I hardly ever smoked. I leaned up against the wall, inhaled, and felt relieved to have my personal space back. It had to be at least 3:00 am. I reached into my front jacket pocket for my phone to look at the time. It wasn’t there. I left my personal space in the street to search for my friend. We all looked around on the floor the best we could before heading back out into the street. Somehow I remembered that I could access the signal from my laptop back home, so some of my roommates stayed together retracing steps and calling my phone while I returned to the apartment. I managed to open my lap top and the “Find my phone” application. To my surprise, I was able to find the signal and followed it as it moved around the streets of our neighborhood.

I picked up my computer thinking I could use it as a tracking device until I located my phone, but realized in my stupor that I would have no signal for my computer once I was out in the street. Eventually, with the help of my flatmates, I was notified that my phone had been apprehended by police from a thief who had stolen several other phones that night—what a miracle.

That night exemplified many things about the drinking culture of the Basque

Country. The night was long—I don’t know if I would have ever pulled an all-nighter in

32 the United States at thirty-six years of age, but these nights were more common in the

Basque Country. In a way, the economic practice of having a bote ensures that no one goes “rogue,” or if they do, they would be out their portion of money for the evening.

Socially, I never felt alone through the whole experience despite having only known most of my flatmates just a few months. The social bonds created in the drinking experience kept anyone from becoming separate amid the mass quantities of people, and sharing drinks over a longer period of time creates an almost inevitable discipline to the drinking practices that borders, but rarely often crosses into excess. These drinking practices create a sort of performativity that results in more social bonding in an almost an obligatory, regimented manner to establish Basqueness as a way of enjoying otherwise mundane practices.

There is a social responsibility seen in these practices that involves the security of the collective. I will never forget my first weekend away from the barnetegi language school. I had decided to spend the weekend between school sessions in Donostia, and was excited to eat and drink at all the bars around the hostel I booked. As I walked around the streets looking into the bars, I noticed the almost circular physical formation of the friends or kuadrillak enjoying drinks. There was no one bellied up the bar alone talking with the bartender, but rather everyone had built a physical barrier to the any outsiders.

The insularity and dedication to take part in the kuadrilla was something I became well aware of when feeling slightly pressured to participate in the txikiteo are various times during my research. I had also heard several Basques describing their own frustration at the social obligation felt from friends when going home for holidays, or even to go out during the week. This obligation to the collective is a symbolically often physically

33 iconic (as described by Scollon and Scollon (2003, 27) way of looking at the Basques in the obligatory physical and verbal participation in society—to be part of a bigger whole.

As noted in Sandra Ott’s The Circle of Mountains (1981), Basques love to eat. I often heard Basques themselves confirming some of Ott’s observations, as so many of their day-to-day conversations concerned food, how it was served, how it was prepared, and how it was judged (30). One thing I particularly noticed, both within my various living arrangements and in the streets of every town I lived in, was the timing of meals.

Several times I would find myself eating dinner around seven o’clock in the evening, or preparing lunch at eleven o’clock in the morning, to find my poorly timed consumption patterns questionable. Culturally acceptable eating hours the “Old Part” or Alde Zaharra of Donostia differed radically from the typically unstructured mealtimes, from morning until the evening, of Americans. A typical restaurant in my Donostia neighborhood would be open from 12:30 to 3:30 for lunch, and then not open again until 7:30 until midnight for dinner. While the business hours of shops and restaurants were even limited in smaller towns of the Basque Country, the customary times for dining in some of the restaurants of Donostia and Bilbo were becoming more flexible as they have begun to cater more to tourists from all over the world.

Having lived in the Alde Zaharra of Donostia, with three other roommates from the Basque Country, I could get a sense of one of the ways in which tourism affects the social traditions of the people in this neighborhood. Its desirability stems from the fact that right outside our door is probably one of the most popular areas for gastronomic tourism in all the Basque Country. With more Michelin stars per capita than anywhere else in the world, this area has become host to tourists wanting to take part in this

34 gastronomic glory. Unfortunately, while they indulge in commensality, many aspects of the traditional local social life are being lost owing to their very presence. For example, actual tour guides enter these small restaurants in groups of ten, order for them, explain what they are eating in a comprehensible language, and then give them background on individual food items. While this cultural experience provides knowledge for the tourist, it drastically changes the social lives of the locals. This intensified tourism clogs up the ordering area where locals would otherwise ask for pintxos in Castilian or Euskera, inflates food prices, slows down the service, and encourages the sale of cheaper, nonlocal products to be sold under “falsified” names, as tourists are typically unaware what is accepted as local within the community; this is turn prevents local producers from benefitting economically from the tourists, even though their aim is to do just that—eat local.

Basque Socialization through Eating and Drinking

Understanding the role that language played in history folds into the pertinent elements of

Basque social life. One of the most basic, primary institutions of rural Basque society originated largely in the rural farmhouse, or the baserri (Douglass and Zulaika 2012,

224). As mentioned in Sandra Ott’s Circle of Mountains (1981), this physical structure is also a domestic establishment in which typically the female head of household presides, and a socio-economic unit to which all members contribute their skills (41). I use this structure as a reference point as I look at social and economic influences that are weaved into extending practices in daily life, as well as their influences on how commodities are being marketed.

Many social practices, structures and commodities found in Basque daily life can be linked to the baserri . Starting with the traditional structure of the house, Ott describes the typical kitchen in Sainte-Engrâce as the social center of the house. Throughout the day, it provides a place of rest, commensality, and communication. Men, women, and children eat together and are intermixed, not segregated by age or sex. In her book, she also describes it as the domain of the elder female of the house (40). While I observed that the notion of these gender-related spaces had evolved, their relevance still plays a role in the formation of gendered spaces, such as gastronomic societies. I will continue describing these gendered spaces in the following chapter.

Knowing that the rural home is the foundation of the culture—providing a cradle for the Basque language, the dynamics of cooperative relations, and a sense of

“localness” for food products typically made on the farm—informs the way in which advertising is used. Products that were most commonly made around the house tend to signify more Basque identity through the marketing of language and symbols than do products not associated with the baserri farm life. The social structure of the baserri and the cooperative way of living that prove helpful in rural areas can be replicated in social groups elsewhere, such as in kuadrillas (tight friendship groups), txikiteos (bar-hopping with a group of friends) , and gastronomic societies (traditionally male-only clubs for eating and socializing), and even in the social-economy with business cooperatives.

In discussing my drinking experiences upon my return, I was asked about my experiences in drinking as it is embodies many importance components of Basque values: communication, movement, primal needs of eating, drinking, economic structures, cooperativism, localism, and friendships. In response, I recalled my own experiences in

36 performing the txikiteo with my classmates at barnetegi, flatmates, and their friends. In each of the situations we would establish a plan for approximately when we would go out and where we would start, typically coordinated with a Whatsapp group text. Most of us would head out together, with a few people joining later if necessary. Depending on the company, Euskara was the form of communication when possible, sometimes slipping into Castilian if speakers had low level knowledge of Basque. We would typically spend just enough time at a bar to enjoy one or two drinks before moving on to the next one.

Thursdays were the typical “pintxo pote” night when most people went out bar-hopping, grabbing a few pintxos to accompany a beer (caña or zurito), a smaller glass of wine, cider, or sometimes even a mixed drink. For longer evenings out, one person usually took care of ordering any paying with the bote or collection of money. No matter where we were (accept for when I lived up the hill from the town of Elorrio) we always visited places within walking distance, maintain a close connection with the neighborhood bars.

Not always, but often the conversation revolved around events, news, or socials happenings in the community.

37 intermittent walking from bar to bar seemed to allow for a marathon-speed of consumption rather than a spring-style often seen in the United States; mixed drinks were not consumed as often as lower-alcoholic beverages, and rarely were shots of hard liquor drunk. Thus, the social drinking in the Basque Country left me with few stories of being completely inebriated.

The one exception that came close to level of drunkenness was the celebration of

Carnaval. It was meant to be an all-nighter or gaupasa for most, making the customs we wore that night worthwhile. Having studied wine, I dressed as a male sommelier wearing a dressy black jacket and a penciled-on mustache. After several drinks had been bought and consumed—most of which had been shared between several people—I was beginning to feel the effects. The bars were packed like sardines and lines to the bathroom were endless. The loud music and constant shoving and bumping into people had begun to make me feel claustrophobic. I suddenly needed air.

38 managed to open my lap top and the “Find my phone” application. To my surprise, I was able to find the signal and followed it as it moved around the streets of our neighborhood.

That night exemplified many things about the drinking culture of the Basque

Country. The night was long—I don’t know if I would have ever pulled an all-nighter in the United States at 36 years of age, but these nights were more common in the Basque

Country. In a way, the economic practice of having a bote ensures that no one goes

“rogue,” or if they do, they would be out their portion of money for the evening. Socially,

I never felt alone through the whole experience despite having only known most of my flatmates just a few months. The social bonds created in the drinking experience kept anyone from becoming separate amid the mass quantities of people, and sharing drinks over a longer period of time creates an almost inevitable discipline to the drinking practices that borders, but rarely often crosses into excess. These drinking practices create a sort of performativity that results in more social bonding in an almost an obligatory, regimented manner to establish Basqueness as a way of enjoying otherwise mundane practices.

There is a social responsibility seen in these practices that involve the security of the collective. I will never forget my first weekend away from barnetegi language school.

I had decided to spend the weekend between school sessions in Donostia, and was

39 excited to eat and drink at all the bars around the hostel I booked. As I walked around the streets looking into the bars, I noticed the almost circular physical formation of the friends or kuadrilla enjoying drinks. There was no one bellied up the bar alone talking with the bartender, but rather everyone had built a physical barrier to the any outsiders.

Several times I would find myself eating dinner around seven o’clock in the evening, or preparing lunch at eleven o’clock in the morning, to find my poorly-timed consumption patterns questionable. Culturally acceptable eating hours the “Old Part” or Alde Zaharra of Donostia differed radically from the typically unstructured mealtimes, from morning until the evening, of Americans. A typical restaurant in my Donostia neighborhood would be open from 12:30-3:30 for lunch, and then not open again until 7:30 until midnight for dinner. While the business hours of shops and restaurants were even limited in smaller

40 towns of the Basque Country, the customary times for dining in some of the restaurants of Donostia and Bilbo were becoming more flexible as they have begun to cater more to tourists from all over the world.

Having lived in the Alde Zaharra , the Old Part of Donostia, with three other roommates from the Basque Country, I could get a sense of one of the ways in which tourism affects the social traditions of the people in this neighborhood. Its desirability stems from the fact that right outside our door is probably one of the most popular areas for gastronomic tourism in all the Basque Country. With more Michelin stars per capita than anywhere else in the world, this area has become host to tourists wanting to take part in this gastronomic glory. Unfortunately, while they indulge in commensality, many aspects of the traditional local social life are being lost owing to their very presence. For example, actual tour guides enter these small restaurants in groups of 10, order for them, explain what they are eating in a comprehensible language, and then give them background on individual food items. While this cultural experience provides knowledge for the tourist, it drastically changes the social lives of the locals. This intensified tourism clogs up the ordering area where locals would otherwise ask for pintxos in Castilian or

Euskera, inflates food prices, slows down the service, and encourages the sale of cheaper, non-local products to be sold under “falsified” names, as tourists are typically unaware what is accepted as local within the community; this is turn prevents local producers from benefitting economically from the tourists, even though their aim is to do just that—eat local.

Economic Structures

If we transition into the social economy, we can see institutions that exemplify the traditional Basque emphasis of cooperation in schools and institutions such as the

Mondragon Corporation—a large, culturally and business-based socioeconomic initiative integrated by autonomous and independent cooperatives—that also exist in the milk and wine sectors. Smaller producers forming a cooperative not only integrate traditional values of nationalism, but also, they often combat industrialization, and in some cases, encourage glocalization —the selling of local to both local and global markets.

Cooperative values penetrate many aspects of Basque life, including those that revolve around the practices of commensality. The cooperative way of eating in general, whether at a cider house or a bar, demonstrates these values. For example, in the traditional cider houses or sagardotegiak, everyone commonly eats off one plate instead of having individual ones. I have also found a cooperative, trusting nature when ordering food or making hotel reservations—no one needs money up front and your word is as good as payment. In fact, that is exactly what still happens in many bars. Eating pintxos can involve taking a plate that has been set out for customers, putting as many pintxos on your plate as you’d like, and showing the bartender how many toothpicks are left over to signal how many you took.

When it is time to hand over the money during a night out with one’s kuadrilla, it is typical to pay with the group’s previously pooled cash—with little concern given to each person’s individual purchases. After the predetermined amount of money, or bote, is collected at the beginning of the night by each member of the group, it is then used to pay for their food and drink throughout the evening. This bote or “kitty” is also exemplary of

42 the eating culture, as opposed to the more individualistic way of paying one’s own way.

At the end of the night, the money pooled is held by one person who pays the bills throughout the night.

The collection of funds from friends was a tradition I learned early on in Lazkao at the Basque language school, Maizpide. My fellow students and teachers were taking part in the txikiteo where the group moves from bar to bar, just long enough to grab a bite and drink a relatively small serving of alcohol while standing. Since this practice of the txikiteo , bar hopping and eating pintxos, was commonly performed during a night out in lieu of or before a larger dinner, it was also integrated into the language immersion experience in this predominately Basque-speaking town. My first time as the person in charge of the bote was a memorable one. It occurred a few weeks into my stay at

Maizpide, when I had finally felt comfortable enough to volunteer as the keeper of everyone’s money. Part of the responsibility for being entrusted with the bote entailed communicating the needs and payment of the group with the bartender. While waiting patiently for my turn on the way up to the bar, I practiced the names of drinks and basic numbers needed to carry out the order. After organizing the order in my head and making eye contact with her as I shoved my way past the previous patron, I quickly rattled it off so I would not forget anything. Satisfied with my first attempts at speaking Basque and prepared to respond with any questions that might ensue, the bartender told me that she did not speak Basque—a rarity in the town of Lazkao and an anticlimactic, linguistic let down for my first attempt to order in Euskara.

Understanding the relevance of and growing accustomed to the bote explained many things I had previously experienced before with Basques, but had not quite

43 understood. It explained why I had previously felt awkward with my Basque cohorts at the Center for Basque Studies when they invited me to a coffee and refused to let me pay; having been independent and financially responsible for myself for so long always left me feeling as if I needed to pay my own way. Through these Basque cooperative experiences of eating, drinking, and socializing, I realized that by participating in these practices, I was not creating a debt for myself when someone else paid for my coffee; rather I was strengthening the relationships and bonds that are fundamental to Basque culture.

Political Climate

In this dissertation, I argue that language use, governed by Basque political history, has shaped and influenced the way in which producers from the Basque Country market their products, and the way in which they perceive the value of using Euskara when marketing their products. When Basque gastronomic products are desired by the international markets, political regulations create laws for the marketing of local products to consumers on both local and global scales. It is through the evolution of Basque political history that we can understand the influences that have shaped general language use and perceptions of cultural markers when promoting locally-produced beverages.

To better illustrate the relatively recent transformation from a nation associated with terrorism to now being touted as a “culinary nation,” I offer a personal account:

Shortly after I arrived at the University of Nevada, Reno in 2015 to start the PhD program, I had to visit the campus health center for a foot injury. After being asked which

44 program I was in, I responded to the doctor that I was studying Anthropology in the

Center for Basque Studies. Like many other Americans who know little about the

Basques, he associated the Basques with terrorism owing to media coverage over the last several decades. By contrast, when I returned from the field at the end of 2018, people often observed how lucky I was to have spent so much time in a place touted for their culinary fame. This observation is relevant as it describes a relatively swift shift in how the international community recognizes the Basque Country. According to some of my interviewees, however, negative associations with terrorism, independence movements, and the now defunct separatist group, ETA, were still relevant closer to home.

A difference in local and international associations effects the way producers market their products effectively. I have now seen several examples where cultural fairs and wine tastings are organized and/or subsidized by various branches of the provincial government systems. Subsidies are also provided to producers when specific criteria are met, which could in turn affect production levels and wealth distribution for producers.

When events are sponsored in efforts to educate the Basque public, consumers can negotiate their own tastes and knowledge of products that later inform their purchasing choices. Different languages are used to present this information to create varying types of authenticity, depending on the audience. For example, events supported by the government often reflect the co-official status of the autonomous region despite the reality or the true sense of place as defined by language. The same government supported agencies are now starting to sponsor more advertisements in English, which cater to tourism, but detract from authentic language use by locals.

Putting forth the Concept of Linguistic Terroir

I put forth the concept of linguistic terroir or a sense of place as defined by language, to describe the totality of the perceived or mandated use of language along with the actual use. This concept encapsulates the discrepancy of language practice that occurs between actual use and linguistic representation through the signage and linguistic landscape (i.e. public events, the labeling of food products, or even practices language instruction in school), and the language spoken within a bounded area. By looking at both the actual and perceived use of language for a specific place, we can create a more holistic and accurate and picture of language use for a place, adding to the definition of

“authenticity.”

Several scholars have contributed to the evolution of my research which has led to this concept. such as Cavanaugh (2007) and Cavanaugh and Shankar (2014) have looked at the linguistic practices and material processes to construct “contemporary embodiments of heritage” with foods such as cheese and salami in Bergamo, Italy

(Cavanaugh and Shankar, 2014, 54). The materiality of these processes enable regional foods and language—especially minoritized languages, to take on value in a capitalistic society as sources for “pride” and “profit” (Duchene and Heller, 2012). I argue that the valorization of the uztartzea, or pairing of Basque food and language, had not been fully realized by government officials or producers creating gastronomic products at the time my research commenced. However, the examples given in my research show how value inadvertently had been, or had the potential to be created for Euskara and gastronomic products alike.

As I was writing this dissertation, Järlehed and Moriarty (2018) had published an article introducing the idea of the “semiofoodscape” as a lens through which food and language can be examined, where meaning and value are subject to continuous discursive renegotiation. Their case study was based off one of my chapter’s products, Txakolina.

My work provides further examples incorporating many of their prescribed “ingredients” for the semiofoodscape, illustrating the valorization of products and language. However, my work adds to their examples by including foodstuffs that are not considered luxury goods, or as easily commodified product, such as milk. As Järlehed and Moriarty point out, “This linking of product and person takes place through a “discursive chain of authentication” (Manning 2012, 21), and the foods embraced to do this are changing from

“rare foods” to foods of different “spatiotemporal dimensions” (27). They include

Txakolina in this latter category, citing it as a common table wine turned into an internationally consumed cultural heritage wine. Using a product that has become commodified into a globally traded commodity prevents us from understanding the value of language in the semiofoodscape with more quotidian products, such as seen in my first chapter on milk.

These authors have contributed to the valorization of minoritized languages and food, but do not consider the devalorization that occurs in the semiofoodscape, or how these processes of valorization misrepresent actual language use. My research accounts for these instances by using the concept of linguistic terroir to capture a fuller sense of language use of within abounded area by shining a light on the wider range of language use, which is in itself, more authenticating. It shows the variance of language use within a

47 bounded area, just as the terroir of a bounded vineyard contains within itself smaller identifiable microclimates.

Linguist Richard Bailey used this term more casually as “the stuff that lets us know where we are” (Bailey, 2010), giving several expressions to distinguish Michigan from other places. He uses it more as analogy rather than a concept with which to analyze the discrepancy that can also occur within one bounded area, which emphasizes the inequities that can develop within one bounded area. By looking at both the actual and perceived use of language, once of the biggest advantages gained is in avoiding erasure of linguistic practices (Irvine and Gal 2000, 392). My work brings out examples of linguistic erasure with native Castilian speakers with products such as Txakolina, and points out policies aimed at linguistic erasure for minoritized Basque speakers in winemaking areas such as Rioja Alavesa.

The concept of linguistic terroir, is one that combines language with a French word, derived from “ goût de terroir,” meaning “taste of terroir.” As Thomas Parker points out in his book, the “taste of terroir” was not a positive one, often denoting unpleasant attributes with physical associations of the earth (2015, 59), to now include the cultural practices of a bounded area that produce food products (Trubek 2008, 62).

This term naturally came to mind when thinking about the pairing of food and language, to encapsulate the practices I found occurring in certain areas, independent of political and economic systems. Thomas Parker parallels terroir and language in his book, saying that “Knowledge, exactly as in language, the goût de terroir is what sullies and infects otherwise pure ideas” (61). It is with this understanding of terroir—with its previously negative and newly positive connotations—that I use linguistic terroir as a way to unearth

48 the anomalous practices of language, and in this case, when paired with food to create a more authentic account of language practices.

In his 2003 article, "Sociolinguistic Authenticities,” Nikolas Coupland discusses the concept of authenticity in which he defines it by a set of attributes: historicity, ontology, systematic coherence, consensus and value. These qualities provide a theoretical framework for describing different linguistic orientations in reference to the authenticity of text, discourse and products (418-419). For example, some products and events are marketed all in Basque—some with a few words or greetings in Basque, and others, all in Castilian or English.

At the Second Annual Cider Forum, I noticed that a greater portion of presentations and products were given in Basque, while in Rioja Alavesa, a gastronomic event held outside in the town of Laguardia had materials and signs written in Basque and Castilian, but with presentations and products given and marketed primarily in

Castilian. These two worlds of beverage production and consumption differ in the extent to which each language was used in these separate places. Simultaneously, the activities and artefacts displayed in each venue varied in the use of the Basque language. This reflects a “systemic coherence”—one of Coupland’s prerequisites for authenticity—in that “…it reflects a principled set of relations. For example, when an authentic written text or artifact is part of an extended religious or political literary movement. Such text is empowered by the institution or “system” in which it finds its rightful place. A thing has to be original in some important social or cultural matrix (Coupland 419).

This prerequisite for authenticity is achieved in each example given in this dissertation by examining both the language and the product within the semiofoodscape.

Authenticity is achieved in a different way in the case of the wine fair in Rioja Alavesa with the use of Castilian, reflecting the linguistic terroir by using the language spoken by the majority, despite the prevalence of signage provided with the support of the Basque government. The signage, somewhat incongruently representing the number of speakers for the area, is an example creating a reflexive staging of language (Jaffe 2019). This performance brings to the fore “how people use sets of semiotic resources to challenge and/or reinscribe normative ideologies and locally recognized, hierarchically organized identity categories” (Jaffe et al. 2015, 135).

The authenticity here is created for the texts (signage in this case), discourse, and products that reflect the bilingual system present. According to Coupland’s requirements for authenticity, one could argue against a sense of authenticity being achieved for the products in the Basque wine-making zone. If language contributes to a system of coherence, and the language of the region being spoken is primarily Castilian, trying to associate the products in that region as “authentically” Basque may be more challenging than wine produced in regions where Basque is spoken more often, or by a larger portion of the population.

Underlying Themes:

In the following chapters I analyze the pairing of food to Basque language and culture. I interweave subthemes throughout the chapters to shed light on how drinks and language function through a synchronized attribution of value and meaning-making. By using the term “pairing” as a metaphor in this dissertation, I begin to scratch the surface of this concept, commonly used in the world of food and wine. A gastronomic pairing describes two products that, when consumed together, form a harmonizing combination that is complementary and congruent, concluding with an experience that is often better than either as a standalone part. Through the concept of “pairings”—uztartzea in Basque

(Mikel Garaizabal’s enologist dictionary), and maridaje in Castilian, I intend to analyze many facets from the coupling of language and food by incorporating subthemes of gender, tourism, the local, state, and international markets, in addition to how age plays a role in the marketing and consumption of products, the concept of authenticity, and other key words such as gure (our), terroir (roughly known as "sense of place"), and nortasuna

(identity , personality ). Many of these themes will run through every chapter, while others might only be applicable to one or two.

The translated words for “pairing” in Basque and Castilian are, respectively, uztartzea and maridaje . The use of these words is significant. In English, food and wine pairings are commonly referred to in restaurants or during wine tastings. The situation is similar in Castilian with the use of maridaje . As I continued my research, some of which did entail dining at restaurants and sitting in on Txakolina and Rioja Alavesa wine

51 pairings, I noticed that the Castilian word maridaje was often the word preferred by

Basque speakers to describe a pairing.

Other Basque translations of the word “pairing” found were “ edariekin ”, as seen on the Basque-speaker Eneko Atxa’s website for his famed restaurant Azurmendi (Sutan

Opari, n.d.). Under the “frequently asked questions” for the world-renowned Mugaritz restaurant, the question “Is a wine pairing available?” is translated by incorporating the

Castilian word maridaje, but also using a Basque declination leading to a morphological change: “Maridajerik eskaintzen al duzue ?” (Mugaritz Erreserbak, n.d.). This sentence translates well to “Is a wine pairing available,” but the Castilian word for “wine pairing,”

“maridaje” is used instead of “uztartzea.” While this may appear to be a “take-over” insertion, as described by Lars Johanson’s (2008, 62-63) Code Interaction framework, due to its morphological changes, one could consider it a more literal sense of borrowing.

While the Castilian word was borrowed, used, and integrated, the word is in a way and over time, being given back with the encouraged use of the Basque word, uztartzea.

This is important to note as it points to an active effort to replace the use of the

Castilian word with a Basque one. While this substitution does not necessarily mean that the root word uztartu (which means “to marry”, “join” and “combine”) or uztartzea was never previously used in relation to food and wine, it does point to the preference for a

Castilian word for a formalized gastronomic practice. This does not mean that Basques have not enjoyed the taste combinations of food and wine for centuries already, but it may point to a more recent development of an institutionalized vocabulary for gastronomic terminology in Basque, or to a prior practice of pairing that was specifically given a name in Castilian-speaking culture. For either account, the developments and

52 practices within the Basque gastronomic world provide an opportunity to unify the

Basque language, enriching the vocabulary of Euskara while simultaneously creating a lexicon that creates linguistic authenticity by distinguishing both food products and practices of the Basques, from those of the majority culture.

The word “gure(a),” meaning “our”, is another word that I found ubiquitous in the Basque Country. It was commonly used on signs for stores, and was most often incorporated into business names and brands. An important thing to note in the use of this word is what or whom it is indexing, and for whom it is indexed. In most cases, the use of

Euskara indexes products made by Basques, places where Basque live, and institutions owned by Basques or Basque-speakers. However, in several cases, I demonstrate that while these particulars are indexed, the audience for whom this indexing occurs varies to include not only Basques, or those that can read Basque, but the use of “ gure ” occurs alongside additional translated branding to include non-Basque speakers. I will go into more detail about this occurrence in the chapter on wine from Rioja Alavesa. Although I will look at its use later throughout the chapters when the word pertains to specific drinks, I will provide a brief description and visual documentation for the importance of its use here as a subtheme.

By using the word “ gure” to qualify objects, places, or institutions, it is primarily the Basque culture and/or its speakers that are first being indexed with the use of the

Basque language over Castilian. While few Castilian speakers may recognize the use of gure as being Basque, if certain qualities are attributed to Basque-made products through language use, value created through Basque association could be indexed for Basque- speakers as well as Castilian-speakers. “GureLur” (“Our Land”) pictured below, is the

53 name of a cooperative that includes products and services pertaining to agriculture and animal health. The use of “GureLur” references not only a social distinction by denoting that something is “ours,” but also references a “place” with the Basque word “lur,” meaning “land, soil, earth”. This compounding of words doubly indexes “Basqueness” through language with distinction of places and people, and allows Basque speakers

(even over other Basques) to retain ownership over the language, place or land, and the commodity produced from this origin under this name.

Figure 1.1 Online webpage for GureLur cooperative, http://gurelur.com/es/cooperativa-

san-isidro/

While looking for an edible gift in Bilbo one day, I came across a corner store that sold products with some form of Basque identity attached to them. Most were branded with Basque names, many advertised a local site of production, and the majority focused on being quality, low-cost products. Their website contained this photo provided by the owner, Jokin Arrospide, who also owns Mahala baserria located in Gipuzkoa. The sign for the store (as seen below in figure 1.2) contains several semiotic images that create a

54 sense of Basque authenticity, localness, and cultural value for Basque consumers, or consumers that associate these positive qualities with “Basqueness”.

Figure 1.2 Taken from website of Geuria Merkatua

One of the first things I noticed in this signage was the use of “ gure” in its localized, dialectal form “ geure ” to include the “e”, which places an extra emphasis on

“our”. It creates a double sense of “localness” as not only does the word index a provincial dialect from a certain group of people, but this form is also used, above all, in the dialect of Bizkaiera , or the Western Basque (Zuazo 2013; Sarasola 2007, 434). This advertisement emplaces all facets about the people, the store, the products, and the way of life that can be interpreted from this sign.

In addition to a sense of localness, it also demonstrates authenticity as is described by Echeverria (2003, 394). Echeverria’s illustration of recursive language ideology demonstrates how prestige, through formality and distance, and how solidarity is built on informality and authenticity. Within each of these categories are examples to illustrate which linguistic elements embody these qualities. Prestige is seen through the use of

Castilian, while solidarity is given to the use of Basque. Prestige is also given to Batua

(standard, unified Basque), while solidarity is given to Herrikoa (Vernacular Basque,

55 meaning “’land’ or “people”)2 (Echeverria 2003, 396). Building a sense of authenticity off of the use of local dialects is another way in which dialects of Euskara can be used to create value for the Basque language and gastronomic products alike (as seen with Boga beer marketing). I expound on how to create prestige in conjunction with Basque in the chapter on Rioja Alavesa wine.

In addition to everything being in Basque, there is another word used here to describe a sense of localness: “Bertako ”. This adjective is used to describe, in this case, products that have an origin from close by, and gives a sense of localness to this advertisement. Another form of this word is used with a beer company from the same province of Bizkaia, and is used to intensify the emphasis on proximity even further by using the word “ bertoko”, instead of “bertako”. Its definition in the online Basque dictionary indicates that it is used primarily in the westernmost dialect of Bizkaierez

(Euskaltzaindia Dictionary, May 29), therefore reinforcing a sense of localness through the use of dialectal reference. Jokin explains that in Gipuzkoa, “bertako” is typically used over “bertoko”. By using dialectal differences Jokin has intended to maintain the balance between past, the sustainable present, and a hopeful future (Jokin, June 20 th , 2018).

The phrase circling the outside of the tree says could be translated as “Daily” on the top and “Local Products”, indicating the proximity of production sites, as well as the freshness and availability of the products themselves. The inside of the circle contains a tree, a symbol of Basque institutions that is reminiscent of the emblematic Tree of

Gernika (Xamar and Bullen, 2012, 19). Jokin confirms that “Geuria Zuhaitza” or “Our

2 This translation from Echeverria points to a close relationship between “land” and “people” through the term Herriokoa.

Tree” was a reference to this tree that represents the three provinces, but also states that, with the tree, they wanted to also express through the trunk and its branches, the growth of the projects for local production with local consumption (per conversation with Jokin

Arrospide, June 20 th , 2018).

Finally, gender has emerged in my dissertation as a prevalent theme through which I examine the social and linguistic relationships. Each chapter discusses the role, or lack thereof, of women in a matrix of value to create authenticity, value, and language.

History of Basque Gastronomy

Marketing strategies from various restaurants, bodegas, and public gastronomic events often mention Basque cuisine as having integrated balance of tradition and innovation, to the degree that it almost sounds like the official motto for the autonomous community. Basque cuisine has become what it is in part due to the culture’s openness to change and innovation, as well as its ability to retain much of its tradition—through food itself or through the “improvement” of food production processes, as was often described about Txakolina . This section will demonstrate the Basques’ ability to maintain a balance between being “traditionalists” and “modernists” through their world-renowned cuisine.

By detailing various events and characteristics of Basque culture, I hope to demonstrate how Basque cuisine has evolved, how it in turn expresses the collective nature of both traditional and modern ideologies, and how the culinary and linguistic spheres interact in relation to each other when marketing to consumers.

Maria Sevilla (1989, xv) summarizes the complexity of Basque cuisine when she notes the influence of ingredients over history with the incorporation of food brought from the Americas (xv). Andreas Hess (2007, 395) lists three main influences that have changed food consumption patterns in the Basque Country. He lists them as being the introduction of American products (such as corn and potatoes), influence from the

Catholic Church, and the development of modern infrastructure (395-396). As we shift focus from the relevant historical influences, we can move into Jeremey MacClancy’s

(2007) key factors that led to the idea of la cocina vasca (Basque cuisine) and la nueva cocina vasca (New Basque Cuisine). Starting where Hess left off, he focuses on the late

19 th and 20 th centuries, claiming that it was industrialization, tourism, folklorism, and the rise of professional chefs that led to the formation of Basque cuisine (69). These factors, given by both Hess and MacClancy, provide an outline for the socio-historical development of cuisine in the Basque Country over time.

Another example of the relationship between cuisine and the church can be seen with a popular Basque drink that has been part of the Basque drinking culture for hundreds of years. In her book, Life and Food in the Basque Country (1989) , María José

Sevilla claims the prevalence of cider could be observed as early as 1556 in the city of

Tolosa. It was here that instructions for cider producers were laid down by the Town

Council and read out to local congregations at mass (89). In 1828, the average daily consumption per inhabitant of the city was up to three liters a day. And, even though the spread of wine consumption was closely associated with the Catholic monks who prepared it for mass (Society of Wine Educators, 82), cider remained a popular beverage in the Basque Country for ages until the early 20 th century (MacClancy, 77).

Meanwhile, during cider’s rule as the popular Basque beverage, another change in

Basque alimentation had occurred—the discovery of America. The introduction of corn, potatoes, peppers, tomatoes, beans, sugar, and chocolate transformed Basque cuisine, with a special emphasis on the importance of corn, beans and the potato (Hess, 395). Jean

Andrews (1992) details the importation of new foods and spices affirming the spread of capsicum , cayenne, bell, and jalapeño peppers. While chili peppers were brought over,

Andrews notes, however, that they were never truly acquired in taste and were treated more as ornamentals than as seasoning, unlike in the New World from which they came

(Andrews, 81-83, 90).

MacClancy (2007, 77) maintains that it was the late twentieth century when wine became more popular than cider. This led to cider shops closing and as the wines of

Alava and Navarre grew in popularity (MacClancy, 77) (Sevilla, 89). The ability to transfer both food products as well as their production methods from the local, rural

Basque houses to the now easily accessible urban spaces shows the desire of many

Basques to be part of the modernized world and the likelihood that they would have access to a larger variety of gastronomic products from other regions.

The development of cities created not only a shift from rural to urban, but a new social stratum, in addition to tourism. New social elites took advantage of eating out in public at restaurants that catered to their taste, which at the time was the prestigious

French haute cuisine . Menus might emulate this evolution from the traditional, rural

Basque cuisine to the refined French dishes by offering beans with bacon fat alongside sole à la mornaise . The pervasiveness and popularity of French cuisines shaped not only the food, but the location from which the chefs were hired or trained (MacClancy, 69).

Simultaneously, these French-inspired dishes and restaurants from across the border created a competitive spirit among chefs in the southern Basque Country. Most of the coast between Santurtzi and Donostia was developed for tourism, highlighting each region’s seafood dishes while integrating the new French flair (MacClancy, 70).

Not only were divisions being made socially with the transition from rural to urban lives, they also occurred with classes that could afford the culinary and leisure delights of tourism during this period of urbanization of the late 19 th century, and those that could not. Political divisions eventually gave way to Basque nationalism as well. It is from this social, economic, and political movement that both conservatism and modernization combined to form the new label of cocina vasca (Hess, 396) . This duality that Basque nationalism expressed provides the basis for its ability to be both traditional and innovative.

The last factor listed by MacClancy that contributed to changes in Basque cuisine is the rise of professional chefs such as Juan Mari Arzak and Pedro Subijana, with many others to follow. To further boost the knowledge of Basque recipes and practice of traditional Basque cooking, chef José Castillo formed a group to actively promote, conserve, and improve traditional Basque cuisine. This group was called the Cofradía

Vasca de Gastronomía (Basque brotherhood of gastronomy) which organized events and wrote books on different aspects of gastronomy (MacClancy, 71-72). As part of postmodern culinary experiences, “molecular gastronomy” or “modernist cuisine” incorporated the intellectual and technological components of food production and preparation (Ferguson, 129). This development of cooking over the last 40 years that incorporates tradition and innovation has been called la nueva cocina vasca (Hess, 396) .

As a story well-known, 1976 is the year when chefs of different backgrounds held a roundtable discussion in Madrid sponsored by the new Club de Gourmet magazine.

Juan Mari Arzak and Pedro Subijana attended, and later, along with ten other chefs, they formed the “group of twelve” as they became the foundation for the nueva cocina vasca movement. The other members included Arguiñano, Idiáquez, Fombellida, Gómez, Iza y

Mangas, Kintana, Castillo, Roteta, Zapirain, and Irízar. This group of men was responsible for organizing the principles of movement and "creating modern recipes with style and authenticity” (Rodriguez 2016, 16). Today Basque cuisine is at the culinary forefront with chefs such as Andoni Luis Adúriz, Martín Berastegui, Eneko Atxa, and

Joseán Alija, who have joined those such as Arzak, Subijana, and Arbelaitz in the Basque culinary scene (Rodriguez, 17).

La nueva cocina vasca uses many traditional ingredients while using technology to produce artistic creations, appealing to more than just smell and taste. Again, this demonstrates not only the Basques’ ability, but their determination to retain historically used elements of Basque cuisine. Allowing the advancements in technology to shape the way these traditional ingredients are prepared show the Basques’ openness and desire to take part and lead the way in such innovative practices. Much like other aspects of their culture, outsiders can observe this dichotomy of tradition and innovation.

The contrasting ideologies of being traditional and innovative are not only a way in which an outsider is able to view the complexity of characteristics that make up

Basque cuisine. These two very specific adjectives almost seem to be part of a marketing mantra of nation branding to tout their gastronomic achievements. As a personal experience that illustrates the duality of Basque culture, I provide the example of a

61 restaurant bearing the name of the French Basque province, Zuberoa. Upon opening the link to their website, I noticed it was located in Oiartzun, just outside of Donostia in

Hegoalde. As I read through the history and menu tabs of the restaurant, they implicitly and explicitly describe the restaurant in contrasting terms. Its “600-year-old walls” and

“traditional kitchen” recall the “roots of Basque cuisine” while melding together with the

“exquisite dining rooms” and “modern style of cuisine”. The website details that the chef inherited the building from his mother, as well as her love of traditional dishes and quality ingredients. The contrasting ideologies are demonstrated on the restaurant’s website, stating that the chef Hilario Arbelaitz “brings the art of tradition to the plate where innovation is recreated on the palate” (Arbelaitz, 2016).

I had the opportunity to experience this delicate dichotomy, as well as meet some of the other chefs that started la nueva cocina movement. In the case of my experience at

Zuberoa, the building did appear pristinely more traditional than modern. While I had graciously been invited by a family visiting from the United States, I was the only one who spoke Basque. If speaking Basque offers up another example indicating an authentic link between culture, language, and food—it was made. I found that while the service staff spoke English with extreme proficiency, I almost felt as if they were a bit more eager to speak to me in Basque when communicating a question directed at the whole table. I was honored at the thought that although I was clearly not from the Basque

Country, they thought my level of proficiency was acceptable enough to want to communicate with me in their own language. For the other guests with whom I dined, it was a pleasure for them to hear and ask about the words being used in Basque,

62 integrating an authentic language learning experience to pair with the carefully prepared dishes of the evening.

Figure 1.3 Photo with one of the founding chefs of Nueva cocina vasca, Hilario

Arbelaitz, at Zuberoa

Whether it is an intentional marketing strategy or not, the ability to retain tradition while remaining an active participant in a globalized world supports the Basques’ ability, as a periphery culture, to survive. It appears that the qualities of tradition and innovation are not only ways that can describe the Basques’ collective representation; they have also become a commonly seen goal to achieve from within the culture itself. Embracing change to preserve tradition includes compromise as not all aspects of tradition can be maintained. The important part of retaining what matters most is knowing when and what is appropriate to compromise. Basques have been very selective in choosing which

63 culinary practices they want to preserve, which is most likely one reason they have succeeded in retaining so many of their gastronomic practices.

I had the opportunity to see this emblematic combination of innovation and tradition on my own plate at Arzak as well. My first experience at a Michelin star restaurant allowed me an insider’s view by starting off with a tour of the premises. We explored the wine cellar where gigantic bottles of another Basque beverage, Patxaran , were stored alongside an international collection of wines. The spice rack upstairs, adjacent to what looked like a chemistry lab, illustrated the array of ingredients being used in combination with locally-sourced materials, such as morcilla , squid, oysters and other seafood that have traditionally been part of Basque cuisine (some of which are listed on the menus). I found it particularly interesting that even a Keler beer can, marketed as an authentic beer with “ nortasuna” (Basque character or identity), would be served on a plate as decoration to display the food. The significance of Keler beer being represented as an authentic beer of the Basque Country will be covered in more detail in chapter seven.

Figure 1.4 Dish with Keler beer can at Arzak

In our interview after an enjoyable dining experience, Juan Mari reiterated the importance of the “ materias primas ” (base ingredients) being from “kilometro zero” (the buying and consuming of products bought within a 100-km radius), the use of seasonal products, and a wide variety of spices and ingredients with which to prepare food. He emphasized that while the ingredients used could come from all over the world, the prepared product would always reflect the culinary culture or local taste through traditional base ingredients. The use of the Keler beer can illustrated the local product as both as an ingredient used in the food preparation as well as part of the innovative display of food presentation.

Keeping in mind Coupland’s qualities that lend to the creation of authenticity, I asked about the use of Euskara in and around the restaurant and what his thoughts were on using it in the marketing of local beverages. In addition to having printed menus in

Euskara, Arzak assured me that everyone who worked in the restaurant spoke Basque, and that with the advancing efforts of modern gastronomy, Euskara would follow in use, too. Throughout the interview, he mentioned the prevalence of Basque speakers in reference to the number euskaldunak in Gipuzkoa and with the use of Basque on the wine labels. When I commented on an observed use of Castilian and English on the labels bound for the international market and how a sense of authenticity might be achieved, he announced his preference for Euskara being used instead, and his confidence that such use would grow.

Figure 1.5 Photo with Elena Arzak

Figure 1.6 The Basque drink Patxaran and the wall of ingredients at Arzak

Figure 1.7 Arzak menu in English Figure 1.8 Arzak menu in Euskara

In addition to the use of Basque semiotics on labels, use of the Basque language is often times so innovatively melded into the culinary world, as illustrated several ways in

Pedro Subijana’s restaurant, Akelaŕe3. The word Akelarre has particular relevance in

Basque culture, and is an idea used in a variety of ways to market products of the culinary world (as seen in figure x). It refers to the place for Basque witchcraft, literally meaning

“the billy goat’s meadow”, and was a predominant part of Basque mythology during the

16 th and 17 th centuries. The leader of the witches, Akerbeltz, meaning “black goat”, is the

3 This spelling uses the letter “r” with the acute (ŕ), which was a representation of the trilled or “rr” sound in Basque as heard in Castilian words such as “barra” (Sabino Arana, styled as Arana eta Goiri’ta ŕ Sabin, 1897: 32, 40).

68 protector of cattle and may have antecedents in the pre-Christian Pyrenean spirit

Aherbelste (Barandiaran 2007, 108-109).

Akerbeltz was the spirit in the form of a male goat, and in the Akelarre of

Zugarramurdi, held a seat near the opening of the cave, where the devil received male and female witches (108). The same cavern has a wider entrance called “ Sorginen Leze ” or “the cave of the witches.” On feast days, it was believed the witches bought one or two rams to be slaughtered and roasted for the people to eat along with wine at noon of that same day.

Figure 1.9 A "witches liquor used in potions for their Akelarres "

When I asked how the restaurant got its name, HR staff member Natalie López replied: “Akelarre is the name of our restaurant since the beginning. In the 70’s, before

Mr. Pedro Subijana was the owner of the restaurant, the restaurant already existed with the name Akelarre. It was an idea that Oscar Elizalde (a friend of the previous owners of the restaurant) had in effort to find a name that could be related to KU (the name of the disco located just below the restaurant). The “K” for KU and the “K” for Akelarre. It sounded good!” When I continued to inquire as to whether or not its name was related to

Basque mythology, giving any credit to women/females in Basque culture, she answered that it might not be for that reason, but simply because it sounded phonetically pleasing.

On the other hand, she observed that “the name of the restaurant has really signified a very inspiring thing for us, to the effect that we are in a mountain, where Akelarres used to take place, and in those meetings, a magic potion and magic mushrooms were prepared and eaten in order to have “journeys” and to experiment new and different sensations. I think that we also prepare and cook…in order that our guests can have the same and unique feeling of something awesome and breathtaking, a journey through our gastronomy and cuisine” (Natalie Lopez August 1, 2018).

Over the courses of lunch at Akelaŕe, another use of Basque semiotics was used as part of the meal’s presentation. This wafer with blood pudding (see figure 1.10), or odolki, has been imprinted with the name of the materia prima (Castilian word used by

Arzak referring to raw food material), blood pudding/sausage, but made into a smoother

70 and more spreadable form of the more traditional dish.

Figure 1.10 Pate de morcilla at Subijana's Akelarre

Though the setting of Akelaŕe resembled more of a luxurious resort than a coven for witches, the selected use of Basque for the name of the restaurant, the traditional ingredients transformed in a modern delicacy, and using Basque mythology to create a sense of place, exemplify a mastered dichotomy of keeping the tradition alive through language with a modern presentation of Basque gastronomy.

Along with the growth in popularity of food in Basque gastronomy comes the popularity of drink. Chefs such as Arzak played an important role in the development of gastronomy by increasing the visibility of several beverages—including those that have

71 traditionally not been locally recognized as the most palatable. According to the average person with whom I spoke, Txakolina used to be known as a wine that was often not enjoyable to drink, and as I was often told, gives “ buruko mina” (headaches). However, in the interviews I conducted with producers, sommeliers, and other oenophiles, I was assured of the positive evolution of this drink. (I will outline the importance of the evolution for this emblematic Basque beverage in chapter five.) As noted by Arzak himself, he, Subijana and other chefs were in part responsible for keeping this wine on the table and in the hands of locals and tourists alike.

Younger chefs such as Eneko Atxa of Azurmendi are now at the forefront of

Basque cuisine and establishing restaurants as quickly as they are gaining Michelin stars.

Upon arrival for dinner, the hosts asked which language I preferred to speak, Basque being offered as one. I could liken this experience to attending a culinary magic show serving up a tour of the most innovative takes on traditional Basque ingredients. A

“Welcoming Picnic” was offered with small bites placed inside a picnic basket to casually enjoy before entering the next phase of dining. The “Greenhouse” room offered what was essentially a walking tour of food, selecting bites of intricately crafted art—the kind that left your brain intrigued, trying to identify the familiar taste that came in such an exotic form.

Figure 1.11 Photo with Eneko Atxa

Figure 1.12 Welcoming picnic basket

Figure 1.13 Presentation of spices before dinner at Azurmendi

Figure 1.14 Greenhouse ingredients, kaipiritxa

Figure 1.15 Marine turnip with herbs emulsion and sea Txakolina, served in the kitchen

of Azurmendi

Atxa’s take on culinary innovation adheres to the basic principle of incorporating traditional base ingredients with familiar components of Basque culture as seen above in

Figure 1.15 with the “sea Txakolina”—two components historically linked to each other and the Basque culture. The use of Euskara as an offered means of communication ties the internationally known restaurant to its local roots linguistically. Not only did I speak it with service staff in the restaurant, but the characteristic Basque font used to market this recently awarded 3-Michelin star restaurant is semiotically used with the letter “A” to represent the restaurant Azurmendi itself.

Figure 1.16 Azurmendi logo

I argue that the use of traditionally used Basque products and font with innovative institutions such as the ones I have mentioned are a functional pairing (usually pertaining to food), or maridaje , that again, effectively maintains the appropriate amount of Basque tradition to balance out the modern culinary flair. The culinary sphere is a key place for locals to enjoy parts of their tradition with a new twist integrating the mind as well as the mouth, while also providing a lens for tourists to look back and understand a culture’s history and evolution.

Chapter 2: Gastronomic Societies

Figure 2.1 Table setting at the sociedad Kresala

It was the middle of July when I was with several of my roommates just outside our neighborhood in the Alde Zaharra, in the port area celebrating the karmengo jaiak, or the festivals of St. Carmen. Like many feast days, this one was celebrated with food and drink, dancing, and speaking Basque while hanging out in the typical circular formations of the kuadrilla . I had met several new people that day, one of whom invited me to her

77 sociedad after learning that I was researching these private, traditional Basque places. I had been invited to a gastronomic sociedad before by a woman in Lazkao while attending classes at Maizpide; sukaldaritza (cooking) was one of the talleres (workshops) we could choose from, introducing students to these Basque culinary establishments and traditional recipes. This sociedad was located just a few streets down from where I lived, but a quick introduction at our neighborhood bar Rekalde would be where we met to start off the night with introductions and drinks. After trying to maintain communication in Basque while meeting the members of my new acquaintance’s kuadrilla , we headed over to

Kresala.

I was caught off guard as I noticed we were in mixed company, and not just in reference to gender, but in terms of age range as well. Everything I had heard before about sociedades indicated that although women could be invited, the membership was usually comprised of men. I was immediately greeted by a woman about my age named

Kattalin Ansorena who informed me that this particular organization was called a sociedad recreativa or cultural—a recreational cultural society. This is where Kattalin and her friends often spent much time. She noted she has “known her kuadrilla since she was three years old” (Ansorena, K. 2017). Her father, José Ignacio Ansorena of Donostia, well-known txistulari (Basque flute player), a writer, and one of the trio of Basque- speaking and dancing clowns, Txirri, Mirri eta Txiribiton , has been a member of Kresala since its beginning.

She gave me a tour of the sociedad, the structures, and services available reflecting the inclusiveness of this institution. After having entered the lower level, she led me past the tables, kitchen, and split portion of a cider barrel to a small cement

78 fronton court (for playing Basque pelota) for children. The chocolate milk mix and juices in the cupboards and refrigerators indicated that this was place that catered to a wide variety of people.

Although this was a mixed and very welcoming society there were still restrictions and rules to abide by. “Only socios (paying members of Kresala) can be in the kitchen”. Becoming a member of Kresala is no easy task as there has been a waiting list since 2004. Once an opening occurs, the entrance fee for individuals is 200€, and for family members is 300€. The annual feel for an individual is 120€, and the fee for family members it is 160€ (Sociedad Kresala, n.d.).

Figure 2.2 A fronton court in Kresala

Figure 2.3 In kitchen of Kresala, Bilingual labels for silverware featuring Euskara

translation first: (left to right) “forks,” “knives,” “spoons,” and “other things”

Figure 2.4 Cider produced from Itxas-Buru cider house, label in Basque made for

Kresala

She provided me with the historical context. The society was founded in 1967 when it was inaugurated as a cultural center—50 years prior to the date of my interview there in 2017—as a response to the changing society. At the time of its inauguration,

Francisco Franco was still in power, and his culturally oppressive dictatorship provoked the need for change in the community with a commitment to the Basque language and culture. With help from Father Jesus Aldonondo, this cultural center provided a place that embraced different philosophical conceptions while promoting freedom.

The website or Kresala describes the history at greater length by recounting an explosion that occurred on August 11 th , 1973 and was caused by the political regime.

Over time and through rebuilding, Kresala has been a place to communicate the concerns and needs of society, including presentations and talks on issues related to womens’ rights, the Basque language, politics, health, the economy, dance, sport, and religion.

Kresala was quite revolutionary in that it was the first tamborrada—a male-only celebratory drum procession—in which women participated as protagonists (Kresala).

“Since the early nineteenth century, the quest for manhood has revolved around a flight from women…Women set the tone of those institutions that restrained masculine excess—schoolroom, parlor, church” (Kimmel 1995, 115). I came across this quote in sociologist Michael Kimmel’s book, The Politics of Manhood: Profeminist Men respond to the Mythopoetic Men’s Movement . Kimmel writes about gender studies. It reminded me of the reasons underlying the men-only gendered spaces of gastronomic societies. The

Diario Vasco , a newspaper based in Donostia, provides a website and a specific tab titled

“Mujer y Sociedades ”, or “Women and Societies.” It acknowledges that the exclusion of women has been one of the defining characteristics of gastronomic societies. In addition

81 to being a social structure that simply reinforced social norms of the time, the

“matriarchy of the society” is the first acknowledged reason for prohibiting women. They note that “The recreational society “only for men” would be the escape for the male from a social system—the family—in which he occupies a secondary position, to another where he coexists only with people of his sex, his full self-realization being easier”

(Gastronómicas, n.d., accessed January 22, 2019). The website confirms that women were prohibited from entering public social spheres as a norm, which is not currently the case.

Conducting interviews within various sectors of Basque food production reiterated elements I had learned about gendered spaces through my graduate coursework prior to fieldwork. I was knowledgeable about traditional elements of gendered spaces as described on this website, drawing from works like Sandra Ott’s, which linked the woman of the house, the etxekoandre, to the domestic and social center of the house, while men often spent their time tending to outdoor work. Margaret Bullen’s work (2003) on Basque gender studies transitions women’s roles in the twentieth century as they were related to changes in the political, economic, and social values (57). She notes Douglass’ work (1969) which “considers women-influenced decision-making to the extent that men could not make financial transactions without their consent. She follows Douglass’ observations though, by noting that, despite this power, it was not acceptable for a woman to rule over her husband as such behavior was negatively sanctioned (Bullen 64).

This chapter provides an example of a society that is not abide by exclusivity, and by then building off the historical background provided, moving into the physical spaces of the traditionally male-only clubs for eating and socializing. By understanding the most

82 basic social and physical structures of Basque culture as well as the far-reaching effects they have in every aspect of life in Euskadi (Basque Autonomous Communities), we can understand the unique reasons for the success and culinary fame that Basques have garnered internationally over the last few decades. We can subsequently acquire an in- depth view of how the cultural, linguistic, political, and economic influences intersect to form a mecca for gastronomy, and, in turn, how food impacts these systems within

Basque culture.

Access to Basque food is open to nearly anyone with the financial means to travel and make a reservation in restaurants, but gastronomic societies are known to preserve elements of Basque cuisine that are not as easily accessible to outsiders. Txokos in

Euskara and sociedades gastronómicas in Castilian provide another view into Basque culture—one that also preserves various aspects of Basque culture. It is in the sociedades that Juan Mari Arzak found a place to develop the recipes that would earn him three

Michelin stars (Upton, 2016). While Arzak mentioned the importance of chefs and restaurants in bringing traditionally made wine to the table while helping to make it more organoleptically approachable, members of gastronomic societies have had their own important role in maintaining typical consumption, socializing, and linguistic practices.

I hoped to encounter, as Upton (2016) mentions in his article, the older version of txokos that provided a space to “speak Basque and sing without state control during the

Franco dictatorship”. Just as Arzak noted, younger generations in the province of

Gipuzkoa tend to speak more Basque than in either of the other two neighbouring provinces in the Southern Basque Country. This was due to the industrialization that previously occurred mainly in the province of Bizkaia in and around Bilbo, which

83 brought more immigrants to the area. Although there are a significant percentage of

Basque speakers in the province of Bizkaia, in my interviewing experience, members of the sociedades gastronómicas in Gipuzkoa tended to communicate more in Basque. This tendency may change as younger generations in Bizkaia continue to learn Basque, but my fieldwork does not support the idea that all sociedades are still the safe havens they may have once been for the Basque language. What I did observe was the traditional use and consumption of products—especially drinks—that led me to understand more about the culture of drinking and specifically, what was being drunk.

However, while these private societies were not able or did not make it a mission to maintain use of the Basque language, they did identify these gastronomic societies as places to protect other forms of Basque culture that they found endangered. Luis

Mokoroa, Presidente de la Cofradía Vasca de Gastronomía de San Sebastián (President for the Basque Fraternity of Gastronomy of San Sebastian), stated that “…we want to demonstrate that we are committed to a civil activity, to the defense of the products. “A defense of territory also exists…many times businessmen cannot compete with products that come from outside, often with poor salaries. When defending a local product, we are defending the local producer (Terrigastro, February 13, 2018). This is illustrated by

Kresala’s own brand of cider pictured in Figure 2.4, reiterating the link between cider houses and gastronomic societies.

A few days before leaving the Basque Country, after a year of being there, I was lucky enough to be invited into one of Donostia’s oldest gastronomic societies,

Gaztelubide, founded in 1934. This well-known gastronomic society was featured in the documentary film, The Txoko Experience , that was released in 2017 during my fieldwork.

The director, Yuri Morejon, and co-director Marcela Garcés highlight Gaztelubide historicity and role in the development of gastronomic culture. It also happened to be a sociedad in my neighborhood, and I had walked past the gastronomic society many times before (Figure 2.5). Upon entering through the big wooden doors, I met with a man who had been a member for fifteen years. He described the evolution of societies as places where men would get together with friends and their day’s catch from fishing, for example, and then turn the gatherings into meals with cider and more friends, based on a system of trust. Now, Gaztelubide has some 250 socios , or members, none of them women, though they can come with permission or on special days or to eat if invited.

Sometimes someone or a group of people will bring food, cook it, and then simply divide it among those eating. It’s a place where men get together to play cards—mus—celebrate the Víspera de la virgin (Eve of the Virgin) with songs, but not where many people speak

Basque due to Franco’s dictatorship, which many members experienced directly.

Figure 2.5 Outside of Gaztelubide gastronomic society with signs that utilize the

traditional Basque font

Figure 2.6 Kitchen of Gaztelubide Sociedad Gastronómica

After a quick tour where I got to peek into the kitchen (as seen in Figure 2.6), we sat down at one of the long tables inside Gaztelubide to talk about the products consumed in their sociedad. My interviewee described the different consumption practices regarding cider and wine. He noted that although cider is an easier drink to consume because of the lower alcohol content, members also consume Txakolina with pleasure,

“poco, pero a menudo ,” or “little but often,” and in his opinion, younger people drink it more. I noticed that my guide referred to Txakolina differently than wine, as if they were different drinks. Vino tinto (red wine) was consumed from Rioja, and Rioja Alavesa or

Rioja Alta.

When I asked how the society helped maintain the culture, he explained: “I think it’s the culture that helps maintain the [gastronomic] society.” We chatted about customs such as the txikiteo that occurs when friends get together to chat and have a bit of wine, the order meals were eaten: first soup, then fish, then meat, as well as the times of day allotted for drinking certain beverages: white wine earlier in the day, followed by red wine at night (though sometimes beer earlier in the day now). He then took me to a portioned pot-like container, pointing to where the members of the gastronomic society would pay for the drinks they consumed; each member would leave the appropriate amount of money in the correlating section for the drinks he consumed. He explained that if the kuadrilla, or group of friends, went out, that each would take turns paying for rounds of drinks, rather than individually paying for their own. And on that note, he finished the interview by inviting me to a traditional bar of the Old Part, Paco Bueno, for their famous fried prawns and drink on him.

Figure 2.7 My interviewee showing me where the members would pay for the drinks

consumed

Although most sociedades had strict rules that kept women from being in the kitchen (as stated in Figure 2.8), I was able to witness a gastronomic society where women were not only enjoying meals at the table, but were allowed in the kitchen to prepare the food, perhaps due to the larger amount of food needed for that day which took place in Pamplona (Figure 2.9). I visited Gazteluleku gastronomic society during the

Fiestas de San Fermin, or the famous celebration as known as the “Running of the Bulls” on June 7 th , 2017. With everyone dressed in the traditional white clothes and red handkerchief, we stepped into the gastronomic society to see a packed space full of people and food. We were just outside of the main dining area buying a sorbete , which was a refreshing drink similar to a fruit slushy one might find in the United States. On the way in, we passed a sign with Donald Trump advertising this drink with the name of the

88 sociedad above an image of the now President. Below, the phrase “sorbete fiiirst” was written in English, and at the bottom, “Make Sorbete Great Again” was written to mimic his campaign slogans (Figures 2.10).

Figure 2.8 Bilingual sign on kitchen in a sociedad gastronomic in Tolosa that reads “If

you are not a member, do not enter the kitchen”

Figure 2.9 Women that were allowed in the kitchen to prepare the meals for Fiestas de

San Fermin

Figure 2.10 The entrance to Gazteluleku with a poster of Donald Trump

Figure 2.11 Umore Ona

Over the course of my year in the Basque Country, primarily studying beverages,

I also interviewed members of nine members-only gastronomic clubs. Having visited already visited gastronomic sociedades in Donostia, Pamplona (Iruñea), and several others in Tolosa, and other smaller towns, I also wanted to see the txokos of Bilbo. I had the opportunity to visit Bilboko Umore Ona (seen in Figure 2.10), founded in 1948, where I was invited to spend the evening interviewing and dining with one of its members.

My time spent around producers and other involved in the wine industry allowed me to come across Basques that had a passion for food, wine, and making friends that enjoyed the two. That is how I met Roberto. He and his partner would often be at the same wine tasting events I attended, and eventually we became friends. He invited me to his txoko Uri Zara, which was founded in 1974. When I arrived, Robert was already dressed in his apron and in the kitchen cooking (Figure 2.12) and I was swiftly being introduced to all in attendance.

Figure 2.12 Robert in front of the sign for txoko Uri-zara

Throughout the course of the meal, I met several of the dozen or so family members at the table. I chatted with the table of gentlemen who were sitting behind me playing mus , and watched as cakes were passed around the table to all people celebrating birthdays.

Figure 2.13 Robert, his partner and me dining with his family and friends

Every visit to a gastronomic society was slightly different. I was accompanied by members each time, sometimes with the wives of the members, but always in the presence of a male member. In some Basque was spoken, and in others not. Everyone was welcoming in each instance, willing to share the story behind their private gastronomic society.

No matter where it was, when it was founded, these places were not always sites for maintaining Euskera, but maybe they would become that for the next generation coming in, just as Kresala did. More than just language, these societies used food as means to practice other aspects of Basque life—the collective enjoyment of food based on trust and responsibility. Everyone was expected to behave in a way that benefited the larger whole, whether as members of the society, or by supporting local producers’ culinary creations without going out to dinner at a chain restaurant that lacks local identity.

For this reason, I argue that gastronomic societies are semiofoodscapes that involve more than just language normalization. They function as an ingredient (“space”) of the semiofoodscapes that Järlehed and Moriarty (2018) put forth—foodstuffs, spaces, actors, practices, norms, inscriptional genres, and (other) semiotic resources—in which many of the other ingredients are present. As these scholars’ content, this framework help to frame and mediate how semiotic resources are mobilized to operate in a certain way for a certain group. In the case of gastronomic societies, some sociedades may function as haves for encouraging language normalization, but other forms of Basque semiotics that do not include Euskara, such as orthography, color, material, images, and names also part of the ingredients necessary for maintaining these semiotic aspects of Basque culture.

Chapter 3: Milk and the “Guerra de la Leche”

I remember eating in the kitchen with one of my housemates early on in my stay in the Basque Country, discussing my research interests in language and Basque beverages, when he mentioned that I might want to consider researching milk. I was initially intending to focus only on alcoholic beverages such as wine due to their ability to demand higher market values. He suggested milk may be of interest as a highly publicized dispute had occurred recently which involved the use of Euskara for marketing purposes. By researching the marketing strategies for milk and taking away the high commodification factor integrated into products such as wine, I learned about different motives for using Euskara in advertising strategies.

By that time in my research, I had noticed various local, regional, and national milk producers, some branding their product by using language and Spanish place names as a tool for branding. This sort of competition between brands was then fairly common for this product. The dispute occurred in 2012, when a feud between two cooperatives—

Kaiku (a name that refers to the wooden milking cup or traditional Basque garments in

Euskara, Figure 3.1) and Euskal Herria Esnea (which means Basque Country Milk in

Euskara)—made headlines.

Figure 3.1 Traditional Kaiku used for holding milk

https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaiku_(utensilio)#/media/File:Kaikua,_Euskal_Herria.jpg

The feud involved the monolingual use of Basque to market a milk brand. The cooperative Euskal Herria Esnea reported that Kaiku (formally a cooperative known as

Guralesa) had filed a complaint about labeling Euskal Herria’s cartons solely in Basque

(to include the nutritional information provided). This claim pertains to (but was little mentioned in the press) Article 18 under the Spanish Agency for Consumer Affairs, Food

Safety and Nutrition/Agencia Espanola de Consumo, Seguridad Alimentaria y Nutrición

(AECOSAN). AECOSAN is an independent body attached to the Ministry of Health,

Social Services and Equality via the Secretary General for Health and Consumer Affairs.

It is the result of a union between the National Consumer Institute and the Spanish

Agency for Food, Safety and Nutrition. Article 18 addresses what languages can be used for labeling and states that: “The obligatory indications for the labeling of food products that are marketed in Spain will be expressed, at least, in the official Spanish language of the State. The provisions of the previous section shall not apply to traditional products

97 produced and distributed exclusively within the scope of an Autonomous Community with its own official language” (Norma de etiquetado n.d.) This means that products deemed to be “traditional” that are made and sold in the Basque Country can be marketed solely in Basque, for example.

Kaiku denied the claim against them citing that their complaint was aimed at reporting Euskal Herria Esnea for using a name that was not officially registered

(Basterra 2012). Kaiku claimed it had merely asked “to clarify if the generic name of

Euskal Herria was legal, and to investigate the traceability of the milk since the cooperative packages in Soria” (which is located outside the Basque Country) (López

2012).

Estitxu Garai, press representative of Euskal Herria Esnea, responded as follows:

“Our project has a clear commitment to milk and the market here, and the choice of language is a clear example. We consider that Basque is a treasure that must be taken care of and made standard with total normality” (Basterra 2012). Euskal Herria Esnea was also functioning under the principle of “equality between farmers, support for the ecology and a fairer economic model” and expressed frustration with Kaiku, claiming that their economic models have contributed to 93% loss in the amount of the baserri milk producers. One of the major issues produced by these models were the lower prices paid to producers in the milk industry, which had reduced the previous 13,000 milk producers to only 1,100. (Basterra 2012). Euskal Herria Esnea’s goals were similar to their parent company that marketed bilingually, Bizkaia Esnea (translated as “Milk from

Bizkaia”), except that they directed their marketing strategies specifically toward the

Basque-speaking consumer by marketing solely in Euskara. As with Euskal Herria Esnea,

Bizkaia Esnea’s hope was to keep the economy of the baserri producers alive by maintaining fair prices for their products and the survival of the farmhouse against the control of bigger corporations, such as Kaiku.

Figure 3.2 Box of Euskal Herria milk cartons with a bertso

Language on the carton of Euskal Herria milk on the next page, as well as this larger carton above, is not only completely in Basque, but also has bertsos, a type of improvised poetry, advertising the importance and convergence of the animals, nature, and the earth, amidst a “breathing” (living) Basque farmhouse all originating within the concept of localness:

The cow bells ring Behien tulun-tuluna from valley to valley bailaraz bailara the breath/breathing of baserriak baserrien arnasa the beating of the earth. Lurraren taupada

The best thing we do has arrived Geure onena heldu da in stores saltokietara

Euskal Herria milk Euskal Herria Esnea from right here, to right here. Bertatik bertara.

(Translation assistance from Cameron Watson)

Bertsolaritza , or the art of singing improvised verse, brings cultural significance and symbolic value to the promotion of food products through this particular use of the

Basque language. Along with the food product, bertsolaritza is “a cultural expression with its own specific consumption within the Euskaldun culture…and, in some areas, is on the point of extinction” (Garzia, Sarasua, and Egaña 2001, 35-36). It has been able to adapt over time as a unique practice that showcases the Basque language through idioms and uses of the language that call upon elements of Basque culture, as seen by the bertso on the Euskal Herria Esnea boxes. This use reinforces not only the importance of using the Basque language for marketing purposes, but ties another cultural practice into the marketing strategy for increased symbolic, cultural, and in turn, economic value.

Bertsolaritza also demonstrates a type of performativity that shows off the skills of using language. It takes places audibly and visually in various settings, displaying various notions of localness through dialect, and by claiming linguistic spaces, publicly and privately. This performativity takes into account gender as men have dominated this genre of language play, though this is changing with bertsolaris such as Maialen Lujanbio

Zugasti.

100

One could write lengthy piece on Maialen’s contribution to the Basque language and performativity as a bertsolaritza. However, I will recount a smaller example of her performance at the Center for Basque Studies and the introduction given by the librarian,

Iñaki Arrieta Baro. Before bertsolaris Mailen, Miren Artetxe Sarasola, and Jesus Goñi performed, Arrieta gives the audience—many who might not be completely familiar with the art of bertsolaritza—an explanation of implicit meaning and interaction between the bertsolaris. He says, “For making a good bertso, they need the cooperation of the other side, of the other bertsolari, which in principle, is the competitor. So, it becomes more

[of] a conversation than a competition, more a cooperation than a competition…even if they want to win.” Arrieta also notes that in general, in “Maialen’s poems its reoccurring to talk about the Basque language.” (Iñaki Arrieta Baro, January 26, 2018).

This introduction and insight into the more implicit aspects of the performance gives insight into by whom and how the Basque language is used to demonstrate linguistic ability, but also the importance of cooperation within competition. To summarize, the performativity of bertsolaritza is an iconic sign through the corporeal presence and interaction of individual Basque bodies, language, and gender which represents the importance of oral verbal exchange (as the Basque language was once just that). It also represents the more arbitrary, symbolic values of the relationship held between these signs such as which bodies are linguistic icons (Echeverria 2003, 387) as well as the collaboration that is implicitly veiled under the explicit image of competition.

Arrieta makes what is not said about these signs more explicit in describing the cooperation occurring under the guise of competition. While it typically involves

101 competition between two individuals’ performance, a collective is invoked with repetitious phrases that allow the audience to participate in the linguistic reproduction 4.

There are several formal aspects or rules that need to be met in the creation of a bertso: it needs to be sung, rhymed and in measured discourse 5. Unlike other improvisers, the bertsolari, or the person singing the bertso, always performs without musical accompaniment even though the discourse itself is sung. Although I was not able to find a sung version of this bertso, the poem on the Euskal Herria Esnea carton conforms to the rules of the kopla txikia . The koplak have been “used for centuries for creating popular sung ballads of many kinds and the origin of which lies in the medieval romantic ballads,” (Garzia, Sarasua, and Egana 2001, 88) and are usually “used for singing round the streets, and in the other championships and festivals” (Garzia, Sarasua, and Egana

2001, 93). The poem on the milk box conforms to this last paradigm with its 2 sets of four verses, the even lines rhyming with each other, and with seven syllables making up the odd verses and six making up the even. While there are other qualities to characterize a bertso, such as the quality of rhyme (Garzia, Sarasua, and Egana 2001, 93-94), the

4 A request for suggested words took place at this particular performance. After I suggested singing about Txakolina, Maialen, Miren, and Jesus incorporated into their performance, part of which is translated with the help of Iñaki Arrieta and Cameron Watson in the chapter on Txakolina. 5 Independent of the content, the air, rhyme and meter are inseparable elements of improvised bertso singing. The melodies are usually traditional, modern melodies coincidental in meter, or melodies expressly commissioned (Garzia, Sarasua, and Egaña 2001, 83-84). The meter paradigms most used in bertsolaritza are: zortziko handia (big eight) , zortziko txikia (small eight) , hamarreko txikia (small ten), and other paradigms are kopla handia (big verse) , and kopla txikia (small verse) . Approximately 90% of the art in bertsolaritza limits itself to these paradigms (Garzia, Sarasua, and Egaña 2001, 92-93). The numbers refer to the number of lines given in each poem, and the “big” or “small” refers to the number of syllables in the verses, with the even verses rhyming. While the kopla handia might have four verses with ten syllables for the odd verses and eight for the even, the kopla txikia would have only seven syllables in the first verse and six in the second (Garzia, Sarasua, and Egana 2001, 88-89).

102 poem used by Euskal Herria Esnea follows the requirements to be considered a legitimate bertso.

The orange and black sticker with the words “ Bai euskarari, zerbitzua euskaraz ”

(Yes to Euskara, service in Euskara) is one of the three certificates/levels awarded by Bai

Euskarari Elkartea (Yes to Basque Association), which began in 2007. The objective of the certificates is to encourage Euskara in the socioeconomic environment through the recognition and help given to these entities for using and improving the level of Basque used. This certificate, awarded to Euskal Herria Esnea, is directed at businesses, shops, and all types of entities that offer service in Euskara. The other two levels for certification are stamps with “ Euskararen bidean ” (On the way to Euskara ), directed at entities, businesses, and stores that take measures toward the normalization of Euskara. The third and highest level to be awarded is the “ Zerbitzua eta lana euskaraz ” (Service and work in

Euskara), which is directed at entities that recognize Euskara as a language of work (Bai

Euskarari Ziurtagiriaren Elkartea n.d.).

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Figures 3.3 and 3.4 http://www.hosteleriagipuzkoa.eu/proveedores-2237-euskal-herria-

esnea-acb-cerrato/

The two cartons have different imprints above the brand name. The Bizkaia Ensea

(Figure 3.3) has an imprint of a couple wearing typical Basque garb such as a txapela , or

Basque beret that, while Euskal Herria Esnea (Figure 3.4) has a coat of arms representing the provinces of the Basque Country.

Also listed on both milk labels above is the acronym UHT, which stands for ultra- high temperature—a treatment that allows for milk to be transported and stored without refrigeration. This treatment is a continuous heating process at temperatures higher than

130 degrees Celsius (usually 140-150'C) for a holding period of a few seconds (usually 2-

10seconds) followed by aseptic packaging to produce a `commercially sterile' product

(Burton 1988).

104

This type of treatment for Euskal Herria Esnea is interesting as it allows for transportation across greater larger distances, making the product more accessible to the people. I argue, however, that while such a product could be deemed authentically

Basque due to the mission and motives already mentioned, the UHT process takes away a degree of authenticity by removing what one informant termed as ‘naturalness’ because of its elongated expiration date.

What has ensued from the dispute is a campaign by Kaiku to sell their milk as the

“La única recogida y envasada en Euskal Herria”, or “the only (milk) produced and bottled in the Basque Country” (referring to the bottling process for Euskal Herria Esnea and Bizkaia Esnea that occurs in Soria), as seen in Figure 3.5. Interestingly, this phrase is situated second, or below the phrase that says “Orgullosa de ser de aquí”, or “Proud to be from here,” which is in Castilian and in larger font. One could argue that if marketing a product’s origin or bottling site in the Basque Country holds such importance as Kaiku does, then they too should market in the Basque language.

This emphasizes marketing to an identity built not on the Basque language, but rather by adhering to the proposed notion of linguistic terroir—in this case, marketing the

Basque Country’s sense of place as defined by the Castilian language. Acknowledging the implementation of this strategy that appears only in Castilian, demonstrates their efforts to catch the attention of a larger population—everyone in the Basque Country, versus Basque speakers. It also reinforces the idea that non-Basque speakers can still be as attracted to the products procured within the borders of the Basque Country, and that the importance of place and political boundaries can be more pertinent in defining

Basques than the language does. I emphasize this example to capture the full notion of

105 linguistic terroir by recognizing both Castilian and Basque as authentic components that make up the social aesthetic as well as the semiotic landscape.

As the war of milk continued to unfold, the dispute also instigated boycotts in

Navarra—an autonomous community where Basque identity and language use are contentious subjects—against Kaiku for starting a politically related campaign with its new advertisements aimed at attracting consumers who feel part of the Basque Country.

This is interesting as some of the farms that contribute their milk to Euskal Herria Esnea not only located in the Autonomous Basque Community, but in Navarra also (“Euskal

Herria Esnea” n.d.). Others boycotted Kaiku, drawing attention to the fact that Kaiku is a subsidiary of the larger international company, Emmi, negating the image that it functions merely as a Basque company (Pérez 2016). Furthermore, still others were boycotting Kaiku because of its perceived commercial interests in filing a complaint against marketing milk solely in Basque (Konpañon and Angulo 2012).

Jota Aretxabaleta, co-owner of Hopper-Ink marketing company, stated that Kaiku started marketing in Basque in order to sell more locally when the crisis hit (Jota

Aretxabaleta, May 5, 2017). It was for that reason only that they wanted to start using

Euskara on their labels, he argued. Assuming this was true, it shows a previous lack of relationship between the consumer and the producer—another important factor in being able to sell local products—despite Kaiku’s current use of Euskara on their milk cartons.

This disconnect between consumer and producer and the dispute in the news only encouraged consumers, such as my housemates, to boycott Kaiku milk. Despite a potential disconnect between producer and consumer, this is still a sign of normalization

(Agurtzane Elordui, written conversation, April 10, 2019).

106

Figure 3.5 Taken from Navarra Confidential

"Proud to be from here" and "The only milk produced and bottled in the Basque

Country"

Several marketing strategies are employed in many photos presented in this chapter in an effort to appeal to consumers’ desire to support the local economy, local production, traceability, quality, as well as linguistic and political ideals. Figure 3.6 indicate with the “SOS Baserriak” that buying this milk helps to support the primary sector and the farmers, or baserritarrak, to earn a fair wage for a liter of milk (Bizkaia

Esnea Facebook, Feb. 10, 2016). In this way, the consumer would be supporting traditional Basque farm life—a life that still very much exists today in rural areas. This socioeconomic component references a part of society that includes and ties together aspects of Basque culture, language, and economy.

107

Figure 3.6 SOS label indicating that by purchasing this product the consumer contributes

to the maintenance of the baserri

https://www.flickr.com/photos/hamaika/7997054036

Figures 3.3 and 3.4 of Bizkaia Esnea and Euskal Herria Esnea also have some or all of the product’s label in Basque, with the Bizkaia brand marketing bilingually in

Castilian and Basque. Both cartons show images of children affectionately caring for cows, dressed in the Basque kaiku.6 These garments reference a past time as they are not commonly seen except for occasional celebrations and festivals. These images convey a sense of innocence and harmony between humans and animals, insinuating that the animals are treated humanely during the production process.

6 Kaiku can mean “traditional garments” “milking cup” and “silly, dumb, or stupid.”

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Figure 3.7 https://www.supereko.net/eu/esnekiak/esnea/leche-kaiku-freskoa.html

The Kaiku brand shows a similar image of a cow freely roaming the green hills and a baserri in the background (Figure 3.7). The specific brand name “ Gurea, ” which means “ours,” reiterates a sociolinguistic division as it is directed at those who can read

Basque, excluding those who are not part of the linguistically distinct collective. Below

“Gurea ” are the words “ baserriko esnea ” which mean “milk from the farm”, thus linking the “our” as Basque speakers to the farm, and the farmhouse—a sense of place that relies upon the closest association possible between the people and the land while omitting the interference of distance, time, a distinct natural environment, obstacles of technology, industrialized practices, and all the middle men involved who complicate the relationship between the producer and consumer. The Kaiku website states that “the farmers of the

(Kaiku) cooperative are responsible for 70% of the milk that is gathered from the Basque

109

Country” (Los Baserris n.d.). According to this statement, there would then be about a third of the milk that is not produced by the local farmers, leaving one to wonder where the rest is produced for this company that advertises its product as “milk from the farm.”

Another image displayed is that of Euskal Label, that functions under HAZI, a certification and control organization (Figure 3.8). Their semiotic use of the “K,” which stands for “Kalitatea, ” (Quality) serves to identify and distinguish those agricultural products that are produced, processed, and/or elaborated in the Autonomous Community of the Basque Country, whose quality, specificity, or singularity exceed the general average. As seen by the label below, Basque takes precedence over Castilian translation, and the clear preference for marking “quality” is illustrated with the “K” instead of the

“Q” to index Basque speakers. In addition to guaranteeing these qualities to the customer, its website states that it serves to allow the customer to identify the origin and authenticity of the products and defends the labor of the producers. The website itself is offered in Euskara and Castilian, with Euskara being listed first (¿Qué es Eusko Label? n.d.).

Figure 3.8 Eusko Label indication quality

Bizkaia Esnea, Euskal Herria Esnea, and the first image of the Kaiku carton all use the Basque font that is referenced throughout this dissertation. I argue that this

110 folkloric use of a traditional font semiotically carries a value on a milk carton that might not otherwise be as valued on products such as wine. In many cases, wine is a commodified product which gains value from a sense of authenticity as established through historicity and reference to tradition, which can also come from the use of this font. However, especially in the case of Txakolina, many producers are attempting to convey a more modern image of what Txakolina can be/is through more modern designs and fonts. Milk, on the other hand, has the potential to gain value the more closely it is related to traditional farmhouse production and farther from the larger, multinational companies producing milk. I believe using the traditional font, associated with traditional

Basque life, still holds value for milk due to the strong link that still exists between traditional Basque life of the baserri and milk products. This notion about the use of language and semiotics is reaffirmed by Ferguson and Sidrova who study the use of the minoritized language of Sakha and Russian. They claim that because Sakha is still primarily associated with rural spaces, the “rurally-ensconced ethnographic authenticity is brought into the city” (2018, 43). Milk is especially susceptible to gain value from

Basque semiotics as it is a prime example of a product associated with ruralness the

Basque language both.

While I cannot disagree that a traditional Basque font holds value on the label for a variety of products, I propose that using less folkloric images and/or traditional fonts could provide a different notion of baserri life that more closely associates it to a modern- day way of life. This would, in turn, encourage more people to see that (as Estitxu Garai mentions in our conversation below) both the baserri lifestyle and the Basque language— so closely associated with tradition, the past, and rural life—are viable practices for the

111 modern-day Basque. I argue that acknowledging tradition while implementing Euskara in modern day images/marketing strategies will help language normalization goals by breaking the sentiment that Euskara is a language forever associated with the past.

On March 24 th , 2017, five years after the milk feud had begun, I had the opportunity to meet with Estitxu Garai in person. In addition to being the press representative for Euskal Herria Esnea, she is also a professor at the University of the

Basque Country in the Communication and Social Sciences Department. We talked about my research interests and the details of the famous dispute between the two milk companies. In her office, we discussed the use of Euskara in marketing other products I was researching as well, such as Txakolina.

We started evaluating this product much the same way I started my research— because it offers such an expansive perspective for the use of Basque, ranging from the producer’s perspective to that of an international consumer. This conversation led into the marketing of Rioja wine, cider, and continued into the Euskal Herria Esnea dispute, illustrating a common thread: that a product deeply entrenched in Basque semiotics and associated with the culture can become valuable in both foreign and local markets. “I studied how a language could be used to communicate the values of a brand that you want to transmit” said Estitxu Garai.” Referencing Rioja Alavesa, she continued: “You have to plan the construction of a brand. Txakolina is taking a turn to become a more modern product, along with cider…you can see it in the label, with more of them in black and different typography versus the traditional look with the Basque typography…it depends on the type of market you want to direct the product to. For example, when we created the marketing plan for Bizkaia Esnea, just as with Euskal Herria Esnea, we had a

112 clear idea as to what the target was, what the geographic limit would be, so that we could direct it [towards those goals]. If you compare them (Bizkaia Esnea and Euskal Herria

Esnea) they have the same base, but they are different. For example, Bizkaia Esnea is bilingual and Euskal Herria Esnea is monolingual in Euskara.” (Estitxu Garai, May 12,

2017).

She later described the decree previously mentioned that requires Castilian to be used on labels unless the product is deemed “traditional”. She mentioned that Euskal

Herria Esnea uses the UHT process to keep the milk from spoiling, which is considered

“an industrialized process so that the milk couldn’t be considered a traditional product, which is why they filed the complaint against us for using Basque…if you can’t market in your own language, what you are communicating implicitly then is that Euskara is only worth something when used to market traditional, historic, old products…this is inadmissible, it tramples on the rights of any language that you want to revitalize”

(Estitxu Garai, May 12, 2017). Estitxu said that they were well aware of this potential issue during the planning stage, and that perhaps it could even become a “plus” for them if it should cause an issue.

I asked her if using more Basque could be replicated with other products like

Txakolina. She noted that depending on where you want to sell your product, “if you want to export Euskara, it would be an added value.” She later gave other examples of how Euskara could be used symbolically with Txakolina, such as with the name Txomin

Etxaniz. She suggested that a likely reaction might be that a person sees this name or phrase, relates it to Basque which would influence the consumer thereby making it more valuable, and that the communicative use of the language, not just the symbolic use,

113 could further develop the notion that this product “comes from a concrete place”

(traceability)…” where they have a culture that…in the end, you are associating with the brand” (Estitxu Garai, May 12, 2017).

I gave an example from my own experience in presenting wine when serving customers at a restaurant in Austin, TX. If I wanted to sell a wine, I told the history behind the product. Estitxu agreed that a story influences how consumers select their product. I suggested that the reaction for consumers in Spain might be different than those from international or more local Basque markets. She agreed, commenting that,

“what is implied in Spain when you use Euskara (to market) it has other connotations that are political, whereas you don’t in the United States…[in the United States] it’s a very very very sellable story [concepts of Basqueness when paired with wine} because it has the ability to be bucolic, historic, beautiful…in the end because it's one of the most historic languages, with an unknown origin, set in the mountains, the culture is maintained, that part of the culture is closely related to gastronomy, has many Michelin star restaurants…it has everything, to be very effective, and can be activated with the language” (Estitxu Garai, May 12, 2017). Marketing the confluence of these qualities reflects the definition of “brand” by the creation of distinctive, unique associations that address the desire of the consumer (Manning 2007, 627). Marketing the tradition, history, and beautiful bucolic qualities of milk production illustrates what Manning (2007, 626-

627) describes as the authentic ethnographic traditionalism of consumption, associated with the natural geography of a place. These qualities are further activated by the language, as noted by Garai. This process commodifies the language through niche marketing that focuses on authenticity built on heritage and the environment (Heller

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2010, 108). Peripheral regions and linguistic minorities such as the Basque Country seek to commodify politically produced identities (Coupland et al. 2005). While many Basque products can rely upon either the ethnographic traditionalism, or the commodification of language to create value, I argue that both are used in the case of Euskal Herria Esnea.

Her next piece of advice was for me to conduct my fieldwork solely as an external observer, “because the people from here are very contaminated. They are contaminated in the sense that the language has been used for very political reasons. Because of this, it’s like a return, a return to politics, and for protection, or lack thereof, there was a militancy here against the language… (Estitxu Garai, May 12, 2017). In summary, she observed that “You have to formulate your marketing plan… it is a super powerful tool to create a brand. [especially when you can] activate all the values of the brand of this product. Such discourse here (in the Basque Country) about language conditions your product if you use the language. Outside [for international markets], it won’t” (Estitxu Garai, May 12,

2017).

She later noted that marketing strategies must be made clear between different uses of Basque semiotics. “You have to differentiate the use of the language, symbolically or pragmatically…because on the labels you can add Basque on a symbolic level, or on a communicative pragmatic level with associations or connotations. On an international level, it [the communicative] will not help, you can use English or whichever other language, but at the symbolic level, it contributes a lot to the construction of a brand and that is what you have to plan out…if it can activate it or not.”

She continued saying that “yes, you can have a family name or name [for branding] …but you can also add another phrase that can help activate the brand with symbology, such as

115 lauburus .” (Estitxu Garai, May 12, 2017).

There are several points made in Garai’s interview that highlight the ways

Euskara can be used to market effectively. First was the affirmation that, due to multiple reasons, a bottle of Txakolina sold as an export item can be commodified greatly, increasing its economic value, and I would argue, the capacity to increase the value of the language if used on such labels. Creating distinction through language and culturally associated semiotics in US restaurants such as Txikito, increase the value of a product.

Without the pragmatic or symbolic use of Basque semiotics, there would be no way to verify that this product is authentically Basque, a quality for which the customer pays and expects. This same process of commodified authenticity occurs with the purchasing and consumption of milk, and only differs in that Basque can be used more communicatively as it would attract the local consumer. This is the strategy used by Euskal Herria Esnea.

As with Txakolina sold in New York, Garai confirmed that the natural environment and setting of the Basque Country helped sell products with a desirable image of a place “set in the mountains”—whether verbalized or shown through imagery of rolling hills. According to Garai, providing the consumer with a concrete sense of place, from which the product originates, works effectively as a marketing strategy.

Her explanation of Kaiku’s denunciation of Euskal Herria Esnea is of particular interest. She explains that although traditional products can be marketed solely in Basque, it was the UHT process—deemed industrial and not traditional—that caused Kaiku to argue against the milk being a traditional product. According to Garai, Kaiku used this as the reason why it should not be marketed solely in Basque. Garai also mentioned that she and her colleagues were aware of the potential for such claims, ready to take (avoid

116 repetition) complaints with the hope of shedding light on issues of language use. The claim drew attention to the associations caused by this mandated Article 18 that only permitted Basque to be used on traditional products. As she pointed out, such an association would likely prevent attempts to revitalize a language when it is only permitted to be used for traditional products tied to historical use, versus being utilized into modern day life just as the products themselves have been.

The use of the ultra-high temperature treatment sheds light on yet another important element of the marketing strategy. It illustrates a potential dichotomy that is apparent in the strategy for creating an authentically Basque product. Euskal Herria

Esnea uses many of the typical authenticating images on their label: images that create a concrete origin and traceability, traditional Basque font, the use of Euskara in the form of a bertso, culturally relevant economic practices of cooperativism, and images in support of rural conservation. However, the UHT treatments are viewed to be more industrial as they take away the sense of freshness that is often valued in locally-produced milk; the process kills off more bacteria than other treatments so that it may withstand transportation across longer distances and maintain a longer shelf-life.

One might argue that this treatment detracts from Euskal Herria’s sense of authenticity through a depletion of natural ingredients. However, I found this reason to be overlooked in the press and to have little importance in Kaiku’s claim against Euskal

Herria Esnea; it also seemed to have little effect in preventing Basques from boycotting

Kaiku. What this appears to demonstrate is a hierarchy of values in the marketing of products in the Basque Country. While “local” is marketed in a myriad of ways by both brands to attract customers, it is the presence and use of the Basque language in its

117 symbolic and communicative form that seem (plural subject) to be more vigorously defended despite the industrialized UHT treatment. This raises the question as to the different levels of authentication that marketing strategies can provide in targeted markets and cultures, and what ideologies are most valued.

Milk tends to be sold and marketed more locally as a product, depending on treatments such as UHT. Larraitz from Igeldoko Esnea (Igeldo Milk) valued her milk as a local product by affirming that “you have to be local in all senses of the word” (Larraitz

Dorronsoro, June 3, 2017). Igeldo is a small town located just up the mountain west of

Donostia’s La Concha beach, but Larraitz takes great effort to make sure that her milk makes it down the mountain and into the plazas where her milk is sold from machines.

The dispenser displays the phrase, “ Baserritik plazara, egunero hemen gara” (from the baserri to the plaza, we are here every day) in Figure 3.9.

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Figure 3.9 The milk dispenser located in Donostia

The four generations of milk producers from Ondazarte baserri, where Igeldoko

Esnea is produced, stated that they “don’t want [to make] milk that will last for long periods of time…but here the law prohibits the commercialization of raw milk… (Teso

2011). In a personal interview, Larraitz had mentioned that the Department of Sanitation prohibited the sale of raw milk, which in turn caused the farmhouses to close because not all dairy farmers could afford to pasteurize their milk (Larraitz Dorronsoro, June 3,

2017). Larraitz’s father, however, had decided to buy one of the machines that could pasteurize, and so their business carried on. Larraitz made great attempts to sell her milk locally, so much so that, after taking the bus up the mountain and being picked up in her

119 van, we had to head immediately back down the mountain into the neighborhood of

Antiguo to fix one of the milk dispensers that had malfunctioned and was unable to dispense the milk (Figure 3.10). There were other milk dispensers in Donostia’s plazas, such as the milk from Bordazar baserri. These dispensers, like gastronomic societies, symbolize the rural to urban shift by providing a way to maintain various facets of rural life. Prioritizing milk and other food sourced from the baserri illustrates an attempt to consume local goods while living in urban settings.

Figure 3.10 Larraitz tending to the milk dispenser's maintenance and function

Larraitz’s family sells the milk in machines fresh as “leche del día”, or “milk of the day”, without the UHT treatment, and what they sell in cartons is marketed as “Esne naturala pasteurizatua” (natural pasteurized milk). Larraitz explained that they pasteurized but at a minimal temperature, around 72-75 degrees Celsius, which allows it to retain a large percentage of bacteria and thus to be considered “natural” (Larraitz

Dorronsoro, June 3, 2017) (Figure 3.11). According to many, this UHT process affects

120 the taste of milk. This treatment falls within a pasteurization process called “High-

Temperature-Short-Time-Treatment” (HTST), while an alternative process is “Low-

Temperature-Long-Time Treatment” (LTLT) (“Describe Pasteurization 2012).

Figure 3.11and 3.12 Milk carton illustrating” natural” pasteurized milk with Basque/

Castilian marketing on the label

Although they clearly marketed and sold their own milk independently, Larraitz explained that they were also members of the Kaiku cooperative and sold part of their production to Kaiku. This illustrates that different ways in which milk producers market and sell their milk. Igeldoko Esnea clearly prioritizes local production through marketing and selling their own brand, but is also able to contribute to the larger Kaiku model that

121 includes Igeldo’s production toward Kaiku’s baserri-produced milk. This practice sheds light on the how concepts of “traditional,” “local,” and “authentic” are subjectively evaluated in the creation of value. The interplay of local values such as language and economic models of cooperativism, along with more universal values of sustainability and traceability, compete and are held with varying degrees of importance for Basque consumers that are dependent on their own social, political, and economic ideals.

Some other interesting points that reflect her desire to be local were mentioned in our interview. During our time together time there, she had received several visitors. One visitor, who enjoyed the product and the idea of the milk dispensing machines in the plazas, suggested that Larraitz use this dispensing model in the plazas of Madrid. She believed Larraitz could profit from such a business venture. Larraitz’s response was that such an attempt to sell her milk in Madrid or other cities would defeat the purpose of selling the milk as local. One could imagine that milk transported that distance every day could be possible with enough workers and could even possibly be profitable as Basque products are known in many places to be of great quality, but it clearly went against the ideological reasons for selling her milk. As she declared, “This is not a business, it’s a way of life.” (Larraitz Dorronsoro, June 3, 2017)

As one can see from the pictures of Igeldoko Esne milk cartons (Figures 3.11 and

3.12), Basque and Castilian are both present with Basque taking precedence over

Castilian and listed first. Typical images of the baserri and green hills with cows show the relationship between the product and the land. However, this example demonstrates a contrast to Euskal Herria Esnea. The label, although sold primarily in the province with the most Basque speakers (Gipuzkoa), contains both languages. Since it does not use the

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UHT process, using Garai’s argument, one could consider this a traditional product, which would permit its labels to contain only Basque. Having a natural milk gives it a sense of authenticity as its form of pasteurization limits the distance from the origin in which it can be sold, keeping it local. Given the choice, if both were sold side by side in a supermarket, it begs the question of which one would be most often purchased, for what average price, and why.

The three other milk producers that I interviewed (Larreta, Iztueta, and Mahala) used many of the same marketing tactics seen on the cartons of Euskal Herria, Igeldoko

Esnea, and Kaiku, incorporating images of the baserri and cows grazing freely on verdant hillsides. All the interviewees were fluent Basque speakers, and as Leire from Larreta described, most preferred to use Basque as it was the language naturally spoken at home

(Leire Lizeaga, interview, July 3, 2017).

Larreta baserria, home to Leire and Andoni, is located in Orendain, Gipuzkoa.

Their dairy company, recognized by the same name, produces cheese, yogurt, and ice creams in what they advertise as “artisanal” style. During my brief visit there, and while talking about their decision to use Basque for marketing, I was shown a letter they had received from Behatokia, “a foundation that safeguards the linguistic rights of citizens in the territories of Euskara, the Basque language, and directs its activity to guarantee those rights, both in the public and socioeconomic fields” (Creation of Behatokia. n.d.). The letter congratulated them for looking after the language rights of Basques by marketing in

Euskara. When I asked if they had had any problems marketing in Basque, Leire responded that the only significant issue was in relation to expiration date as the numbers are presented in a different order than they are in Castilian. For example, in Castilian, it is

123 customary to print the expiration date of “the 10 th of February 2011” (day/month/year) as

“10/02/11,” while the Basque language would order it as “11/02/10” (year/month/day).

As one can see, since Castilian is the typical language used for marketing, this would lead one to think that the product would be expired a year prior. This had led people to call the dairy, complaining that they had put expired products on the shelves.

The label of their jogurt (“yogurt” in Basque), like many baserri milk products, shows a simplified version of a cow in the pastures. Underneath the brand name is the phrase, “ Etxean egindako, ” which means “homemade/made in the house” (Figure 3.13).

Beneath is the description of what the product is with the words “ Naturala ” and “ Kaña

Azukrearekin ”, which means that the yogurt is “natural” and “with cane sugar”.

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Figure 3.13 Larreta Jogurt, “homemade,”” natural, and “with cane sugar”

https://www.larretaesnekiak.com/produktuak

Just as with Igeldoko Esnea, the concept of “natural” is used here to emphasize the purity of the milk products, alongside its “artisanal” qualities or “home” style. This is reiterated in videos where the producers of Larreta can be seen filling the cups full of yogurt and placing the labels on them by hand. Such advertising strategies, along with writing everything (to include the expiration date) in Euskara, help to create a valuable product that is viewed by the Basques as authentic as defined by where, how, and by whom its produced—by Basques who value their identity via cultural and linguistic practices.

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I first noticed Iztueta dairy producers when taking a walk up Lazkaomendi, located in the municipality of Goierri during my stay at an intensive Basque language school, located in Lazkao where I learned most of my Basque. In the lower part of

Lazkao, Iztueta milk could be more easily purchases at the milk dispenser, much like the one Igeldoko Ensea had in Donostia (Figure 3.14).

Figure 3.14 Dispenser for Iztueta located in Lazkao

Ainitze Sala and I sat inside for an interview after meeting her mother, Marije, at

Azpikoa baserria. Walking through the presentation space, I photographed verses that had been written about milk, titled “The House of Milk” (Figure 3.15).

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Figure 3.15 The House of Milk bertso at Iztueta

According to Joseba Zulaika, this was not a typical verse because it does not follow the rules to be sung, but rather, they use it to show prowess in their linguistic abilities.

The house of milk

The House of Milk is

what you are treading on

people and animals

what makes us one.

The inclination we create

in its pure whiteness,

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nourishment and remedy,

ours and yours.

The land has a soul,

which the cows graze on,

all we add is work and feeling.

Men and women,

this is all just a cell

in order to offer a legacy,

that of nature itself.

(translation by Cameron Watson)

The author, Xabier Amuriza, has special significance in the world of bertsolaritza.

Born in 1941 in Bizkaia, he was a famous bertsolari, translator, and writer. He emerged into the world of bertsolarismo in the 1980’s, implementing a series of important changes as one of the more modern bertsolariak (plural of bertsolari). 7 His bertso emphasizes the role that milk plays in giving identity to the house—itself a physical structure that gives identity to its inhabitants. As the adage goes, “you don’t name your farm, it names you”

(Ray and Bieter 2015, 244). Part of the Iztueta farm and production facility can be seen in

Figure 3.16.

7 He encouraged the introduction of unified Basque (Batua) and the use of new melodies, though he was also supportive of using localized forms of speech to perform, such as his own Western Basque dialect. In addition, he fought against the idea that the ability of “Basque bards” was not a gift from God, but rather something that could be learned by training and scholastic learning ( Armistead and Zulaika 2005, 200- 201).

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The author of the poem reiterates milk as a pure, white, nutritional substance that heals, available to everyone. The last part stresses the relationship between the producers and the land. It is not described as a living entity, but rather as having an ethereal quality imbued with a spiritual soul. It provides so much of what is necessary—a complete entity in itself—that the only other ingredients are work and feeling. The legacy described appears to not be milk itself, but milk as a smaller part of nature in its entirety. The description paints the picture that milk becomes evidence for the union of people, animals, nature, and land.

3.16 The entrance to Iztueta in Lazkaomendi

As for the Iztueta products, I only saw one online which contained a translation into Castilian, while the front labels were only in Basque. Ainitze confirms that most their products have Basque-only front labels, with an additional Castilian explanation translated on the back labels (counter-label). The expiration date was listed in the

129 traditional Basque fashion in year, month, day order. Marketing almost completely in

Euskara reflects Ainitze’s statement that “We live in Euskara”, as well as the sentiment felt by other milk producers (Ainitze Sala, August 18, 2017). She believes that Basque speakers need to “socialize our way of life and values” in the community.

She compared the use of Euskara for marketing milk products in Hegoalde

(southern Basque Country) to that in Iparralde (northern Basque Country) noting several differences in semiotic use. According to her, unlike in the southern Basque Country, when a producer from the north puts a Basque flag (ikurrina ) on the label, there is added value for the consumer. This is due to the quality associated with the product. In addition, the UHT treatments are not as widely used, confining the products to be consumed within a certain distance and time. Processes such as these may create more control, safety, and uniformity for standardizing the production process, but differ to the more “natural” products sold in the north. As Ainitze described, “It loses the natural parts” (Ainitze Sala,

August 18, 2017). One example she gave was that many times you could find less standardized and more natural byproducts, such as whey, as part of the finished product.

She stated that consumers look for these more “natural” elements in local products, which can even include written expiration dates over printed versions. With this example, she is not only referring to the standardization of food production, but also of language production on the labels. Standardizing processes like these are put in place for safety concerns, but also make brands more uniform and recognizable.

One side effect of this can be the standardization of language when producers choose Castilian over Basque for uniformity and comprehension of the labels. Her reaction to this in support of using Euskara was as follows: “You have to know what you

130 want to create in your product and believe it is the best…You have to believe that you can create a society that lives only in Euskara” (Ainitze Sala, August 18, 2017). Ainitze wants Iztueta to reflect these qualities and be recognized as “un producto Euskaldun” or

“a Basque-speaking product/A product that has the Basque language”. This statement left an impression on me; while producers refer to their products as “Basque,” I had not yet heard anyone characterizing their product by the language used to market it. Helping producers realize that this isolated quality can exist as a differentiating factor enables them to use it as a value-adding component in marketing their goods.

Knowing “what you are, where you are going, and what you want to achieve” is imperative in achieving your products’ nortasuna , or sense of character and identity

(Ainitze Sala, August 18, 2017). I had seen and heard this word often in my fieldwork. I had first learned it while speaking to a Txakolina producer who was trying to describe the unique qualities that terroir wines exude. From then on, I associated the word with a physical sense as perceived through taste, while recognizing the social meaning given by the fact that it was a Basque word. I asked Ainitze whether the word generally carried a positive connotation with it. She said that for her, it generally did suggest a positive character or sense of identity. On the Iztueta website, there were several headings, of which nortasuna was first, followed by other such as “baserria” and “Bertatik bertara”

(near you). Their translation of “ nortasuna” as “identity” included a description of how they care for the animals, how and what they fed them, the quality ingredients used, the concern for health and safety, and the trust shared between client and producer. In this way, the word nortasuna encompasses the local, collective, and the sense of place bestowed upon the produce—from the land, to the animal, to the consumer. By including

131 these details to support the idea of “identity,” the word nortasuna echoes the broader meaning of the word terroir that includes both physical and human factors (Trubek

2008).

Jokin Arrospide from Mahala Baserria in Leaburu (Gipuzkoa) had many of the same goals as Iztueta listed on its website. Their philosophy stressed their aim to create natural products, while taking great care of their cows, maintaining a sustainable union with the land, and conserving the way of life as lived in the Basque farmhouse. As we arrived at the baserri in his car, Jokin gave me a tour of their land and introduced me to his son who was clearing the pasture the traditional way with a scythe. He explained what gave his products their sense of “quality” in both how they were produced and how they were marketed. For example, being natural to him meant only pasteurizing as much as legally required and by not using any additives. Linguistically speaking, Jokin uses

Euskara because it is part of what he “feels”. For him, “feeling” was most important—to attract others with the same philosophy and who “live the same feelings” … “love and feelings…in the end it’s just that” (Jokin Arrospide, July 20, 2017).

He shared and elaborated his own feelings on the evolution of the milk industry with an example. He stated that, in the past, in order to be labeled by this quality certifying agency, a minimum number of liters had to be produced. This made it difficult for many farmhouses to be certified. Jokin stated that restrictions were now becoming less stringent, allowing smaller producers to become certified. He also commented on

Kaiku, saying that it was now being sold by the large distribution chain, Mercador, which had economic dominion. The change in size of Kaiku into a larger corporation affected

132 its identity as contrasted with its beginning as a smaller cooperative. “Kaiku now does not have nortasuna” (Jokin Arrospide, July 20, 2017).

He spoke about finding balance in using Euskara over the years—how he started advertising with Basque only, then later was encouraged to use some Castilian. His intuition tells him that some consumers may see his use of Euskara and bertsos as radical.

The bertso shown on the cheese label (Figure 3.17) is translated as:

From the sweet pasture of our land

I come directly (emphasized by repetition)

To make dairy products for you

In a natural way

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Figure 3.17 Mahala's use of Basque on a label for Queso fresco

Although the bertso seems to be coming directly from the mouth of the bertsolari, the first person in the poem is the product itself (milk or cheese). The first line emphasizes the land as belonging to a Basque speaking collective. The emphasis on the repetition of “directly” references the lack of distance and time needed for the product to become available to the consumer. In this last line, the word for “natural” is emphasized artistically as it is rolling out of the bertsolari’s mouth. A sense of the product is therefore created by the linguistic terroir , or a sense of place as defined by Basque speakers. The bertso also stresses the importance of freshness by emphasizing its direct availability and natural qualities. At the top, just under the brand name are the words “Eat from the

134 farmhouse”, stressing the importance of maintaining traditional production and consumption of farm-based products. The first part of the date can be seen in this photo, indicating the Castilian version with the day/month year order. Underneath the bertso is the statement, “Queso fresco (a type of soft cheese), natural like this verse” again reaffirming that naturalness is a valued quality, both in the production of cheese and the production of the Basque language.

Jokin commented that twenty to thirty years ago the bertsolariak used to sing in cider houses over food and drink, but that now bertsolaritza is learned and practiced in schools that teach improvised poetry (Jokin Arrospide, July 20, 2017). Noting this creates insightful contrasting images of the ambiance where this linguistic practice spontaneously occurs—one most likely where jovial men eat, drink and socialize, and the other amongst a younger generation in a more scholastic environment. Bringing these practices back into spaces where more commensality and socialization occur could perhaps transfer this sense of “naturalness” to the everyday production of Euskara much the same way that

“naturalness” is desired in food production. The more one could associate Euskara with everyday consumption of food through marketing, the more positive connotation and value the language could gain in being spoken.

The “war of milk” shows the importance of marketing in Basque, and the unique relationship between Euskara and milk products. These products call attention to Basque linguistic, social, economic, and political values as milk is produced, marketed, and consumed. While cider, for example, is also traditionally produced close to the baserri, milk products are unique in that they move primarily within local markets, as opposed to the larger state and international markets. (not a sentence—rewrite) Functioning within a

135 market where “localness” is valued as a contributing component to the value of milk, in turn, supporting the use of the Basque (and Basque dialects) as a signifier of local.

The war of milk highlights the efforts currently being made to retain and increase the use of Basque on milk labels. The producers I interviewed were utilizing practices that support the use of Euskara, the conservation of the baserri and methods for natural production: forming cooperatives, sustainable practices, marketing primarily in Basque, providing access to urban areas through dispensaries, and even by creating educational opportunities through school visits to the site of production. However, while using elements such as bertsos and traditional Basque font to reflect the relationship between the environment of milk production and the use of Euskara, more could be done to increase it.

I suggest that by modernizing communication and by continuing to examine and challenge the legalities of marketing, milk can take full advantage of its unique connection with Euskara and increase its use in marketing. This could be done by creating commercials with modernized, playful uses of Basque bertsos, as Mahala has done, or by challenging Article 18 and marketing solely in Euskara as Euskal Herria

Esnea has. By implementing these marketing strategies for milk, a path would be made for other products to do the same.

Both the war of milk and my interview with Estitxu Garai highlight milk as a viable domain in which Euskara can be used as the only language on labels for marketing purposes. Often seen as a traditional product, milk has the legal ability to use Basque as the sole language on the label. However, in agreement with Garai, I recommend that further efforts need to be made to remove restrictions for monolingual advertisements.

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With Euskara as a co-offical language, I argue this top-down approach that would give

Euskara the same rights as Spanish does for any market, regardless of whether the product is deemed “traditional” or not.

I also support a bottom-up approach. Maintaining baserria life—the traditional cradle of Euskara—through cooperatives, responsible production methods, and language is key for maintaining the value and nortasuna of milk. In my experience of living in the

Basque Country and looking at milk as a commodity to be marketed and defined by language, I did not meet anyone eager to boycott Euskal Herria Esnea because they bottled outside the Basque Country. I did however, come across people who seemed to sympathize with the multinational Kaiku brand and their cheaper prices, only when recalling the days when Kaiku had started as cooperative of baserritarrak. Kaiku has grown, however, and as Jokin Arrospide noted “now it has no nortasuna ”. This Basque word denoting identity encapsulates multiple qualities associated with Basque products and shows the support for those fighting to retain language and the Basque way of life as a whole, versus those that use the language but may not represent traditional Basque economic and social practices (Kaiku). Local products of high quality, deemed “natural,” produced in harmony with the land, and with the goal to maintain the rural social economy are characteristics that imbue products with value. Maintaining a way of life that is associated with Basque values and language will cement the tie between the two in order to create a more marketable product.

Traditional fonts and symbols create an easy way to identify Basque products for all markets—in some cases creating authenticity and value. While I am still learning to comprehend Euskara, it did not take me long to understand the value of the ubiquitous

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Basque font. Unlike other symbols that were influenced by political and provincial distinctions within the larger Basque Country—such as the Basque flag—the Basque font seemed to be a slightly less attached to less potentially negative associations. It could be found on restaurant signs, food labels, and government signs depending on how much

Basqueness wanted to be conveyed, and said to have originated in the Middle Ages, etched into headstones and furniture (Isabel, 2012).

This typography has evolved over time within the linguistic landscape dependent on a geosemiotic notion that social meaning depends on the material placement of signs.

For example, more traditional styles of Txakolina, or Txakolina producers that want to exude the traditional and more folkloric aspects will use this Basque font on their labels to denote Coupland’s (2003) notion of historicity, in turn strengthening a sense of authenticity.

However, if we are to advance the image of Euskara from a language of the past to one that can be used communicatively in modern times, diversifying the fonts and images used on labels is key. By pairing the communicative use of Euskara on labels with more modernized images and fonts, producers could experiment with how this affects consumers’ long-term image of Euskara as merely a traditional language.

Numerous efforts have been made in support of increasing and normalizing the use of the Basque language. Using a vital, quotidian necessity, such as food and drink, gives Euskara a platform for changing language perceptions and practices on a daily basis. Though milk does not garner the commodification value that wine does, it is sold on local, national, and even international scales, and is consumed with more frequency by a larger population range than other commodified drinks such as wine. Establishing a

138 marketing strategy that connects with targeted population as Euskal Herria Esnea did, then, creates the potential for consumer loyalty, an economic value, and in turn a value for the language being used to market it. It is then these values with the frequent, mundane consumption of milk that makes it a viable tool in working towards language normalization.

Milk, in many places, is valued as a local product that embodies a basic, natural component of daily consumption. The symbolic consumption of products deemed to be a very basic, life-sustaining part of life then symbolically act as parallel to the life- sustaining use of language. There are few other products that offer this metaphorical image in comparison with language. The place from which it is produced, the baserri as a cradle for Basque life and language, further supports this notion that milk, like language, is produced close to home.

Though many of these arguments support marketing milk as a traditional, effective platform for language use, producers should take caution in over-marketing them as bucolic products of the past. Modernizing perceptions of Euskara by working to change laws such as Article 18, and by limiting the use of traditional fonts and folkloric images, more opportunities will be available for increasing the value of Euskara for modern day use.

By continuing certain practices that are already in place, such as valuing the social and economic aspects of Basque culture, milk can function as more than just an alimentary food that represents Basque culture at face value; it can, instead, organize its production methods, economic model, and Basque semiotics to support Basque culture in a more holistic way to create value.

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Chapter 4 : Cider/Sagardoa

One of my Basque language teachers once said that she herself learned

Basque with ease because she felt like it was a language she spoken in a past life. It came so naturally to her, she said, considering it was not her mother tongue. I had experienced a similar feeling in a Basque cider house once while hearing the irrintzi in a Basque cider house. The irrintzi- an exclamatory shout that grows in pitch and intensity –is what some have said, call to identity, while others call it a war cry.

In this cider house experience, as with many Basque social spaces, the eating and drinking took place within almost constant movement, which kept us warm in the chilling air that kept the cider so refreshing in the chestnut barrels. In our visit to the sagardotegi, the group of girls I was with and I were outnumbered in what has historically been—and still is—a predominantly male environment. The frequent bellow of “txotx!” calling us to drink was always exclaimed by a male voice, as was the jovial conversation in Euskara and hearty laughing from those around us.

It was a sound that silenced everyone around her as they stopped filling their glasses with cider for a moment of admiration. We broke our circular formation, opening ourselves up to her performance. I had been fighting to stay warm up until that point, but as she increased her pitch and volume, I finally gave into the chills. Her scream pierced the otherwise baritone hum that permeated the room as she reached the

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height of the cry, before quickly dropping into silence. We remained in

that silence as one does in church when acknowledging the collective, yet

personal, intentions of the congregation.

I was with the closest thing to a Basque kuadrilla (intimate group of friends) that I had found yet, all of whom I had met during the first two-week session of the two months

I had spent in euskaltegi the year before while studying Euskara. We were the last ones to leave the cider house, but not without a few more rounds of shouting “txotx ,” and

“azkenekoa !” implying what we were serving would be “the last one!” During this time,

I had the chance to talk informally with the men in charge of closing the cider house down as the rest of my friends finished drinking.

After an afternoon of practicing our beginner’s level of Euskara in the cider house, we piled into the car after buying several bottles of cider for the road. It almost seemed warmer outside that night on February 11 th, than it did inside the cider house.

Cider season in the Basque Country typically runs from mid-January to late April, requiring one to dress warm both inside and outside the confines of the sagardotegi. As we drove home, getting lost somewhere on a backroad on our way to Hernani, we all took a shot at our “war cry.” I never really had a meek voice to begin with, but I remember feeling awkward at the beginning, wondering if I would create the equivalent sound of a boy going through puberty. I started from my belly and let my throat and tongue take it from there. Just before the end I remember my own ears reaching their limit, surprised and almost scared at the intensity released. After a moment of recovery, the girls expressed their surprise; this was most likely due to the extreme silence in which they

141 were accustomed to seeing me function while in euskaltegi , considering I knew hardly one word when I started that first two weeks with them. We continued together each experimenting with our own irrintziak , some louder than others, but each tailored to our own voice.

I share this account in effort to increase the visibility of women and add to the accounts shared of experiencing a sagardotegi. I have read several accounts in English of the sagardotegi experience, most authored by men who had shared their experiences with other males. My account, however, is shared with women, in observation of women, and shares the voices (quite literally) of women. I use this example of the irrintzi in the cider house as it juxtaposes a collective sound often dominated by males voices against the singular female voice. In my experience, it was typically produced by the female voice, but in this case, it was within a male-dominated space. It is not just any sound, but a loud one. It was made not just in any place, but in a room filled with men. The voice and visibility of women in typically male-dominated spaces of gastronomy is being recognized more. A good illustration of this tendency was a traveling exposition featuring the roles of women in the world of cider that ran for several months of 2019 in various cities; it was originally presented in the Sagardoetxea Museo (Cider House Museum) in the cider making town of Astigarraga and titled, "Sagardoa eta emakumea," or “Cider and

Women.”

Aside from their visual recognition in such exhibitions, the vocalization of the irrintzi and the women who make this sound highlight the creation of value for language, culture, and gastronomy by women. In referencing her exhibition at the Guggenheim

Museum Bilbo, Itziar Okaritz describes the irrintzi as “a cry that does not articulate

142 concrete words and becomes a sign that functions as a manifesto and call to identity, or even a ‘war cry’” On a linguistic note, Okaritz that “The cry becomes a basic syntactical system at the limits of language" (Okaritz 2007). Before going into other examples of how value is created at the intersection of language and gastronomy, I will provide another personal account of cider houses as gendered spaces.

My very first cider house experience out of the eight I visited was in the tourist- friendly Petritegi, located in Astigarraga, about fifteen minutes south of Donostia/San

Sebastian. Even in the most touristic cider house like Petritegi, women were still a minority. One of my friends and I were two of the approximately seven women among fifty or so men dining in the cider house that day in February of 2017. We attended sagardotegi with a couple who were visiting from the United States, and I had chosen this cider house not only because it provided tours in English for my friends, but because their apples were advertised and integrated into a U.S. producer’s cider called the “Arlo.” As we waited outside for the building to open, I had the opportunity to see some of the varieties of apples used for the elaboration of cider on a sign outside the cider house

(Figure 4.1). There were several varieties listed along with descriptions of the texture, color, and characteristics that they give to the cider, such as aroma, and examples for which category they would fit for cider making: garratza (acidic), mikatza (bitter), gazi- gozoa (bittersweet), and gozoa (sweet). 8

8 These examples often have variations in their Basque spellings, and at Petritegi, they include more than just the four primary categories.

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Figure 4.1 A list of apple varieties outside of Petritegi cider house

As we entered the building with our tour guide, the familiar yet distinct smell of a cider house greet us at the door; it reminded me of the wineries I had visited or worked in, smelling some combination of yeast and wood from the barrels. This smell was slightly different— “funky” is the word sometimes used to described Basque cider, most likely due to the wild yeast that causes spontaneous fermentation, as opposed to the

144 industrialized version that can be bought in bulk. During our informative tour, we learned about the tool for picking up apples ( kizki ) and the refractometer used for measuring sugar levels. The authenticity of this cider house experience for us can be compared to other “authentic” tours given by locals to share the “traditional” culture, such as Kelly-

Holmes and Pietikäinen (2014) when describing a touristic visit of the Reindeer Farm in

Sámiland. Just like at the Reindeer Farm, there are certain “scripts” which the tourists and guides follow to mediate cooperation between the tourist and host. While I assess this cider house experience as being less authentic from others based on the option to have it in English (and the fact that there is a tour at all), the traditional dress (525) and scripts are not so rigid that they render the experience completely false. However, like the

Reindeer Farm, “the intentional part of the aural linguascape (Jaworski et al. 2003) for tourists to consume that helps build distinctiveness for the tourist product” with the use of the word “totx.” Such linguistic use by locals and lack of scripts is part of what still allows the cider house experience to be more authentic than, say, the Reindeer Farm in this case.

We then sat down—not the traditional way to eat dinner at a sagardotegi—for a several-course meal consisting of bakailao tortilla (salted cod omelet), legatz (hake), and txuleta (bone-in rib-eye), followed by a dessert of gazta (cheese), irasagarra (quince jelly) , intxaurrak (walnuts) , teilak (almond tiles), and eta zigarrotxoak (“cigarettes”), all of course accompanied by sagardoa (apple wine) and the intermittent yelling of “ Txotx!”

Txotx in this context is the call to cider. It signals the opening of a kupela —the

(typically) chestnut barrels—by opening the spigot or hole in the barrel with a wooden peg to release the cider in a long, forceful stream. This wooden peg is referred to as the

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“txotx,” giving the call to cider its name. However, there are other names for this wooden peg that plugs the hole in the barrel such as ziri, zipotz (Sagardoaren hiztegia 2008, 49), zotz, and txiri (Sevilla, 92). In addition to “txotx” being one of the names for the peg, it has a number of other meanings. One food-related definition from Northern Basque

Country is provided in Sandra Ott’s Circle of Mountains when she is describing the cheese-making hut called the olha, and the milking ewes needed for this process. For these Basques in Souletine communities, a txotx was a fixed number or unit of milking- ewes contributed to communal flocks during summer transhumance. There, it could also be spelled “ xotx” or “ tchotch” (Ott, 140).

The unique spelling of this word spelled as “txotx” often comes with a pronunciation guide in the marketing of Basque cider-related restaurants, events, and products. According to Ivan Igartua who studies Historical Linguistics at the University of the Basque Country, the official phonetic pronunciation would be “/tʃotʃ/.” (Email communication, January 17, 2019).” Figure 4.5 for a restaurant in Oslo, Norway not only has the suggested pronunciation of “cho-CH”, making it appear as two syllables, but also lists three definitions of the word: 1. A drinking toast 2. A call to toast 3. To drink from a tapped barrel (Txotx Pintxos Bar, Accessed January 17, 2017). The website for a state- wide Basque celebration called “Texas Txotx” likens the pronunciation to “choach” describing it as a “battle cry,” (Texas Txotx, accessed January 17, 2019). This battle cry, however, is typically produced by a male voice, making it the second acoustically material “cry” after the irrintzi that one can hear in a cider house.

In Chapter Seven of Language and Materiality: Ethnographic and Theoretical

Explorations, Steven Feld’s notes that the argument about the material nature of language

146 is entangled with a larger one of sound” and that “All sonic materiality is sounded in vocal iconicity” (Cavanaugh and Shankar 2018, 125-134). As for Basques, authenticating uses of Euskara are still a large part of the communication process inside these cider houses. The “contextual materiality of physical spaces, as well as the acoustic materiality of sound,” Feld argues, “rematerializes in echoic hearings, in repetitions, and in multiple mediations…” (Feld 2017 7,142). I argue that such iconicity exists in the cider house with the male voicing of “txotx;” the frequent presence of the male voice yelling in

Euskara is iconic in that its form represents the ubiquitous sound of men that dominates cider houses.

In the same way, just as previously noted by Itziar Okariz regarding the irrintzi, one could argue that the “txotx” cry could also function as “a call to identity”: an identity steeped in this particular aspect of Basque gastronomy and language, each attributing value to the other locally as well as abroad.

Stemming from the main argument of this dissertation, I contend that the use of this word over Castilian (or even English abroad) more effectively distinguishes the product—and the cultural experience in its entirety—through language. This word not only signaled an immediate scuffling of chairs as people hustled to get in line; it has also become the visual and audible symbol of an international marketing scheme that indexes the functional pairing, or uztartzea , of the Basque language and gastronomy.

The Castilian version of txotx, “ mojón,” can be heard in cider houses as well, as documented in Maria Sevilla’s descriptive book Life and Food in the Basque Country

(92), but it is not the word that has been carried overseas to places like Oregon, Texas, and New York to market the sensorial experience and product that is “apple wine.”

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Rather, it encompasses a cultural drinking experience in its entirety, with language being at the forefront. It represents a culturally and linguistically unique experience that is yet still standardized in nature with roots deep within the Basque-speaking parts of the

Basque Country. In other words, the word “txotx” has become iconized to stand for

Basqueness (Irvine and Gal 2000, 37). Iconization here involves a transformation of the word “txotx” into images of social groups (the Basques) and activities representing them

(the “txotx” of the cider house.)

This of “txotx” as Basqueness is further supported by several other examples that describe the meaning of the word. While Koldo Mitxelena’s, otherwise known as Luis

Michelena’s dictionary defines “txotx” as “palito” (little stick or toothpick) or “injerto”

(“graft,” as when used to connect two plants). However, there are many other meanings associated with the aural interpretation of the word in Basque and in Castilian. For example, “ txotx egin ” which means “to gamble,” (Mitxelena and Sarasola, 2004: 601) and “chocho” which is a slang word for “vagina” (Chocho, Urban Dictionary, 2019). This word, then, is rich in connotations and meanings, giving its use in a cider house more playful significance that can even carry sexual undertones.

The richness of this word, then, is limited to either Basque, and even Castilian speakers, and excludes tourists, for example, who are not speakers of these languages.

These implicit undertones may then be expressed every time someone yells “txotx” in a cider house, not only creating excitement for more cider, but adding an additional sentiment of word play when connected to the various meanings associated with this call to cider.

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Several establishments in the United States have commoditized this experience, using the language front and center to market the product and experience. Doing so, I argue, introduces distinction and value to the product through the language as argued by

Duchene and Heller in chapter six of their book Language in Late Capitalism: Pride and

Profit (2012) , with one unlikely able to exist without the other. As seen on these establishment’s websites, an educational tool is created to introduce the consumer not only to the cultural differences, but the linguistic as well. Providing additional value to the signs in these figures are the traditional fonts used, indexing the historicity of the product for further cultural authentication.

Figure 4.2 Advertisement for Txotx season in Texas, using traditional Basque font

created by Chris Poldoian

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Figure 4.3 https://www.newsobserver.com/living/food-drink/mouthful-

blog/article69231597.html

Figure 4.4 Sign with the pronunciation for “Txotx” in Oslo, Norway also using Basque

traditional font https://i2.wp.com/andershusa.com/wp-cont 1

Within Petritegi, sagardoa referenced a historical and sentimental part of Basque history that is deeply embedded in nautical life of Basque seafarers. I too experienced something reminiscent of that way of life my own feet were wet from the cider that did not make it into my glass, body cold from the brisk temperatures needed to keep the cider fresh, and the robust male voices that constructed the acoustic materiality of the experience. Overlapping with the physical sensations of the chill and dampness, this acoustic materiality and audible call of “txotx!” are just as important in the construction of the semiotic landscape of the sagardotegi .

The “tx” of this one-syllable word visually indexes one of the conventions that sets Euskara apart from Castilian and Basque, but is similar enough in sound to be pronounced by many non-native speakers. The Basque sibilant and digraph “tx”, used to create only one sound in Euskara, creates a palindrome-like quality to the word and

150 command. Contributing to the acoustic materiality, the “United States’ inaugural indoor

Txotx,” Black Twig of North Carolina advertises that it is also an example of onomatopoeia—the sound made when puncturing the barrel to release the cider (Figure

4.3) (Black Twig Cider House, January 6, 2019). Delving in a bit further into the linguist layers of this word, the affricate sound of [tʃ] (a plosive stop followed immediately by a fricative. These sounds are created by movement that mimic the puncturing of the barrel

(plosive stop), the flow of cider out of the barrel (fricative) followed by stopping the stream of cider from the hole (stop) (In written conversation with Jenanne Ferguson,

January 26, 2019).

In addition to the sounds produced in the cider house, movement is also a key component that sets Basque and cider culture apart from other drinking cultures. Part of my first cider experience entailed the common collective mobilization that played out in other parts of Basque culture such as the txikiteo bar hopping. As my visiting friends and

I would intermittently take breaks from our coursed meals to get up and catch the two fingers of cider thrown into our glasses, we got to know the kuadrilla of men sharing our table. They were most likely in their upper sixties or early seventies, and were delighted to share photos of their family, teach me how to smash a walnut with my bare hand, and provide contacts for me to interview about gastronomy. Before the night ended, they took me to a hanging picture on the wall depicting the seafaring men and their ships. It was the first time I had heard about the value cider had on voyages, keeping scurvy at bay with the nutrients provided in the drink. It gave me perspective as to the amount of time cider had been popular.

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My interview with Luis Mokoroa reiterates much of what Maria José Sevilla reiterates in her book about Basque food and cider. Sevilla states that it’s impossible to say when the varieties of apples were first grown in the Basque Country but that apple trees “have been a common sight in the landscape since time immemorial,” and that

“Herman La Chapelle, the French historian, believed that it was Basque sailors and fisherman who introduced the apple tree to Normandy, where it was unknown before the fourteenth century (Sevilla 1990, 33). As early as 1556, instructions were created by the local Town Council, and fueros (local laws) controlling the sale of cider in Tolosa were instituted. Almost every baserri in Gipuzkoa had a cider mill within to supply the family.

When there was a surplus, they would offer it to friends at a moderate price, or use it to barter for other goods. Sevilla imagines the surplus created and put into vats, with the producer inviting friends over for the probateko , the tasting of the cider before fermenting has finished. Sevilla also notes that rustic food was likely prepared for the men and his friends, with the wife being excluded from the meal despite her being in control of the cider business plans (Sevilla 88-90). However, the improvement of roads in the seventeenth century ousted cider with wine from Alava and Navarre until they were pushed to the coastal areas. By 1930, almost all cider houses were gone, along with the indigenous varieties (Sevilla 90).

An interview with Luis Mokoroa, the Presidente de la Cofradía Vasca de

Gastronomía de Donostia (President for the Basque Fraternity of Gastronomy of San

Sebastian), confirms this story and provides further details for the evolution of cider. He noted that the wines were arriving in good condition and improved quality, but that they became popular due to their higher alcohol content and caloric intake. Consumers visited

152 the cider houses that were still in use to taste the cider and buy it for consumption elsewhere. By the mid-late 1900’s, cider consumption began to increase as the price for wine increased, but the scarcity of apple trees limited local production. Apples were imported from places like Normandy, Galicia, and Asturias, until the Diputación of

Gipuzkoa started promoting the increase of local apple trees. He continued, noting that the areas for planting apple trees have now tripled in size. Mokoroa emphasized the role of sociedades gastronómicas in these later years as they bought the grand majority of cider, sustaining its consumption (interview, March 8, 2017).

Today, the Sagardoetxea located in Astigarraga provides the history of Basque cider, featuring a guided tour of manzanales (apple trees) with detailed description of the instruments involved in cider production and a long list of the apple varieties used as seen in Figures 4.5 and 4.6.

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Figure 4.3 List of apple varieties located outside the Sagardoetxea (Cider Museum) in

Astigarraga, listing their contribution to the flavor profile

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Figure 4.4 The traditional instrument used to mash the apples

An interview with Unai Agirre, the Coordinator for the Denominación de Origen

Euskal Sagardoa (and famous bertsolari) provided me with details on the last few years in the development of a geographical indication for Basque cider. When I asked about the philosophy of the D.O., Agirre explained that there were two main goals: to create a product of quality, and to create value for it in the process: “To sell it more, and to sell it better.” More specifically, this meant that the cider needed to undergo and pass organoleptic analysis (by Panel Organoléptico del Laboratorio Fraisoro) and be certified by the HAZI Foundation for quality, as well as be made of 100% autochthonous apples

(“Sidra Vasca”, January 16, 2018).

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When I asked about how they would go about selling it, referencing the strong ties between Euskara, the product and the languages they preferred to use in marketing locally, he quickly asserted the importance of maintaining the product’s essence as the market grows. “If we don’t sell origin, if we don’t sell culture, we don’t have anything.

We can’t lose the essence. Outside the Basque Autonomous Community, (but in Spain) you have to sell it in Castilian (Interview, Unai Agirre, September 4, 2017).”

Unai Agirre’s interview provided evidence for the strong connection between

Basque cider and Euskara in two ways. Not only did he verbalize the importance of maintaining the essence of cider through origin and culture as the market grew, but Unai

Agirre himself is evidence of this link between culture, language, and cider. Not only was he heading up the Denominación de Origen, but he himself as a bertsolari demonstrates the role of these performers in society and their ties to cider production. As I had seen many times at local festivals, the bertsolari’s role in Basque culture is to demonstrate control and value for the Basque language. Having Agirre at the helm of the cider world naturally exemplifies the connections between where, how, and with what product

Euskara is being used.

I continued our conversation referring to the use of Castilian within the autonomous region by Basque speaking producers for Txakolina, and how the sudden growth of its popularity seemed to have left little time for producers to develop a marketing strategy for using Euskara on the labels; many were using Castilian or English as they would be more accessible to a more global consumer base. This sudden change in popularity was apparent when I would speak with friends or other acquaintances about

Txakolina, only for them to respond with negative connotations, almost always

156 commenting that it left one with “ buruko mina,” or, headache. I appreciated the passionate reaction with which Agirre responded: “We can’t forget our origins…we have to defend what is ours.” Here he was referring to the historical evolution of products such as Txakolina that have been deeply rooted in Basque culture and identity.

I asked him if there were any particular words associated with cider that were used to represent this particular product when marketing. I had often seen socially constructed forms of distinction with words such as nortasuna (identity, character) bertokoa/bertakoa ( local , from right here) or even more globalized words referring to the important connection to the land, such as the French word, terroir. He acknowledged a cider being marketed under the name “ Lurra” (meaning Earth) affirming the importance and uniqueness of the land on which Basque cider was grown. He also provided one word or concept that stood out in comparison to all other products. The concept was held inside the word sagardoa itself; it was “natural.” Because of a law that prevents the addition of sugar to ciders, “natural” was embedded in the Basque word sagardoa. One might think this word simply means “cider” in Basque, but literally it means “natural cider.” Basques already know what sagardoa implies; however, when a label is created with a Castilian translation, it should be translated as “sidra natural” or “natural cider,” as the word

“cider” in Castilian does not equate directly with being “natural” (as seen in Figure 4.7).

Knowing that the word “natural” could be used in U.S. marketing strategies liberally, I asked him what “natural” meant and why it created so much distinction.

Agirre said that all Basque sagardoa implies that there is no added sugar, unlike many of the ciders and other consumable drinks sold in the U.S. and other parts of the world. As mentioned previously, upon tasting Basque cider, one immediately notices the unique

157 balance of bitterness, acidity, and distinct smell from the wild yeast used. (On a hot day, I personally find Basque cider to be exponentially more refreshing than a glass of ice cold water!)

Figure 4.7 Label of Iparragirre Cider, illustrating the need to translate “sagardoa” as

“natural” cider

This unique product and experience of “txotx” are what have led to the popularity of cider houses as tourism continues to increase every year. When I asked about Agirre’s thoughts on the role of cider in tourism, he stated, “We need it [tourism] because we’ve had it. It’s another way to give value to the product.” I related this to the

158 fact that a full bottle of cider, similar in size to most wine bottles, was increasing from about a euro and change to just over a couple euros. Txakolina, still in the midst of its transformation, was also increasing, but was still easily bought for under eight euros. Part of this value creation entailed a reevaluation for locals and a newfound value for Basque beverages for tourists. This was illustrated in Agirre’s statement that it was “difficult to change the tendencies of the locals, but of the outsiders, no. But, we have to have sustainable tourism and control…the question is what kind of tourism and how to control it.”

A couple months later, both the local and international cider making community gathered in the biennial II Sagardo Forum to discuss the issues of marketing cider, especially within tourism. In Orona Ideo’s facilities—where Agirre and I met for our interview—speakers for various cider related sectors spoke on the subject. Over several days, people from various countries took part in learning more about cider: An

International Cider Competition took place, a father-daughter cider producing team from northern Italy presented about their experience (Figure 4.8), and a fellow mid-westerner and bar owner from Chicago presented on cider sales in the United States.

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Figure 4.8 Panels of presenters, including the father-daughter cider producers from Italy

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4.9 My view of the auditorium where I posed a question to all attendees

On the last day, with the guidance of my friend Gorka, I posed an open question from the back row to all attendees regarding the use of Euskara, and whether members of the audience thought it would provide “added value” to the product with the use of

Basque (Figure 4.9). An Asturian woman who presented was one of the first to reply.

From her experience, as a competitor to Basque cider, she added that consumers are “not able to repeat the name of [Basque] ciders.” She continued saying that even she had trouble when she came to the Basque Country in pronouncing some of the brand names.

“It’s a pain that they can’t vocalize the name.” She mentioned consumer’s attempt to remember bottles “with an ‘x’ or a ‘z’” when asking for a bottle, and that she had to

161 answer that “almost all of them have those letters!” This was a problem especially in places like the United States. She stated that they have had to use didactic means to select and “ machacar y machacar ”, or constantly reinforce words such as “txotx” to create familiarity with the consumer. While her account of the difficulties in pronunciation may be true, it makes one question the value of linguistic prestige when “knowledge” of a language is not present. For example, if an expensive bottle of French wine comes labeled with a hard to pronounce French word, how much does it detract from the consumer’s value of the product, language, or ability to ask for it, and to enjoy it? (In written conversation with Ian Clayton, April 19, 2019).

Unai Agirre entered the conversation that had started in reaction to my question, referencing many of the point we had discussed at our interview months before. He stressed the debate in using the word “ sagardoa” over cider vasca (Basque cider) in places like Madrid, and with that they needed to focus their marketing strategy. He compared it to the success that the word “ Txakolina” had had, attributing its success to the length of time that the D.O.s for Txakolina had been in place. He asked the Asturian cider representative, in front of all the attendees of the larger Cider Forum, if she thought that one day, their product could be known as “ sagardoa”, instead of “ cidra vasca.” She replied that it was a question for “you all,” meaning the Basque cider sector. A well- known Basque surfer took the microphone and expressed his gratitude for my interest in how the Basque Country would construct their story when marketing “their national drink. It’s a debate that is super interesting, because I am very convinced that it can sell… and it [using the name sagardoa ] will only bring value.” His statement was accompanied by a small applause. Agirre responded saying that he was in complete agreement, and that

162 the language and everything it stood for was one of the most valuable things the Basques had to offer.

The conversation sparked by my question brought attention to way in which

Euskara could be used as cider producers prepared to export there products abroad.

Despite an initial cautiousness cited by some, due to difficulty in pronouncing the language, more people tend to see value in maintaining the link between language and product.

A fellow midwesterner and Cider Director for the Northman bar that serves cider in Chicago chimed in next to me, providing his opinion about the perception of

Euskara—the tx, the x, or the font—in the creation of value for Basque products in the

US. He explained that “I believe that this helps connect the consumer on a different level, the font does mean something, and is a signpost…the word ‘txotx’ is constantly used…the word has gained some traction in the United States. Whether or not they care about the distinctions between sidra or sagardoa is not important yet, but learning about these differences brings them in deeper…it was the extra layers… when people found out it was different than Asturian cider. For us, it’s about the newness of the experience… and then the extra traditions become important, that there is a history and it’s not just a trend. Whether there is value to the consumer I don’t know, but I think there is value to you guys to push that… It’s not even important if they like the cider, it’s the experience of changing their minds and showing them that it’s not what they thought it was. It’s working here.”

Finally, another participant, who spoke with a different Spanish accent spoke about his thoughts on consumers that were open to trying new, different products with

163 their own essence. “I have a photo of a Japanese cider, and they do not translate [the name] on the label, and there is a consumer who will pay ten euros for this cider in

Madrid, in a store in Atocha, and it does not matter the language that is there… and the same thing happens with Polish cider or cider from Russia, I tried a wine from Thailand years ago in Illinois, and the label was not translated. The label is not important, what’s important is the essence and experience you give…it would be an error to lose the essence and think that you have to translate everything.” He later answered a question from the audience saying that “focusing on key words would be helpful if one wanted to use a language to market” (November 24, 2017).

Reinforcing the importance of experience, I was invited to dine at a cider house by Egoitz from Zapiain cider house immediately after the forum ended that day. A bus took a group of us—most from outside the Basque Country—to a typical cider house dinner. We received a detailed tour with someone translating as we all listened, passing from the cool, crisp fall night outdoors into the cool, crisp storage and tasting areas of the sagardotegi. Although Zapiain produces a large quantity of cider, it still maintains many of the traditional elements of a Basque cider house. A sign posted on the wall titled

“Ohiturari Jarraitu ” or “Follow tradition” depicted some of these traditions as seen in

Figure 4.10.

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Figure 4.10 Sign in Zapiain denoting the cider house rules stating, “Follow Tradition”

The “rules” from top to bottom depict without language that there should be “no sitting,” “no getting out of line,” and “take just a little cider.” Aside from the title in

Basque, the lack of language used to describe these rules expressed by semiotic signs makes it easy for locals and tourists alike to abide by them. There was no necessity to speak Basque to enjoy the environment, but I could tell that the father of Egoitz (Figures

4.11 and 4.12) enjoyed having someone there that spoke Euskara, so much so that I was invited to meet and chat with the kitchen staff—most of whom were women (Figure

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4.13) As previously noted, women had little visibility in the cider house, it would be a common occurrence to find them working in the kitchen.

Figures 4.11 and Figure 4.12 (left) Egoitz opening up a stainless-steel fermentation of

cider for the guests to taste, and (right) the father of Egoitz and I

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Figure 4.13 (left to right) Woman working in the kitchen, English-speaking tour guide,

and father of Egoitz in the kitchen of Zapiain

Zapiain provided a “moving” experience—both physically and sentimentally-- as we all communicated our enjoyment through food with the intermittent back and forth movement from our tables to the cider. This experience of the cider house sells itself, just as several of the Forum participants noted. The smells of the food and wild yeast, the constant walking back and forth to and from the barrels, and the connections inevitably made in the process (regardless of language) create specific sensorial sensations.

However, in addition to the commentaries provided in the Forum that emphasized maintaining the sagardotegi’s essence through language, I argue that it is precisely because of this experiential component that the use of Euskara can be used more

167 instrumentally. The Asturian cider representative said that it took didactic efforts and focus for consumers to become comfortable in reproducing and remembering the word

“txotx.” However, I contend that further potential exists for these didactic efforts in the cider houses to educate consumers on the significance of cultural and linguistic uses in what Järlehed and Moriarty call the semiofoodscape (2018). Using Basque semiotics— the acoustic materiality of sound, Euskara itself in oral and written form, or other iconic signs—identity and language can be reinforced through experiential tourism of this kind.

Proof that an educational component —that supports Agirre’s hope that the

Basque word “sagardoa” can one day be used in marketing—has just recently made it to the United States. During the fall of 2018, while writing this dissertation, I drove to

Cascade Locks, Oregon to interview Jasper Smith. Together with his Basque partner and oenologist Guillermo Castaños (who now lives in San Sebastian) they have produced a

Basque cider, and later intend to release a “Basque-style” cider.

On their website however, they explicitly mention the reason they chose to market it under “sagardoa” versus cider, stating that “though Spanish cider is called Sidra, in the

Basque region they call it Sagardo which is the word Son of Man is using (Artist, August

17, 2018).” I asked Jasper for more details as to why he used this word. He noted that

“We are calling our product sagardoa in part because I think it’s important to create context into where the product is coming from or inspired by, but also because I don’t like most cider…but Basque cider, I find, is super interesting process-wise…and we wanted to use sagardoa on our label to try and give the consumer a touchpoint with the culture to see why it’s different.” On his large chalk board of a sign, Jasper provides a breakdown of the word sagardoa into morphemes “apple” and “wine” (Figure 4.15). This

168 educational component is precisely what provides the context Jaspers describes for learning more about the linguistic components of foreign products.

Figure 4.14 Sign depicting the morphemes of “sagardoa” in English

I believe Jasper’s explanation of why he chose to use the Basque word illustrates the unique of cider as a product in its capacity for using Basque to market it. As with the other chapters in this dissertation, I show why each product is unique in this ability.

Sagardoa , unlike milk, beer, Txakolina, or Rioja Alavesa wine, encompasses many traits that make it an effective conduit of the language. It has a close historical link with the

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Basque-speaking population (unlike beer and much of the wine produced in Rioja

Alavesa), it can be exported and made more effective in its commodification to other countries where consumers can learn about this distinct language and culture (unlike more localized products such as milk), and it provides a unique experiential opportunity that Txakolina wineries traditionally do not provide. Although the cider house is a unique experience with the ritual of sampling cider, that now includes a set menu. The Txakolina producers at Gaintza offer this time-honored tradition to sample the new Txakolinas with a “TXOTX! MENU” (Gaintza Txakolina, 2018).

Figure 4.15 Using “Txotx” to advertise for Txakoli tasting Hotel Gaintza website

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This unique sensorial experience is key for creating value as it encompasses so many ways to experience Basque culture and language—through the smells of wild fermentation and txuletak, the unique taste of its acidic freshness, the physical movement in the cold environment that’s required to preserve the cider, and seeing the grand barrels that “throw” the cider into the glass, which is later bottled and labelled with the iconic letters that uniquely represent the Basque language.

The sensorial experiences of the cider include a variety of visual, olfactory, tactical, and audible experiences to cement an authentic Basque experience. Language, which many times may typically be produced by men, and whether seen or heard, is one of the authenticating experiences that produces value for the Basque language for locals and tourists alike. The irrintzi—a syntactical system at the limits of language is one of the most unique linguistic experiences, however, is not to be heard in every txotx experience.

On a scale measuring noticeability, this sound typically produced by a female can quickly command the attention of everyone in a cider house, despite pervasive sound of the male voice. It is a sound that is tightly linked with Basque identity, and I argue, whether produced or heard, is an overlooked part of the cider house experience that I had, which increases the cultural and linguistic value associated with the Basque cider house experience in relation to gendered, linguistic spaces.

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Chapter 5 : Txakolina

Txakolina, or Txakolina, is often described as a Basque white wine, with high acidity, and light in alcohol. However, with its “disputed orthography, etymology, and origins, taste, and production methods, this wine is not so easy to define (Lesh, Interview,

Academic Minute, 2018). Despite the disputed meanings of this beverage—which I will discuss in this chapter—it has the potential to play an important and telling role in the creation of value for Euskara as the Basque Country has evolved into a “Culinary

Nation.”

To understand more about the historical importance of Txakolina, I had set up an appointment with María Olga Macías Muñoz from the Departamento de Didáctica de las

Ciencias Sociales, at the University of the Basque Country, in Leioa, a town in Bizkaia just outside of Bilbo. She had been present at the “Primer Forum de Bizkaiko Txakolina,” the first forum on Txakolina from Bizkaia (mixing the use of Castilian with the Basque name for the Designation of Origen), just five months prior to my visit. Her role at the forum, along with Jose Luis Lejonagoitia, member of the Comité de Cata de la DO

Bizkaiko Txakolina and found of the tasting group Bacchus, was to present the historical, economic, and social influences of Txakolina in relation to Bizkaian society.

During our interview, María detailed traditional consumption practices which occurred in the home and affirmed the association of Txakolina with the lower, rural classes that embodied Basque bucolic life. We spoke about the current pricing of

Txakolina in overseas markets, and whether or not it would increase in price in the

Basque Country. She explained that Txakolina did not contribute to “esnobismo”

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(snobbism), but rather described it as a drink to “uniformizarse,” and create “igualdad… no clasismo” (standardize/make uniform [society] and create equality…not classism)

(Maria Olga, interview, May 4, 2017). Txakolina in this sense was a drink that would not likely turn into a commodity for creating distinction as wine often does (Bourdieu 1984); instead she compared it to the txapelas (traditional Basque hat) of the Basque Country in the era that began after the Carlist Wars; it was more uniform, displaying a sense of egalitarianism. As Unamuno stated, it acted as a “ prenda niveladora, ” (leveling garment) creating equality through its accessibility and affordability to all classes (Macías 2003).

George Steer made a similar comment in his book The Tree of Gernika: A Field Study of

Modern War, referring to the dark blue beret of the Bilbo industrial era, a beret “which all classes wore, and which was the symbol of Basque social equality” (Steer 1938, 62).

Introducing the chapter with this vignette comparing Txakolina to the txapela provides historical relevance for the wine, that has transitioned greatly over time from its beginnings as a house-made wine into what is now an international commodity. With labels designed to appeal to consumers from each of these sectors through a variety of semiotic images, its presence in local, State (Spanish), and international markets is tied to distinction and value in a variety of ways.

Interestingly, like Maria Olga Macias, another Txakolina producer used the txapela to illustrate a sense of Basqueness, but in a different way. When asked about using Euskara to market Txakolina, Beñat 9 said that those marketing their Txakolina preferred to “take off the txapela” in efforts to distance the traditional wine from its

9 Pseudonym

173 previous reputation for being a wine that tasted badly and induced headaches soon after drinking. While this producer used aspects of language and Basque semiotics as part of other marketing sources, such as their family’s website, there did seem to be a desire to become something that seemed like it tasted better, or at least was more distinct. While there may have been less use of Euskara on the bottle, there did seem to be a delicate balance of either font, color, modern designs, and even Euskara within other forms of advertising, rather than an overabundance of these various components piled on top of one another in attempt to index the more traditional, bucolic sense of the wine.

These links between Txakolina and the txapela provide a gendered perspective with a link to language. Begoña Echeverria discusses textbook imagery that portrays men in berets or txapelas as primary linguistic resources. A figure taken from a textbook encourages students to think about their language behaviors, to encourage them to speak more Basque. The “icon for the lesson is an older Basque grandfather figure with the traditional Basque beret” (2003, 387). This illustration points to a critique that can be made from Steer’s previous quote that describes the txapela as a “symbol of Basque equality” 1938, 62). Using Echeverria’s argument that men are linguistic resources donning the txapela negates Steers quote that while it may represent social equality across classes, it is not a symbol of equality across genders. Taking this notion into account when using the txapela as part of a marketing strategy for Txakolina reveals the gendered and linguistic undertones associated with the beverage.

Bertsolari Maialen Lujanbio Zugasti offers an exception to the associations of the txapela, gender, and even Txakolina as a linguistic icon. She, as a woman, was the 2009

“txapeldun ” (winner who receives a large txapela as the prize), who then was able to

174 wear the txapela—wore almost exclusively by men—breaking up the otherwise gendered associations of the hat. The iconicity between Euskara, gender, the txapela, and whatever topics Maialen sings about from then forward would be seen in a different light, creating room for what Echeverria (2003) asserted was a culture with male protagonists.

I was present when Maialen, Miren, and U.S.-based Jesus Goñi performed at the

Center for Basque studies January 26, 2018, when another space for women was created—this time by singing about Txakolina. The librarian Iñaki Arrieta Baro asked the audience for suggested words that the bertsolaris could use to perform. I had suggested using the work “Txakolina,” but after several rounds, was thinking it might not be incorporated. To my surprise, it was, as seen in the context translated below when talking about setting of that evening 10 :

Jesus: Jatekua bazen ardua guk faltan / There was food, but we missed the wine

Maialen: Amerikano hauen ohitura aparta / An exceptional tradition of these Americans [ironic]

Miren: Ardoa falta eta hirurok egarri / We missed the wine and the three of us are thirsty

Jesus: Lehen bait lehen zaudetela guretzat ekarri / Bring it [the wine] to us quickly

Maialen: Lege hori kanbiatu behar dute sarri / They should change that law soon

Miren: Txakolina hitza ez mahai gainean jarri / Don't show up the word “Txakolina” (she says don’t put the word [the label] Txakolinaren on the table)

Jesus: Ardo asko ezin izan elurran tokian / You can’t have a lot of wine in a snowy place

10 This part of the performance was translated in part by myself, Cameron Watson, and Iñaki Arrieta

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Maialen: Handik ekarri leike modu egokian / You can bring it from over there [the Basque Country] quite easily

Miren: Eta guk alper-alperrik asko eduki han / And we have a lot [of wine] for nothing there [the Basque Country] (doesn’t do us any good for this situation)

Jesus: Ni berdin egongo naiz bai sagardotegian / I would be as happy [as I am here] in a cider house

There are several themes and points to glean out of this performance. The first is the complaint that when singing a bertso and in this particular setting, there was food but not wine. Whenever I witnessed a bertso in the Basque Country, there was always both, in comparison to the American ways that lack wine that Maialen applauds, ironically .

This connection of food and language (linked by the mouth) is not just physically connected, but symbolically connected to the primal needs of humans which is pre- cultural 11 —food and communication. The corporeality of both reinforce the meaning and link between commensality and oral language for Basque culture in particular. The play of language in forming a bertso also creates the tone for the social atmosphere than can be linked to eating and drinking. It also brings to mind the cooperation and trust necessary in both bertsolaritza as well as the trust gained when eating and drinking together.

Miren Artetxe, with the cooperation of Mailen and Jesus, then says to not put the word itself, “Txakolina” on the table. An interpretation of this would be that we could just bring the wine, but not have it labeled (with the word Txakolina) so no one would know it was wine. In this case, I enjoyed hearing Txakolina was viewed as a desirable

11 This discussion on the “pre-cultural” aspect of the senses, eating and drinking, derives from conversation with Joseba Zulaika

176 beverage for the evening, versus another common view of it—that is caused headaches

(buruko mina). I say this because “Txakolina” and “buruko mina” would have potentially been an easy rhyme.

Jesus mentions that there isn’t a lot of wine in this snowy place (remembering this performance place in January), and the other two follow by saying that there is a lot of wine in the Basque Country that could have been brought over. Jesus finishes by saying he would love to be in a sagardotegi , which is one of the most traditional places for bertsolaritza to take place, especially for men.

Although traditional iconicity of drinking cider, gender (male-dominated), and language are tied reinforced by Jesus’ last statement, this performance in itself breaks the gendered ties to Txakolina with Miren broaching the subject and singing about it being a desirable wine. Maialen reinforces this sentiment by invoking (likely in jest) the sense that

American ways need to change, missing the traditional drinking culture of the Basque

Country while invoking new connections between women and the traditional drink of

Txakolina.

Semiotic associations with traditional, rural Basque life might be a fading trend, and linguistic associations for women are being made through examples of bertsolaritza, images of the txapela, and Txakolina. Another link that reinforces language to Txakolina is the claim to etymological origins of the word “Txakolina” to create a connection to the

Basque language. There have been hypotheses linking the origins of the word

“Txakolina”—once spelled “chacoli” before Sabino Arana proposed new orthographic conventions for “tx” [ʧ] and “k” [k] (Sabino Arana, 1897, 32, 40)—to the Basque, French

(Corcuera et al. 2007, 159), and even Hebrew languages (Santana EITB interview, 2018).

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Despite a lack of certainty as to how this wine received its name, the Bizkaiko Txakolina

D.O. posts on their website that “Etymologically the word comes from etxekoa (homemade) or Etxeko ain (enough for the home).” Right now, the term Txakolina-Txakolina is a traditional term protected by European regulations. Its definition describes Txakolina as

“a wine with marked personality in which white ones predominate over the rosés and red ones” (Bizkaiko Txakolina n.d.).

Providing an etymology and definition for the wine that links it to Basque culture not only proposes linguistic evidence as to the wine’s Basque cultural connection, but also protects this particular spelling of the word (the version using a “tx” versus “ch”) from being used by anyone outside the Basque regulatory D.O.s. This spelling fulfills what Alexandra Jaffe (1999, 61) puts forth in the book Language Ideological Debates

(1999) as the “logic of oppositional identity,” which makes the spelling unique from

Spanish (Bloomaert, 61). Authenticity is created through this etymological linkage and protectionism by establishing two components of what Coupland describes as

“historicity” and “systemic coherence”—its historical link to the Basque language and as well as consensus through the European Union’s protection of the word, creates value to consumers through this authentication (Coupland 2003, 418-420).

The etymological connection between the word “Txakolina” and the Basque language, as well as the protectionism, also becomes relevant over time and space. For example, multiple sites of production in different autonomous communities of Spain

(such as Burgos), as well as in Chile, currently produce a version of chacoli (Figures 5.1 and 5.2). Protecting the name, and subsequently, the monetary value that Txakolina provides its producers is one way of creating a consensus for what Txakolina is and

178 where it can be produced. In Burgos, the bodega Termino de Miranda provides a rebuttal for what defines “chacoli” by offering up the “Chacopedia.” “Chacopedia” is described by the owners as “an online encyclopedia about chacoli and the winegrowing tradition of

Miranda del Ebro and the north of the province of Burgos” (Termino de Miranda, 2018).

Below in Figures 5.3 and 5.4 are examples for other producers of chacoli that establish that this wine (or a wine that at one time may have been similar) has a history of being produced in other places.

Figure 5.1 and 5.2

Miranda del Ebro in Burgos, Spain

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Figure 5.3 Chacoli made near Pamplona with the Garnacha varietal instead of typical

present-day varietals

Figures 5.4 Chacoli made artisanally in Doñihue, Chile

Other ways in which language is used for marketing gastronomic products from the Basque Country can be observed directly through the producers’ advertisements. One example is the use of Euskara on the label of Txakolina that displayed the Basque word for “mother,” ama. This one word does not rely on the traditional bucolic settings of a baserri, colors of the flag, or even of the local landscape. It does, however, offer an emotional connection to a universally significant person for most people—our mothers.

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Not only does this invoke an emotional response to the consumer who speaks Basque, embedding cultural meaning within the wine, but also does so for locals who do not speak Basque as it is a word commonly heard, thus not requiring fluency in the language itself to pick up on semantic nuances. Johan Järlehed (2017, 154) describes similar use of

Basque that invokes an emotional response in advertisements in his chapter entitled

“Evolving Symbolic Divides in Basque Language Promotion Logos.” He analyzes logos used for Ikastolen Egunak, an annual celebration that raises money in support of Basque language schools. In his chapter, he quotes Machin (2004, 13) saying that visual stylization and advertising tends to “not represent actual places or events… but they symbolically represent marketable concepts and moods such as “contentment.” This is precisely the effect that can be felt by using the world “ ama ” to advertise Txakolina. By using what can be considered a universal, emotionally charged word that conveys a mood relating us back to the person who would typically care for us, there is a simultaneous value transference to the wine and the Basque language, whether explicit or implicit to the consumer.

A similar value can be added to a product when using other emotionally charged

Basque words, such as toponyms, or words relating to element of place. With the latter, the use of Basque words as place names or the native animal and plant life for a particular area could prove to be more encompassing for the type of consumer they attract. These words are often so historically entrenched in a place over time that they do not take on a purely linguistic identity, but rather one of a more historic, natural setting. Such use of

Basque toponyms invokes a broader, more inclusive sense of Basque identity over time, less restricted from the political and social confines of language. This could include the

181 marketing of places where few to no Basque speakers exist, but where names of towns, neighborhoods, and other municipal places like Larrinbe, Larrabe, or Bideko reflect previous historical use of Basque in the area (Oiarzabal, Araceli, 2016). Advertising with

Basque names such as these, for example, could be valuable to a larger consumer base that attaches value and authenticity to place historically (Coupland 2003, 2007) embedded in Basque culture, rather than by other Basque words or phrases that would denote more recent language trends and policies that could possibly cause divide within

Basque and non-Basque speakers.

A specific instance of using Basque words to market wine in non-Basque speaking areas of Spain occurs with names of families in Rioja, though similar situations could happen with any product produced in peripheral areas of the Basque Country. For example, there are many Basque connections to the non-Basque zone of the Rioja DOCa,

Rioja Alta. There, bottles demonstrate a confluence of historical factors that mix language, wine, and identity. Bottles can be seen with Basque family names such as

Muga, (border) and Ardanza (vineyard) that convey the family names of those who live there, or the name of a wine produced. The historical confluence of these factors includes a close relationship between the non-Basque Rioja Alta zone and the Basque city of

Bilbo. During my fieldwork, I noted preferences for wine from this zone, instead of the

Basque zone of Rioja Alavesa. Advertisements such as the one shown here may likely be trying to reverse such preferences with the new initiatives for consumers to drink “local” products specifically from within the Basque Country.

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Figure 5.5 Use of “gurea” or “our” taken from La Roca bar in Bilbo

Conversely, there are instances parts of the Basque Country where people whose native language is not Euskara are required to tailor their marketing techniques as to meet language preferences to sell their products within the Basque Country. Miguel, a non-

Basque speaker, 12 and his family owned a bodega from the province of Alava, where

28.5% of the population is considered to “understand and speak Basque well” (Eustat

2018), expressed frustration at the pressure to learn and use Basque. Miguel felt that his family was under pressure to learn Euskara when neither he “…nor [his] parents, nor

[his] grandparents or those that preceded them generations back” knew the language

(Anonymous Jan. 15, 2018). What was interesting is that at some point the family was required to change their spelling of a Txakolina label which referenced a local bird typically found flying over a river on their property. “We had to change the name to [a]

Basque [spelling] to be able to sell it in the Basque Country” (Anonymous Jan. 15, 2018).

This word, “Chicubín,” (Figure 5.6) had to be spelled with the Basque “tx”, exchanging

12 Pseudonym

183 the Castilian “ch” to a “tx” and “c” to “k”; it is now sold as “Txikubin” (Figure 5.7). The views presented by this non-Basque speaker echo sentiments of Basque speakers who, many times on a regular basis, must accommodate to Castilian speakers who refuse or are not able to speak Euskara when communicating.

As mentioned, the txikubin was often seen flying over the river outside their home at the Torre de Murga . According to Miguel, a bird kept flying into a glass wall of the structure, nearly killing it one day. He had picked it up at his dad’s request, threw a bit of water on it, and it seemed to be brought back to life; this he likened to a “rebirth”, which he thought could symbolize their place and product. The name originally comes from the short but poorly humored Juan Sanchez de Murga (alias Txikubín o Chiquilín) , nicknamed Chicubín “for being short of stature but long of genius, was son of the VI

Señor de Ayala and origin to the lineage of the Murga in the XIII century. In 1559, the widow of Lope García de Murga, founds the link including the "Casa y Torre de Murga and the garden and vineyards next to it ..." (Txikubin Txakolina, September 10, 2018).

While one could argue that a sense of authenticity is achieved by using a minoritized language to market this wine as “Txikubín”, more accurately reflecting its roots in a unique “place” against the larger, undifferentiated Spanish market, this case is different. I argue that a sense of authenticity is lost due to an inaccurate reflection of the linguistic terroir. In trying to join Basque marketing strategies, this wine loses a sense of authenticity in the effort to represent what is unique about a place based off its political boundaries, ignoring the multifaceted nature of the more realistic dualities that exist.

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Figure 5.6 https://nonbait.com/es/alimentaci%C3%B3n-y-delicatessen/1865-txikubin-

Txakolina.html

Figure 5.7 https://www.vivino.com/torre-de-murga-txikubin-Txakolina-white-wine-v- oqwuj/w/5400606

Despite the linguistic pressures experienced, Miguel was of the opinion that any part of the label indexing “Basqueness” would add to its value. “As much in Euskadi as in the rest of the Spanish State, I see “lo vasco” (things related to Basque) as having value…added and known outside Euskadi for us, the Basques, qualities and traditions and they are able to recognize it with the use of Basque” (Anonymous, text, January 15,

2018). The statement he made reflects several important points. My informant closely identifies with being Basque despite not being a native Basque speaker and resenting some of the pressures of learning Euskara. He sees Basque products as having an added value by way of qualities associated with Basque tradition and culture, and she

185 recognizes that language, or more specifically semiotics, are one way of indicating a product’s Basqueness.

For producers like the one mentioned, the use of the Basque language is not representative of the language spoken at home with her family, but is used for marketing because it is the language of the autonomous community. This conflicting use of language does not represent a true sense of authenticity attached to those producing it, but rather it represents a projected or staged authenticity created by the political boundaries and those that control the regulatory D.O.s (designation of origins) within the Basque

Country. This minimalistic use of Basque, as opposed to communicative use, is what

Alexandra Jaffe refers to as a staging of language that emphasizes “how people use sets of semiotic resources to gradiently challenge and/or reinscribe normative ideologies and locally recognized, hierarchically organized identity categories” (Jaffe et al. 2015, 135).

The language ideologies in the case previously mentioned, as well as in the case of festivals organized and supported by the government agencies (such as in Rioja Alavesa) are staged and reinscribed in the semiotic landscape even though Euskara is not the preferred language of the producers or those represented.

In preparation for my fieldwork the year prior, I visited a bodega that demonstrated a transition in the amount of Euskara used in exchange for a more modern, minimalistic look. One might contend that this specific case is a reverse form of language staging in what might be an effort to reach a wider consumer base with a more modern design. However, I present that key points of the design still accurately represent the language and culture of its origin by maintaining key semiotic features. In 2016, the label

186 on the front and back was designed using only Euskara with the iconic image of a tree and a verse on the counter-label (or back label) as seen in Figures 5.8 and 5.9.

Figure 5.8 Front label of an older version of Mendraka wine

Figure 5.9 Counter label of an older bottle of Mendraka wine with bertso

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The verse in Figure 5.9 is translated as:

They make it from local grapes

Mendraka’s splashing wine

In sweat and heart, of course

Unbeatable quality

That’s the Txakolina in this vessel

The bottle has transitioned into simplified look of modernity with silver and black labels and the use of braille on the front (translated as Mendraka Txakolina) under the same tree design used before (Figures 5.10 and 5.11). This attempt to modernize and globalize the label—with Braille also being used as a marketing strategy on other wine bottles—illustrates the transition from being a local product to a global one with a less folkloric-looking tree and less Basque-associated typography. I maintain that even though there is less use of Euskara and no verse appearing on the newer version, a balance is found by integrating the more tactile Braille. This use opens the consumer base to those visually impaired (whether the true intention or not), but maintains this use as a translation from Euskara, versus a more globally used language such as Castilian or

English.

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Figure 5.10 and Figure 5.11 Newer Mendraka bottles

I argue that Gaintza Txakolindegia (Gaintza Txakolina Bodega) is a bodega that provides an exemplary form of modernizing the label while highlighting the Basque language as a way of creating distinction within the large revolution of Txakolina. When

I had arrived in 2017 for my first interview on April 1 st , of 2017, I was greeted by a multilingual tour guide, Gorka. I introduced myself in the little Euskara I had come to speak. He was surprised and delighted, so we started the tour in Euskara. When it came recording important information, we switched to Castilian, ensuring accurate recording of the interview.

The tour included a presentation of a wall that showcased the evolution of the bottle labels over time. One of the more recent ones used what might be deemed as an older font, with the picture of the baserri top and center, with a view of the sea below as seen in Figure 5.12. Inspiration from this commonly seen font appears to be sourced from gravestones—some of them dates from the 17 th century—that still exist in various parts

189 of the Basque Country as seen in a picture I took in Iparralde (Figure 5.13) These letters which letters are not incised but carved in relief, which is the reason why thin details are very difficult to produce, resulting in sturdy letter forms that evolved towards the heaviest side of the typographic spectrum (Typography, Blanco, 2017).

Figure 5.12 Illustration of Gaintza’s labels previously used with heavier font

Figure 5.13 Gravestone of Iparralde

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After a tour of the facilities, all perched on a beautiful hill a walkable distance from the center of Getaria, it was time to taste. Immediately I noticed a tell-tale sign of the transition from traditional Txakolina consumption, which would change later that year. I was handed three glasses for tasting, as shown in Figure 5.14. As one can see, these are not like the typical wine glasses used at wine tastings. These were similar to glasses used for consuming cider. They did not have a stem for handling and did not have a wider body that led to a rim smaller in diameter. When I asked about these glasses,

Gorka acknowledged they were not the kind typically used to taste wine, but that they would be transitioning to that style soon. This type of glass points to the transition of

Txakolina from practices of traditional consumption into the professional and modernized consumption demonstrated by sommeliers like Mikel Garaizabal at various festivals and events. I noticed the use of these glasses in only one other occasion outside of cider houses; within the same bar, older generations of consumers were still seen drinking red wine in this style of glass while younger generations had the more typical-looking wine glass.

The more modern glass encourages a different sensorial appreciation for the wine.

Having a stem on the glass prevents the cold wine from temperature fluctuation by avoiding contact with warm hands, for example, which greatly affects the organoleptic qualities of Txakolina. Having a wider body in the glass that leads to a smaller rim aerates the wine in the base while concentrating aromas into the nose when trying to gain a sense of a wine’s aroma. By facilitating the appreciation of wine drinking with a change in glass style (and modern production practices), Txakolina gains value as it transitions from its previously negative associations, into a commodity of distinction through the

191 professionalization of consumption and by soliciting distinguishing sensorial features through specialized linguistic descriptors.

Figure 5.14 Glasses that were provided for a Gaintza tasting in early 2017 As noted elsewhere in this research, these descriptors were shared and presented at public wine tastings, as with many wine tastings, where producers guided the public into using specific descriptors associated with taste. Many of these descriptors that were explained to the public created images of tropical fruits and verdant land near the ocean.

The descriptors became so repetitive in my research that I could predict the usual “Lime, green apple, and fresh (ly cut) grass” while sometimes incorporation “minerality and salinity” into the description. This language translates the acidic qualities into approachable terms that recreate and reify images of the “local” as well as the terroir— qualities that create distinction and value in wine marketing.

The new label of Gaintza reflected this sense of localness and terroir on both the front and the counter-label through not only depictions of the landscape, but with the language chosen as well. Not only were they using these labels for local sale, but when I

192 had asked explicitly if they were going to translate or remove anything for exportation, they confirmed that the words would remain there untranslated. 13 I expressed that my research was attempting to demonstrate the value of using minoritized languages to enhance a sense of linguistic terroir —the sense of place as defined by language—giving the product and language both added value through distinction.

Figure 5.15 New front label of Gaintza (left) Figure 5.16 New counter label with the bertso in Euskara to be exported (right)

The labeling, like Mendraka, offers a tactile component on the front similar to rain, with an updated typography straying from the heavier typographic font previous

13 Despite the original efforts to maintain the verse on the back label in Euskara, on September 3, 2018, I was informed that the verse was not included on the back label for a bottle purchased in the US. Joseba Lazkano from Gaintza (with whom I interviewed) responded to an email that they need to quickly change their US importer. Because of time constraints, the counter-label was not made out of their touted mineral paper, nor did it have the verse in Euskara.

193 used, all above an image of the sea and land in green. The back (as seen in Figure 5.16) features the following verse:

Familiako mahastiak, (family vines)

Getariako euripean, (in the rain of Getaria)

Kantauri ertzean. (On the edge of the Cantabrian Coast).

The website for Gaintza facilitates the creation of additional value by providing an educative component for consumers on their website for comprehension. They explain that this verse is an example of the art of “ bertsolarismo”, executed through song, rhyme, and measure…there is no better way to define who we are than through a bertso… a prominent part of our Basque culture,” translating the verse in English explaining, “that we are a family cellar in Getaria, with vineyards next to the Cantabrian sea. (Gaintza

Txakolinadegia n.d.)” Unlike many wine producers in the world, this identity building based on language differs from marketing the physical soil or terroir where the wine if produced. The use of the word terroir does seem to be creeping into the Bizkaia region and is used as a tactic to distinguish oneself through identity, nortasuna, and the soils in which the wine is grown. It will be interesting to see if this term catches on throughout the region as the marketing of wine becomes more homogenized in the use of this French word .

I argue that Txakolina is unique to value creation for the Basque language because it is a product entrenched in traditional Basque winemaking. This creates cultural capital for the tourist seeking an authentic experience in the consumption of local culture

194 while abroad. Value is also created for locals aiming to support local gastronomic production. Karlos Arguiñano and Gaintza have marketing their bottles with communicative use of Basque as an extension of language use in their daily lives, just as other food producers have to reflect the culture of origin. This use of Basque creates value for both the language and product. Txakolina, once a wine scoffed at for its rough taste, now has the potential to become a platform to the world as an iconic part of the uztartzea of traditional, local, Basque gastronomy. By maintaining its place in the evolution of Basque gastronomy, and by becoming more popular with foreigners and locals alike, Txakolina has the potential to take on the value of commodified wine, but with identity associations that Rioja Alavesa wine may not have. This close association with Basque and Basque-speaking culture allow the wine freedom to more strongly express the cultural and linguistic ties to the Basque Country. This link creates the perfect pairing for value creation for both the language and the food. These evolving notions of how Basqueness is conveyed in the marketing of Txakolina are different in various provinces, using different semiotic means to achieve a sense of value for different audiences—the producer, consumer, as well as local, State, and international markets— reflecting varying degrees of authenticity in an attempt to create value across the board.

These examples show how the linguistic terroir, or the sense of place defined by language, encapsulates a more inclusive picture of people and the language they speak, linking both to the land. Linguistic terroir is a concept that incorporates human components of language production within geographical area, to include the Cavanaugh’s ideas on the social aesthetic (2009, 11-13) and the evaluations made in language production, in addition to the semiotic landscape—often the visual, mandated or

195 perceived language practices of an area. I argue here that linguistic terroir is a tool that can be used to look at language more holistically as it pertains to a relationship with the natural spaces in which it is used, versus politically determined spaces, for example.

This discussion with Maria Olga Macías illustrates how Txakolina is distinct from other wines, though ironically, she did not call it distinction. As we continued to talk, she shared her thoughts, grounded in the belief that the separate markets for Txakolina—local and international—would not influence each other to create a commodity that would be no longer affordable in the Basque Country. However, as unexpectedly as it would seem,

I began to see the changes happening almost unanimously across the board to create additional value for Txakolina. This often entailed ecological and biodynamic production methods, as well as extended aging on the lees, or the dead yeast cells, to create a fuller, creamier texture to Txakolina (creating two distinct versions that differed in price). The additional efforts put into what was seen as “improvements” for Txakolina were generally well-accepted by consumers as the wine became more ethically marketed with ecological production techniques, while also tasting different on the palate. While a large percentage of producers started using these professional methods to change the “classic” version into a “ berezia ” or “special” version, more trained enologists entered the picture and professional tastings and pairings increased to show off the nuances for the new range of Txakolinas. 14 While the majority of classically-made Txakolina wines were locally marketed for around 6-9 euros ($7-10.50), by the time I finished my fieldwork at

14 I use the spelling for the term “Txakolinas” as hybrid spelling between Basque and English as the rest of the text is in English, adding an “s”. For pluralization in Basque, the spelling would be “Txakolinak”.

196 the end of 2017, new versions of Txakolina were stocked on shelves of gourmet food sections for 32.75 euros a piece ($38.00).

Throughout this process of “improving” the quality of Txakolina, which has largely taken place over the last decade or two, there has been a concerted effort to conduct formal tastings at public events such as Basque Fest in Bilbo, where there not only were food and wine vendors gathered under a huge tent, but producers presenting their wine through free formalized tastings. When one member from the audience responded to the call for participation by sharing his tasting notes, the producer took his opinion into consideration, but selected other members to share their opinions until the typical tasting notes for Txakolina had been recited. Another event, costing 2 euros, granted entry into El Museo Vasco (The Basque Museum) to learn about

Figure 5.17 Logo for the 2017 Basque Fest in Bilbo Figure 4https://www.euskal-museoa.eus/es/berriak/xehetasunak/354/basque-fest-2017 traditional elements of Basque culture such as music and the txistu (Basque fipple flute) that included a glass of Txakolina. Note that the logo for this 2017 festival is in English despite the website offering translations into Basque and Castilian for the information details (Figure 5.17). While there may have been some tourists present, the majority were

Castilian and Basque speakers. This being said, while the logo is in English, it is probably not being directed to English speakers specifically, per se, but rather advertising a more

197 modern, globalized, image for the Basque Country to a more generalized public. Bringing

Txakolina out of the baserri and into a more formal, globalized context, despite its traditional egalitarian nature as a drink of the people, Txakolina was becoming something that could also be saved and aged versus consumed the year after harvest, imbibed for pleasure over nutritional need, something to be studied, not just drunk, and possibly a wine for creating distinction.

Another aspect of Txakolina production that has changed over time is the role of women in and around the bodega. This was brought to light in an Eitb Irrati Telebista

(Basque radio and television news source) interview with Iratxe Eguskiaga from Bodega

Basigo. Regarding the perceptions and norms of women working in bodegas, Iratxe, who makes Txakolina Zabala in Bakio, was asked about the modernization process. She spoke of the transition from a manual press to more mechanized methods, but emphasized her own experience as a woman producing wine. She recounted comments made to her that would begin with phrases such as “being a woman…” and continued by giving further examples: “there are these things…on the days of your period, you could not enter the bodega because it made the Txakolina go bad.” She continued poking fun at this idea by stating a hypothetical, “Our enologist is a girl, so imagine that she would be taking one week of vacation off per month. It would be perfect” (Iratxe y el Chorizo al Txakolina

July 15, 2018).

When I followed up with Iratxe on why people thought like this she responded as follows:

“I can’t tell you the reasons why they used to say that, but it was also said when

making chorizos. It was said that in the farmhouse/home, that once a woman was

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menstruating and she was making chorizos, and that year the chorizos were

ruined. But now I will tell you what I think, but it’s not scientifically proven. The

men liked to have certain spaces in which women could not enter, and one of

those spaces was the bodega, just as it was with the txokos . There they could try

their Txakolina, one after another, and they had their own place. The women, in

the world of Txakolina back then, as well as in other activities, were limited to

doing the manual work often, cleaning bottles, labeling them, selling the

Txakolina, and dividing up the money...And now, there are a lot of women in the

world of Txakolina, things continue evolving.” (Iratxe Zabala, email to author,

August 30, 2018)

The concept that a menstruating woman could not be involved in the production of wine for fear she would ruin it is interesting as it involves notions of what Basque women from Iparralde (northern Basque Country) were once allowed to do in regard to food preparation as described in Sandra Ott’s Circle of Mountains. While Ott notes that there are certain restrictions on a woman’s activities during her period, women were traditionally still allowed to perform tasks in the house including food preparation (Ott

1993, 204). However, Ott also notes that the traditional way of thinking dictates that a menstruating woman should “not do any ‘wet work’, i.e. she should not wash anything in cold water. Women (then) in their fifties and sixties who observed this precaution explained that cold water makes both menstrual blood and body blood stop flowing. The body part most sensitive to hot/cold contrasts are the wrists.” She explains the notion that during menstruation, the menstrual blood and the body blood are thought to be extremely hot, and for this reason, during this time, a woman is unable to make mayonnaise for fear

199 that it would cause the eggs and oil to curdle. The woman was allowed to do “dry work” however—any work that did not bring the woman into contact with liquids (Ott 1993;

204-205).

While conducting fieldwork, I lived in a renovated baserri with a couple named

Fatima and Mikel, gracious hosts and ever-patient teachers of Euskara. They themselves cultivated the grapes for Txakolina production, so I asked Fatima if she had ever heard of similar notions that restricted women’s activities in wine or food preparation. After noting that she personally thought the notion was unfounded and without basis, she did give me her own account of something similar from her adolescent years: “I remember being a teenager in Laguardia when they reprimanded us for entering a field where they produced mushrooms. They told us that menstruation would ruin the mushrooms (Fatima

Arranzabal, text message, August 28, 2018).

This example not only shows the historical perceptions of menstruation and how it limited contact with food production practices, but points to the fact that the enologist they use today is a woman—something that I observed often in my fieldwork. The advancement of technology was not the only change that had occurred over time. In cases where property and homes were typically passed down to the males in the family, I found that my fieldwork was taking place at a time when the younger generation made wine based off the knowledge they were received from their father, for example, while other bodegas were starting to professionalize the role of the enologist. Again, with this transition, the role of the woman changed, and I saw many bodegas where a woman held the role of enologist even if she did not typically own the bodega itself.

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One exception that I came across was a bodega in Bakio after I had finished two months of intensive language study in Lazkao. My friend Pilar whom I met there, kindly drove me from Bilbo to a bodega in Bakio, located within the Bizkaiko Txakolina

Denominación de Origen. The Zabala sisters, María José and Arantza Olaskoaga, were welcoming as they gave us a tour of Casa Basarte where they ran an agroturism business and made their wine. Their white wine, “Ados,” which is made from the Hondarribi zuri grape, was one of the first that was marketed in their native language of Euskara; Ados means, “agreed” or “de acuerdo.” They called it an “agreement between two times, capturing their feeling towards those who have transmitted their way of life as founded in humility, sacrifice, and patience (Txakolina Ados, n.d.). They also had noted the duality of its meaning in Castilian, with the “dos” referring to “two” (Zabala sisters, interview,

2016).

The explicit reference to the importance of the female role at Basarte is recognized with the wine “Dona.” Dona honors the women who have historically worked and sacrificed to educate the children, run the family finances, as well as perform much of the agricultural work at Casa Basarte—an honor especially made for their own mother.

In addition to honoring the role of women and their mother, it also honors the tradition of making the red wine that has been produced for centuries in Bakio and in the caserío of

Basarte with the native grape, Hondaribbi beltza, a close relative of Cabernet Franc.

There are a variety of strategies being used to market this white wine, which in practice is usually referred to as “our wine”: gure, or nuestro vino . Some producers are not marketing internationally yet, but most are making their way in that direction. This also means that label designs have changed considerably over the last couple of years.

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The trend could be characterized by saying that it has gone from using a variety of folkloric signifiers to a more modern approach. While this many times means using fewer words for a more austere, modern look, it doesn’t necessarily mean more English words (though in many cases it does). I have seen many labels with various combinations of writing in English and Basque, Basque and Castilian, and English and

Castilian. The case of Gaintza has been of interest as they are marketing to both local and international consumers with a new label, which has three lines in Basque on the back that refer to the Basque family, the climate, and region in which the wine is made. I am still not sure if it will make for a better sale abroad, but it has been the most overt example of a bodegas keeping Basque words on the bottles destined for the overseas markets.

As briefly mentioned before, the use of the word terroir to describe the uniqueness of wine derived from a sense of place does seem to be creeping into the

Bizkaiko Txakolina vocabulary. However, when asked if this term was used often, the word nortasuna, instead, was explicitly used as a parallel to distinguish the vines oneself through identity and the soils in which the wine is grown. Using “nortasuna” in place of

“terroir” to describe or market wines points to the importance of describing uniqueness through as constructed through “social,” distinction, rather than the distinction created by land. This Basque word is used in other advertisements, such as beer, as we will see, to denote a sense of “Basqueness” through a linguistic link. This tendency illustrates the concept I put forward as part of the linguistic terroir of an area; it demonstrates the emphasis for distinction that has been and is based on social differences, rather than employing the French word (that may more commonly be used in French Basque

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Country) that is often seen in the neighboring region just over the Pyrenees to market wine. I contend that the word “terroir” is more commonly seen in the winemaking zone of Rioja Alavesa due to the fact that Euskara is not spoken as much there, and also because of the French historical connection between Rioja and France.

The role of women in the production and consumption of Txakolina is slowly changing. Entrenched in the traditional ways of production, often dominated by men, the world of Txakolina is slowly changing to involve enologists, producers, and sommeliers.

The Zabala sisters are paving the way in terms of visibility and roles in this world, and women like Fatima Aranzabal, who worked every day at Esteñibar baserria taking care of the vines, and measuring sugar levels have maintained their roles as caretakers of these vines that are cultivated to produce this national product. However, as with the production of many traditional products, their roles often go unnoticed.

The roles of women in language production, whether in relation to the world of

Txakolina as seen with bertsolaris Miren Artetxe and Maialen Lujanbio, or in the production and marketing of Txakolina, also goes unnoticed. Several scholars have made efforts to reflect on the role of women in language normalization, such as the mentioned scholars Jaime Altuna (2017) and Jone Miren who say that language use is a symptom of a social model. In this article, the work of these scholars is mentioned and discussed under the context that “women do more in Basque than men” (Velte, 2019). This is a statement goes against what Echeverria reports in her article about gendered patterns of use for Basque and Castilian (2003, 395), perhaps indicating a change in language use.

Amid a variety of factors discussed in this article-such as the nature of boy and girls communicate (aggressively and with short sentences) and by taking into consideration the

203 spheres of where men and women typically communicate, their findings point to social structures as influential factors. Therefore, by looking at who is producing and marketing

Txakolina, can assume there will be a correlation between the language they speak and the language used to market. If, like the article implies, women do more in Basque than men, it is likely that by increasing the number of women in the world of Txakolina, the use of Euskara will increase when marketed to a broader audience on the label in sites of production or tourism.

As seen with the examples provided in this chapter, Txakolina, once a wine scoffed at for its rough taste, now has the potential to become a platform to the world as an iconic part of the uztartzea that combines language and Basque gastronomy. Strategic marketing plans that highlight the gustatory changes from the more traditional version for locals, as well as the use of font, symbols, and language for all consumers, need to be considered for the creation of value. As the taste of Txakolina continues to evolve on the palate, becoming more favorable to foreigners and locals alike, it remains an important ingredient of the semiofoodscape (Järlehed and Moriarty, 2018) creating a platform for increased use of the Basque language, as well for creating value for the wine itself.

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Chapter 6 : Rioja Alavesa

“Internationally I am proud and don’t fear retaliation [for using Basque] …but within Spain, you have to be brave to use Basque on the label” (Itxaso Compañon, text message, Oct. 24, 2017). This quote illustrates the sentiments regarding the use of the

Basque language, Euskara, from Compañon who produces in the Basque zone of Rioja

Alavesa—inside the larger Rioja Denominación de Origen Calificada . Rioja Alavesa is a place that lies on the periphery of the Basque Country, consisting mostly of Castilian- speakers, jutting up again the physical boundaries of wine-making regions with an even higher percentage of Castilian speakers. In this chapter, I will demonstrate the value created in this particular region through the cultural and linguistic resistance in its various forms. Theoretically, this centers on the creation of value through authenticity, distinction, and commodification to illustrate the ongoing importance of language use for the people and their products. The use of Basque on wine labels, the wine region’s push to market their wine by enlarging the zone’s font size on labeling, and the general use of

Basque in the semiofoodscape will show how the culture and language of the area create value for the language and the wine alike.

The introductory statement for this chapter is derived from the ongoing conversation that continued after having visited the El Mozo Wines, Itxaso Compañon

(from Donosti) and her husband Gorka’s Mauleón’s (from Eibar), along with their two children, are owners of a bodega that produces and markets their wine for both local and international sale. A woman now in her late 20’s, Compañon left a life in the city after her parents passed to run this bodega as a small family project that dates back to their grandparents, with more than 40 years of history in the small town of Lanciego

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(Interview with Eitb). Their winemaking is based in traditional, ecological, sustainable, and organic methods. Despite its co-offical status within the Basque Autonomous

Communities, Euskara is not commonly seen for purposes of communication on the labels of most products, and even less commonly seen on bottles of Rioja wine, which have continued to be recognized internationally for their quality and value. The use of

Basque to market locally-produced wine, as alluded to by the winemaker’s statement, is a form of linguistic resistance.

In this chapter, I will present a case from my fieldwork that demonstrates the use of Basque on wine labels in comparison to the use of other minoritized languages through the frameworks of peripheral multilingualism (Pietikäinen, Kelly-Holmes, Jaffe, &

Coupland 2016) and language materiality (Cavanaugh & Shankar, 2017). I use this work and the frameworks they present to demonstrate how value is created for both the food and language through the authenticating uses of Euskara in the Basque wine-making region of Rioja Alavesa. Concepts of language, identity, authenticity, commodification, and the political economy of the Basque Country merged together in ways that provoked questions about two distinct wine-making regions in the Basque Country—one that produced an iconic Basque wine called Txakolina , and the Basque wine-making region of

Rioja Alavesa. While the former was a marker of Basque identity that was linked to the

Basque rural farmhouse, the other was a wine-making zone that was part of the larger internationally-known region called Rioja . This zone attempted to become recognized as its own independent wine-making region during the time I was conducting fieldwork.

Knowing that wine is a commodified luxury good that can be sold for thousands of dollars, and that the concept of authenticity (potentially linked to a distinct language)

206 could help increase value for a product, I wanted to research how these concepts were related, and if they could eventually create value for Basque as it was used to market this type of commodity.

Initially, my interests in researching language in Rioja Alavesa were questioned by other scholars as this Basque wine-making region formed part of the border with neighboring communities that were not Basque-speaking, making it a place where only a small percentage were euskaldunak . This was precisely the reason why I wanted to conduct research there. There were a handful of Basque families that lived there, some of them still speaking Basque in the home, while many others did not. Wine labels reflected the use of Basque in daily life, with only a few bodegas using Euskara on the bottles, usually by displaying it in minimalist ways such as by using toponyms and one-word names.

The use of one particular, salient, name within Basque culture that is closely tied to the roots of Basque cuisine, is used to market wine: Ama. While one of the most famous poems in Basque, “ Nire Aitaren Etxea ”, or, “My Father’s House” talks of defending one’s home and country, a perhaps more sentimental figure, “mother”, was used as a metaphor for Euskara (Txakartegi, Aulestia, & Douglas, 1995, 161). Not only does it represent the language as a metaphor for the “mother tongue,” with popular discourse, but it invokes powerful sentiment and emotion in a famous bertso , or improvised verse sung in Basque. In Voicing the Moment: Improvised Oral Poetry and

Basque Tradition (Armistead & Zulaika 2005, 271-272) the importance of the simple, yet powerful poem is described.

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Hauxe da lan polita Nice theme here

orain neregana given to me now

alboko lagunendik from my companion

etorri zaidana it has come

Bertsoak bota behar We have to sing

dira hiru bana three bertsoak each

hortan emango nuke about this I could say

nik nahitasun dana: anything I wanted:

beste ze-esanik ez da but there´s nothing left to say

esatian “ama.” on saying “mother.”

The topic of the performance by Manuel Olaizola Uztapide, provided by the organizers at the 1962 championship, was “mother.” The authors claim that the text itself would not easily excite anybody, but “mother” was one of the values most strongly shared by the bertsolari and the listeners. “Mother” is an important archetype in the

Basque popular imagination, to which the authors state that “Uztapide only had to mention the theme imposed and he would generate shared pathos with the audience. The mother about whom Uztapide was singing was any mother, ‘mother’ as an archetype and a value strongly shared by all there present. For a more sophisticated bertso text would not have produced such emotion” (Armistead & Zulaika 2005, 271-272).

The effect of this bertso points to the value produced in using the word “ Ama” to market wine by two different producers—one of Txakolina, and the other in Rioja

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Alavesa. Basque wine producer Luis Cañas, describes his use of this sentiment-filled word to pay tribute to his own mother:

“I took the old vines that had belonged to her family, vines over 60 years

old, and produced a Tempranillo that we called Amaren (Figure 6.1).

“Ama” means mother in Basque, and “Amaren” means “of the mother.”

(Report Company Interview, 2014)

Figure 6.1 Taken from Bodegas Amaren

While this gendered word is a powerful example that links females to value produced within Basque gastronomy, such use is exemplary in showing that this value derived from sentiment is only associated to women who fill the role of being a mother.

In Begoña Echeverria’s work (2010), “For whom does language death toll?

Cautionary notes from the Basque case”, a case is made showing the limited valued

209 spaces and roles that women inhabit in society. Echeverria used dictionary entries to illustrate the lack of representation for women by examples given in the sample sentences provided after the definitions. She finds that the few examples referencing women, do so by given women generic names versus using proper names for men—showcasing how specific men have contributed to Basque culture—and that when not constraining female referents to their biological roles as mothers or witches, the dictionary cloisters them in convents (202-203).

Using words that reference the motherly role of women to market wine indexes the honor and value for women-as-mothers in Basque culture, thereby bestowing value on the product itself; however, I argue that using other semiotic images to market wines would not only open the door to a more present-day, versatile image of Basque women, but using such approaches for marketing purposes would not only reify a more accurate image of Basque women today, but in doing so, would transfer such value to the products while appealing to a broader demographic of consumers.

The use of single (or few) words to market products index the Basque language are not used for communicating or textual purposes. For the entirety of my research, I never found one bottle of Rioja wine with a label written entirely in

Euskara. Despite this, I still wanted to know if those wanting to secede from the larger winemaking Rioja designation were Basque-speakers like Cañas, and if the use of the language could be used to distinguish one’s product and create value in doing so. After all, I had learned that a huge part of creating value for wine is by marketing a distinctive product. I argue that while the use of any semiotic use of

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Basque creates and indexes a sense of authenticity, this authenticity can be increased for consumers is increased when labels and other marketing materials are written entirely in the minoritized language.

It is for this reason that discovering a bottle of wine in San Sebastian that was labelled and marketed using Basque—not only for the brand name but also for communicating the description and origin of the wine on the back (Figure 6.2)—was a great surprise. A large part of my research on Rioja was aimed at finding out the story behind the producer of this bottle and why they chose to use Basque, versus the more ubiquitous Castilian or even English. My previous research with Txakolina had shown me that this beverage, intrinsically described as “Basque white wine”, was often marketed in Castilian (though it was not uncommon to see labels in Basque for the bottles that were sold locally). The market for Rioja was different though, as they were being sold to locals as well as a significant number of tourists, in a broader range of markets— locally throughout Spain, and internationally. The sale of Rioja Alavesa wine destined to a wider market with a diversity of consumers influenced which languages would be utilized to advertise; this often influenced producers to default to languages that could reach a wider consumer base, such as English or Castilian. I argue that Compañon’s increased peripheral status as a Basque speaker in the Basque (whose label is pictured below) zone Rioja Alavesa wine-making zone further increases her products’ value through the use of the minoritized language, because of this sense of rarity.

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Figure 6.2 Counter label for Itxaso Compañon’s wine written in Euskara Interestingly, Castilian or English was often used to market wines within Spain due in part to the Basques’ political history. For example, one Basque-speaking Rioja producer mentioned that distributors and consumers elsewhere in Spain negatively associated Basque culture with the past violence carried out by members of the ETA separatist group (ABRA, Oct. 20, 2017). This affected the way they marketed their bottles of wine, leading them to use more Castilian. In addition, having a significant number of consumers from Germany influenced their decision to have their website translated into German as one of the four language options. Meanwhile, although other independence movements—particularly in Catalonia—still create tension within Spain, while the ETA 2011 ceasefire and full dissolution of the separatist group in 2018 have ended an era of violence. This led to the international community becoming more

212 interested in taking part in the tourism that has continued to develop over the last few decades.

The tourism sector is a vital component that is mentioned by scholars writing on peripheral multilingualism and linguistic materiality. While a sense of pride within local culture can create language commodification (Duchêne and Heller 2012), thereby increasing the value of a product marketed with a peripheral language, a larger international market can be created with tourism. In the international market, Coupland and Helen Kelly-Holmes establish that minority languages and spaces are reconfigured into that niche markets and sites of elite, global production and consumption (Cavanaugh and Shankar 2017, 166-168).

Another example that demonstrates the value of a minority language in local,

Spanish, and international markets occurred on Facebook. I observed a conversation that illustrated the Spanish nationalists’ perceptions toward autonomous communities such as the Basque Country when advertising at a wine fair. The picture posted by the Rioja

Alavesa-based bodega, Luberri Monje Amestoy, displays several people seated and trying wine at the fair that took place in Barcelona. Two signs are included in the picture—one with the bodega’s name, and one larger sign in the colors of the Basque flag underlining “Euskadi, Basque Country” on top of a black background. This sign captures a local and international audience’s attention by using the Basque word for “Basque

Country,” “Euskadi”, (which also refers to Spanish Basque Country) while providing the

English translation in slightly smaller letters beneath it. The bilingual Castilian/English captions from the bodega exclaims, “Pure emotion! Promoting what we really love!”

One of the comments below the photo stated, “…in Madrid you all don’t have the balls to

213 put up the sign...and the Basque Country is more known for Txacoli…” (Bodegas Luberri

Monje Amestoy, April 2018).

This observation illustrates the political tension that remains between autonomous communities and Spanish nationalists, to the point that advertising a Basque origin is heavily scrutinized. Although this picture clearly advertises the origin of the product, both in Basque and English, it skips advertising with a Castilian translation. The size of the letters, the use of the Basque flag’s colors, and even the traditionally-used Basque font all index the sense of place, or the linguistic terroir , from which the wines comes, while also including an international audience through the use of English. Many sentiments are captured with Luberri’s Facebook post. The Facebook post itself its meant to reach into all markets by projecting and sharing this particular post with online friends, groups of wine educators, and foodies across the World Wide Web. The commenter’s words in Castilian demonstrate the existing tension that still exists between Spain’s autonomous communities and larger national powers. The use of English versus Castilian on the sign bypasses these national powers, continuing on to the level of the international community with the use of a language heavily associated with globalization and tourism.

The case study of Itxaso Compañon’s Basque wine labels, Luis Cañas’ use of the

Basque word Ama , and the Luberri’s Facebook post at a Barcelona wine fair all demonstrate some aspect of targeted language use in either local, Spanish, and/or international markets. The most salient example of linguistic resistance is the case of

Compañon as she continues to market and promote her wine in Euskara despite living and producing in a region where Basque is not often seen or spoken by the majority. Not only does she sell her bottles in the local market, but she mentioned that a group of

214 consumers in Ireland had purchased her wine that was marketed in Basque (Itxaso

Compañon, interview, July 21, 2017). While sending bottles abroad for international sale to multiple countries in Basque may not be common, if nothing else it is practical.

Compañon mentioned that she has “not received any positive or negative feedback from consumers by doing so, but no one complains.” She does this more because “they ask for half of the labels in Basque, and half in Castilian. If an order to Germany comes, and we have labels in Euskara, we send them like that.” (Itxaso Compañon, text message, May

29, 2017).

While other bodegas may index Basque culture or language—most likely for the purpose of attracting Basques—by using words or short phrases in Basque, Compañon is the only producer that I have found to use Basque as a way to market for communication and textual purposes. Although technically she was marketing these bottles “locally,” meaning within the Basque Country, she physically and linguistically lived in the periphery—a place where Basque was rarely spoken, and even more rarely used to advertise food products. The three examples of I give of Basque marketing with Itxaso

Compañon, Luis Cañas, and the Barcelona wine festival demonstrate the marketing of

Basque semiotics in varying degrees, while touching on the theoretical framework provided on language materiality and peripheral multilingualism .

In Compañon’s case, this type of linguistic resistance does require her to be

“brave.” Compañon creates a value through language materiality when using the labels to communicate the products physical and cultural origin. In the Basque Country and even more so in the wine-producing region of Rioja Alavesa, the Basque language exists in the periphery of a multilingual setting, where not only Castilian is the majority

215 language, but where English is commonly being used to cater to international tourists. I argue that while Compañon’s unique marketing tactics and linguistic resistance leave her in the minority, the value she creates for herself now with her products may continue to grow financially in a region that continues to attract more tourists each year; at the same time, she will still preserve its more personal value for herself, her family, and Basque- speakers in Euskadi.

In the case of Luis Cañas, I predict that marketing tactics such as using personal stories and minimal semiotic use will still effectively index Basque culture while simultaneously not challenging the linguistic majority. This level of resistance is common, as seen with the many names for bodegas in Rioja Alavesa, and could likely create added value with targeted marketed as seen with his wine, Amaren. Finally, the semiotic landscape of the Barcelona fair takes place in an autonomous community that has a similar political and linguistic economy in that the Catalan language is more locally valued than it is within the larger country. This, according to my other interviewees, has created a sort of alliance and congruency between the autonomous communities, helping to provide a space that values minoritized languages. While marketing locally-produced products in Basque within the Catalonian setting may be more culturally acceptable, it still leaves both communities open to criticism, as seen in the Facebook comments. The

Basque part of the bilingual signage is accepted in the Catalonian setting, while the use of

English is accepted by international attendees. Following the criticism of the post

Facebook comment, one might argue that branding the Basque origin might decrease product value and appeal for Spanish nationalist consumers, but simultaneously increase

216 value and appeal for members of autonomous communities wishing to distinguish themselves in the consumption of products charged with nationalistic origins.

Another related example appealing to the local Basque speakers within the marketing strategies of Rioja Alavesa can be seen with the use of gure. In a variety of font styles and sizes, this trilingual signage (Figure 6.2) appeals to a diverse group of consumers. It aims to encourage not just the popular consumption of wine from Rioja, but consuming from the specific zone of Rioja Alavesa.

Incorporating Scollon and Scollon’s (2003) work on geosemiotics, we can further analyze various aspects of this sign to better understand to whom it is directed. The main, centered text of “Alavesa”, stands out with capital letters, a singular font, and placing it in the exact center of the sign. Emphasis on this word is an effort to encourage consumers from simply asking for a “Rioja,” (a typical request) which means the consumer would also accept the wine from the other non-Basque zones of Rioja. There is an interesting change of language preference being used between the top/bottom sections, and the middle: The top/bottom are ordered with preference give to Euskara speakers, then

Castilian, and then English ( Hemen/Aquí/ Here and then Gurea/El Nuestro/Ours).

However, the middle section starts using Castilian (Un Rioja Alavesa) and then later ends the main phrase by transitioning into Basque with the word, “Noski!” This means “Of course!” thereby insinuating that it is only logical that one would specify that a wine come from Rioja Alavesa. Based on the ordering of the languages in the middle section—

Castilian and then Basque—this part was created with the intention of including Basque speakers (as they also speak Castilian) but not directing the message to them. If it would

217 have been directed to Basque Speakers, it would have likely used the Basque version of the wine making zone, reading “Arabako Errioxa, Noski”.

The advertisement becomes trilingual in the upper and lower parts of the circular sign. Despite being in all capital letters, the font in these sections is not bolded, is smaller in size, and located in the periphery. These diminutive factors insinuate a lesser value or important for what is written. Interestingly, it is here in this periphery that the order of communication is first Basque, then Castilian, and lastly in English. This smaller message at the top of the sign translates to “here”, first in Basque ( hemen) , and then in

Castilian (aquí). Below, the equally small message reads “ours” with the Basque word

“gurea” and then uses the Castilian “El nuestro”. This use of “ gurea” is yet another example of “othering” that emphasizes the importance of consuming not only locally according to place, but to consume culturally—in this case through consumption of

Basque products as signified through language.

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Figure 6.3 Trilingual Sign advertising the Basque zone of Rioja

Rioja Rebels and the Creation of a New Denominación de Origen

Figure 6.4 Celebration of wine in Iekora in Rioja Alavesa where interviewee Ezti would perform her town’s dance

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Not only was Compañon distinguishing her wine through the use of the Basque language, she was also one of many in this wine-making zone that was in favor of a creating a new Denominación de Origen (DO) out of Rioja Alavesa, and she was a woman. She and another producer from Cándido Besa, Ezti, were two of my main contacts—both female—that were in support of creating a new classification, or DO, that would be proposed as Arabako Mahastiak/Vinedos de Alava (Figure 6.3).

While I had formed relationships with male producers in the Rioja Alavesa region, I want to again emphasize the role of Itxaso Compañon as she not only represents the only producer to use a Basque-only label, but her position also reveals the changing roles of women in this region; she is also part of the movement to distinguish Rioja

Alavesa through quality, not quantity. On August 16th 2018, a news article titled, “Rioja

Alavesa with the face of a woman” was published. It was no surprise to find Itxaso

Compañon’s photo front and center to announce that she had been appointed the new

Vice President for the Asociación de Bodegas de Rioja Alavesa (ABRA) (Noticias de

Álava). At 34 years old, Compañon had become a leader for this group of 110 bodegas, and the only woman of the new team. When discussing the role of women in this wine- making zone, the article, written by another woman, Nekane Lauzirika, gives voice to women such as Compañon who work tirelessly in what Nekane calls, the “masculinized world of the vineyards.” She quotes Itxaso who proclaims that “the problem is that their

(women’s) work is not visible. Because the women have always worked in the fields, participating in the harvests and being in charge of caring for the children…what happens is that it has appeared that it was the men that were in charge of everything. Many women are now more involved in administrative affairs, and while they are possibly seen less in

220 the fields, but in being managers for small family businesses, there are more and more”

(Noticias de Álava).

In addition to shining a light on the changing roles and visibility of women in

Rioja Alavesa, the same interview gives Compañon a change to discuss the ongoing challenges for distinguishing Rioja Alavesa as unique from the larger Denominación de

Origen Calificada of Rioja. While the movement and prospects of creating a new name and DO—Viñedos de Álava/Arabako Mahastiak —for Rioja Alavesa had not come to fruition, the decision was made in 2017 to implement certain changes to distinguish Rioja

Alavesa wines. She speaks about the relatively unknown and unique beauty held within the wine-making zone, with hopes that more people from around the world will come to recognize its value—including more people who already live in the Basque Country. She discusses the rising interest in tourism, which I witnessed while attending forums on how to increase it. Her goal for creating value was to create the kind of tourism that is not focused on attracting one-time travelers, but rather a kind of tourism which a person enjoys enough to make return visits.

The real “war” though, she proclaims, “that of the small bodegas like mine— should be the quality. If we have to compete, it has to be for quality, not in quantity.” The idea behind the creation of a quality product versus a product that is sent abroad in mass quantities was a key point for distinguishing the Rioja Alavesa wine. One component of the agreement formed between the Consejo Regulador , which governs all three zones, and Rioja Alavesa was to allow labeling changes that would permit a larger font when presenting “Rioja Alavesa” alongside the larger DOCa of Rioja. This “historic milestone” that occurred on August 11, 2017 allows for a new labeling strategy that will shape the

221 way producers from Rioja can market their wine after the 2017 harvest. This decision illustrates the efforts that have been made on behalf of the ABRA to differentiate the wines of the Basque zone, and applies to all producers in the Rioja wine-making DOCa.

The Regulatory Board of Rioja DOCa also now allows for wines to be labeled by “ zona ”

(zone) and “ villa ” (town or municipality), as well as “ viñedos singulares ” or single vineyard wine (Figure 6.4). This ruling comes after more than forty bodegas had been working to develop the new Designation of Origin. The latest decision has, then, been made to halt the efforts to create the Alavesa label, and to allow the DOCa of Rioja to follow through with its new agreement.

Figure 6.5 New regulations for Rioja creating zones and viñedos singulares Taken from lomejorvinoderioja.com

The Vice President of ABRA, Carlos Fernández, commented on the Dastatu Rioja

Alavesa blog that “this [process] began many years ago with the demand for a font size to acknowledge the distinct subzones of the Rioja DOC” (Blog Rioja Alavesa, “Acuerdo histórico”). Up until the present, the permitted subzones, now simply called “zones,” had to be displayed using a smaller font size than that of the larger “Rioja” DOC indication.

The three zones–Alta, Alavesa, and Baja (the latter recently changed to Oriental or

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“Eastern”)–can now be listed in a font equal in size to that of the larger designation of

“Rioja.” According to Scollon and Scollon (2003), a change in font, even when the color scheme and the words are the same, brings about a significant change in meaning (130).

Bittor Oroz, the Deputy Minister of Agriculture , Fishing, and Food Policy for the Basque

Government, also expanded on the importance of making “place” more visible by referencing the concept of terroir, as stated in Noticias de Alava:

“People look for the origin of the wine they consume, they want to link it to

the terroir …they are looking for something more than just the quality of the

product, but rather the story behind the wine, the histories that lie behind a glass,

and being able to focus in on a particular bodega, on the places where it is

cultivated and produced. Because of that, it is important to identify those spaces

and give them their due value.”

The importance of this new agreement highlights the challenges of selling wine within various markets, in such a way whereby identity and traceability are not lost. This use of semiotics is in part driven by the producers’ and consumers’ desire for a unique, traceable, and well-marketed wine. However, Compañon finishes the article by saying that, “what they (Consejo Regulador) have really done does not cover for the deficiencies of differentiation,” and added that “you always have to ask more from the Consejo

Regulador. It’s key that they complete their part of the established agreements. What I am saying is not to suggest that a reactivation of the Viñedos de Álava DO because we want to do it, but for its noncompliance. It is its (Consejo Regulador’s) attitude that tires people and make them lose trust.”

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While attending the Durango wine festival in March of 2017 ( Ardo Saltsan , literally “wine sauce”), I realized that that process of creating a new Basque DO would be difficult. I had spoken with a wide range of producers both large and small, including those that were able to carry on a conversation in Basque, and those that were not able to do so. In interviewing a large variety of bodegas, I concluded that it was not a sense of pride for the Basque culture that determined their feelings on about the new DO, but rather the size, prestige, and production levels played an important role in determining their feelings on the matter—in short, money was the reason. Those that didn’t have a big name for themselves tended to not feel as comfortable on about leaving the prestige that the larger Rioja DOCa brought to their label. The bigger producers, such as Ostatu

(who also used Basque semiotics to market wine) felt that they could benefit from leaving the Rioja DOCa, and would be afforded more freedom to label their wines according to vineyard and terroir which is not allowed under Rioja DOCa standards . As far as gender was concerned, there was an overwhelmingly majority of men representing the bodegas and producers at the Durango wine fair, a demographic which I had become accustomed to interviewing.

The use of terroir as a marketing tool to create authenticity was much more prevalent with producers from Alavesa than in the those of Txakolina. This could be due to a close relationship with the French winemaking region of Bordeaux, not only fostered by proximity, but by the infamous phylloxera (louse that is a pest to vines which destroyed most of the vineyards in Europe and beyond during the 19 th century) that drove many Bordeaux producers to Rioja.

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The French word was/is seen commonly in written explanations, alongside other words such as autenticidad. In many tastings, I noticed that Mikel Garaizabal is a sommelier who has been supported by the Basque Government and more specifically the

Department of Economic Development and Competitively. He handed out a pamphlet that encouraged consumption of all wine from three of the Txakolina-producing provinces, as well as Rioja Alavesa. This shows that the government is making an active effort to market what is currently not a Basque Designation of Origen; it leads me to believe that if subsidiaries were available for Txakolina producers, then they might also be available for producers in Alavesa should they decide to form a DO independent of

Rioja. Creating a new Basque DO could possibly come with other stipulations or associations that would draw it closer to Basque cultural connections, as opposed to its previous Rioja identity. This is one way to utilize the culture in its promotion of both wine and language.

I argue that at the moment, Rioja Alavesa wine has the unique potential to be a tool for the proliferation of Basque to both local and global markets in a way that differs from the other products I have covered in this research. The fact that one zone of the larger Rioja is within Basque territory provides the potential for the creation of a new

DO, such as the one proposed and denied; this could more closely align with Basque culture and language and even be marketed under the State Article that regulates the use of Euskara on traditional products. As seen with the previous efforts, the movement did employ the use of Euskara it the name of the DO itself, which could also be linked more closely to the development of tourism from the Basque Country to Rioja, subsequently creating more visibility for locals and tourists alike.

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Such visibility would be likely as wine itself is a unique gastronomic product that can not only become a commodity with a worth totaling many times the costs of its production, but it also represents its own sector of the market through enotourism.

Currently, the trends to create distinction and value of the product rely heavily on the marketing of terroir—a concept largely expressed and based on the social and cultural components of particular pieces of land.

In addition to a sense of distinction and localness build through terroir, I believe wine from Rioja Alavesa has the potential to serve Euskara by imbuing it with prestige, something difficult to do as seen by Echeverria’s illustration (2003, 394). As previously mentioned in this dissertation, Echeverria illustrates how prestige is seen by using

Castilian, while solidarity is given to the use of Basque. Authenticity is already created through historicity of Rioja wine and the establishment of terroir. Authenticity is also established with the use of Basque over Castilian, as described by Echeverria. However, because Rioja wine is a highly-commodified product of distinction through economic, symbolic and cultural capital (Bourdieu 1984), it has prestige. When coupled with the authenticity associated with the use of Euskara, Rioja Alavesa wine can uniquely become both more authentic and prestigious.

There is a gendered component that can be drawn from some of these examples as well. Although Luis Cañas’ use of the word “Amaren” to label wine, showing that women are valued, it is only in the more traditional role of being a mother that the value exists for women. With Compañon, however, (who also happens to be a mother), not only is she breaking the norms of male-dominant producers and the use of Euskara over

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Castilian in Rioja Alavesa, she is also breaking the gendered norm that Echeverria speaks about, where men are the linguistic resources of Euskara (2003, 387).

Compañon also helps to break up the notion of a “matriarchal society” which seems to be the value given to women in Luis Cañas’ use of the word

“Amaren.” This notion that the Basque culture is a “matriarchal society” is explored by Margaret Bullen (2003, 125-134) who contests the idea that is often propagated. Bullen and Teresa de Valle’s team (Valle et al., 1985) share that this argument, has been sustainable because it reaffirms ancestrality and mystique through mythology of Basque culture, which enables it to claim superiority over more recent Iberian cultures 2002, 133). Bullen also notes that the idea of a matriarchal society is “more appealing than reliable to transmit notions of authenticity, cultural difference, and even superiority. Compañon, in her role and performativity as a wine producer, mother, political activist, language activist, is what I would argue the protagonist that breaks the false symbolic value for women in this dissertation by breaking up the notion of a Basque matriarchy, and exemplifying a true authentic, as Bullen compares, modern, liberated woman

If producers would be allowed to market their bottles in Euskara, creating another example of a functional uztartzea (pairing) between the co-official language of Euskara

(to include linguistically minoritized population that speaks it) and the wine, I believe additional distinction and value could be created. The ability to become such a commodified product, combined with tourists’ attraction to this product, and the marketable quality of distinction for this product, means that wine, and more specifically—Rioja Alavesa wine—an ideal product for marketing the Basque language.

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Chapter 7: Beer

Beer production and consumption does not hold a strong place in Basque tradition as does cider and Txakolina. While industrialized beer has been on the scene for a while, the bulk of the craft beer movement has only occurred during the last decade, with Pagoa beer, which first appeared in 1998, being one of the first. This type of beer is touted for being distinctive, individualistic, and innovative, yet available to the average drinker

(Chapman 2017). “The contemporary beer consumer is increasingly likely to deploy a range of attitudes and competencies relating to taste and appreciations more typically associated with the more venerated and more middle-class, practice of wine consumption” (Thurnell-Read 2018, 540). The difference is, however, that beer is made for the “regular” man’s consumption (Chapman, 59). While wine value often relies on distinctiveness, craft beer relies on “the valorisation of choice, novelty and innovation”

(Thurnell-Read 2018, 545). This factor opens the door for Basque speakers to not only be distinctive in their language use, but novel, allowing for creativity and local culture to shine through as shown in the examples to follow.

This relatively new movement in the Basque Country paves the way for typically young producers to create value for their product by indexing elements of the Basque culture. Their marketing strategies give insight as to what these newer producers want to advertise about the Basque Country with the intention of creating value, and how these strategies compare to their non–craft beer counterparts.

With a history of production thousands of years old, extensive brewing traditions in Germany, and an American craft brewing renaissance since the 1970s (Chapman 2017,

19), beer production and consumption continues to evolve (“History of Craft Brewing”

228 n.d.). Germany, Spain, and the Netherlands have higher consumption of beer per capita than North America (Zenith 2017, 8–15). This data reflects the consumption patterns I witnessed when going out in Donostia with my flatmates; when going out for the evening, they often enjoyed a smaller, cheaper serving of beer known as a zurito , versus a caña (a larger beer portion). This allows a group of kuadrilla (group of friends) to barhop from one place to the next more quickly without getting too intoxicated. 15 My flatmates did not practice a predictable route for a txikiteo on a daily basis, but on a gaupasa , or all- nighter (gau meaning “night” and pasa meaning “spend) they would stick to a similar round of bars, consuming only one drink in each. While these servings may have consisted primarily of industrially produced beers, such as Keler, I also noted one of my roommates drinking the ever more ubiquitous craft style beers, such a Boga. With the exception of one—Pagoa, (means beech tree)—most of the craft breweries I researched started offering their beers just three years earlier, in 2014.

There are many strategies for marketing beer that use tactics incorporating both language and other culturally relevant images. The previously mentioned Pagoa (meaning beech tree) Craft Beer of Oiartzun claims to be the first producer of Basque Craft Beer with production starting in 1998 (“Basque Craft Beer” n.d.). Their brand name reflects a connection to the land by paying tribute to Oiartzun’s beech tree forest. They have also incorporated a pairing in their branding strategy—another form of uztartzea —of local female artists and beer. Figure 7.1 (from left to right) pictures the photos by Marisol

Yaben, Nagore Legarreta, and Mendi Urruzuno that adorn some bottles.

15 This barhopping is called the txikiteo and is described at length in a chapter by Sharryn Kashmir (2005).

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Figure 7.1 Pagoa’s bottles feature art by women

This pairing not only incorporates nature in many of the photos, but also the work of local female artists. This is an especially innovative use of branding that showcases a demographic not typically associated with craft beer consumption (women account for about a third of consumers), though that is changing (Shifting Demographics among

Craft Beer Drinkers 2018). By embracing current social movements of gender equality to recognize women’s role and visibility through their contribution and talents, as well as the connection to nature and the use of the Basque language for the brand name, Pagoa creates value for their product. Kuehn and Parker’s findings suggest that branding can potentially enhance the visibility of women as legitimate producers of beer (2018, 1).

I researched and observed the marketing techniques of various beers, but spent much of my time gathering information about Keler and Boga. I first took notice of the

Keler brand when I was served an empty can of it on a plate while dining at Arzak. The

230 purpose of its presence was not for it to be drunk, but to function as a serving tool underneath the “pintxo of mango, beer, blood sausage, and apple” plate. Both Chef Juan

Mari Arzak and his well-known daughter Elena have done commercials and marketing for Keler, utilizing various Basque semiotics to create value, such as the word nortasuna , and familiar landscapes such as La Concha beach. Meanwhile, the beer brand Boga was becoming ever more popular in Bilbo festivals during my year of fieldwork.

The Kutz brothers came from Germany to Donostia in the midnineteenth century and started making beer in their Ategorrieta house. They opened their first brewery in

1872, and a decade later they established the Antiguo factory. In addition to walking by their main location listed online, Keler beer branding, for me, was seeing the bottles overflowing from dumpsters and in the streets after festivals in Donostia. The Arzaks juxtaposed these empty cans found in the street against renowned Basque gastronomy, in turn, melding a part of common street life into high cuisine. Not only did Arzak, quite possibly the most renowned Basque chef of all time, use the physical product as an element of his dishes, but he appeared in Keler commercials that he narrated in Euskara and Castilian. Juan Mari Arzak is the protagonist speaking in first person as the viewer watches images of his (at times possibly imagined) life. As if watching an old film real, dated pictures functioning as memories are shown as Arzak talks about the rules he’s broken, the types of people with whom he has eaten, and the people he will not forget. He notes that there are many moments that he does not want to erase as images of women in bathing suits, as an image from running of the bulls follows (#Arzak, Keler y Donostia

2014). These associations of Keler with this famous Basque-speaking chef transfer prestige of Basque gastronomy to the Keler brand. In addition, these associations give

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Keler a sense of Basque nortasuna and character representing their product alongside the adventurous, pioneering elements that make up the life of the most famous Basque- speaking chef. In doing so, this marketing strategy aims to create Basque identity despite its original German roots.

Keler commercials not only created value for their beer by relishing in the life of a famous Basque-speaking chef. Another Basque protagonist, Basque surfer Axi

Muniain, represents Basque character and nortasuna in a Keler commercial (figure 7.2).

This two-time finalist for the Billabong XXL Awards starts the commercial by running into the surf. Instead of having fear, he declares that he is only scared “to not be in the water when the big wave arrives.” He continues on saying (with videos narrated in both

Castilian and Euskara) “I am not weird. It’s our way of being. We aren’t ones to sit, we don’t know how to sit back, and we don’t try to please. It’s difficult for us to express how we feel, we are not of many words. We don’t call attention to ourselves, we aren’t about having thousands of friends online, nor have two kuadrillas. We aren’t about the club … and we aren’t about fast-food. They say that we don’t like to follow the paved road. I don’t know. I only know how to follow my own.” The two last words spoken by another male voice at the end are “Keler. Nortasuna” (Arzak, Keler y Donostia, 2012).

These commercials created by the Dimensión agency, market Keler under the

“nortasuna” concept. The new campaign looks for traits of Basque identity and chose Axi because “he portrays the perfection of the Basque character.” Their goal is to distinguish between personality and character: “two terms linked by their daily use, but not identical in meaning” (“Nortasuna, el cáracter de Keler” 2013). These two commercials draw on advertising the landscapes of the Basque Country, such as their historic relationship with

232 the sea that involves exploring, whaling, fishing, and even tourism. These are all activities that tightly weave Basque culture, famous Basques that speak Euskara, and the

Basque language itself to create value. Although translations are made accessible in

Castilian and Basque for the commercial itself, in both cases it only uses the Basque word to promote “character” or “identity.” This denotes a unique worth for the Basque word over the Castilian equivalent.

I argue that the success of the Keler brand is unique in that stems from using the marketing strategies that make craft beer so successful. While Keler is not described as a craft beer, defined by the American Brewer’s Association as “small, independent, and traditional” (“Craft Brewer.” n.d.), it capitalizes on some of the characteristics used for marketing craft beer. Some of these characteristics focus on marketing to the broader audiences, not the linguistic minority as is seen in these two examples. Not only that, but both commercials market the exact concepts used to define craft beer, such as small

(more specifically minoritized), independent, yet traditional. The independent men—and not women—seen in both commercials, who yet adhere to other traditional values and speak Basque, have concentrated in on a niche market, rather than the larger majority.

Using the Basque language in this case, I argue, has given Keler beer the value it could not have otherwise attained without utilizing these linguistic elements.

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Figure 7.2 Keler’s nortasuna commercial starring Axi Muniain

Using the language to develop the social identity of beer is also a marketing strategy implemented by the Boga Beer cooperative. In this case, advertising for the cooperative does not occur through commercials capable of reaching mass quantities of viewers at a time. Rather, it occurs from the ground up through networks built on word of mouth; in fact, it was through my flatmate that I first heard of the beer. In a personal interview at their location in Mungia (Bizkaia), Urtzi Ugalde, one of the founding members, mentions the main characteristics of their cooperative that they market:

“Something a bit unique/weird, the role they play in developing the social economy, and by using local ingredients” (Urtzi Ugalde, August 21, 2017).

The name of their cooperative Boga means “row” (also remar ) in Basque and

Castilian. In Basque, “row” is arraun or bogatu,” and as Urtzi mentioned, “is synonymous with the sea, the Basque.” It is also the word used by the lemazaina

(helmsman/helmswoman) to encourage the crew to row (written correspondence,

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Agurtzane Elordui, April 10, 2019). Recognizable by both Castilian and Basque-speakers the word reinforces connotations with the sea, “the ocean, our culture,” as advertised.

Rowing as Urtzi continued, “is something done as a team, symbolizing the cooperative nature.” The word Boga also makes one think of ideas relating to beer, such as “liquid and foam” (Urtzi Ugalde, August 21, 2017). Using this world helps to market the physical scenery and sensations of the landscape while also indexing the social aspects of

Basque culture. In conversation with Joseba Zulaika about this brand name, Zulaika mentions the importance of a famous song, “Boga Boga,” by Jesus Guridi which describes the departure from the Basque Country to the Indies and the difficult life of fishermen. The word then sews together threads of the land, sea, people, language, and the cooperation necessary to function on ship, reflecting the cooperative nature of

Basques on both sea and land. Cooperatives and cooperation, or auzolana (community work, literally “neighborhood work”) are strong components of the Basque culture

(Kashmir 1996, 10; Collantes 2001, 111) that emphasize Boga’s commitment to this aspect of Basque culture through social and economic means.

“The team, our force” is denoted by the phrase “ taldea, gure indarra .” In addition to the use of gure denoting the social grouping of Basque’s through linguistic cohesion,

Sandra Ott details the meaning and significance of this word indarra in her essay titled

“Indarra : Some Reflections on a Basque Concept” (1992). She defines indarra as

“force,” but also notes that the word has other meanings to include physical strength, power, authority, influence, abundance, energy, efficacy, and life force, and at times is a quality of relationship or a force that acts upon the natural world (Ott 1992, 193). She later goes on to discuss how “in both men and women indarra as physical strength is

235 highly valued by the Basques” as it “combines tremendous stamina, determination, and energy with great strength” (194–195). It is also a “quality of relationship that concerns power and equality” (197). All of these meanings carry positive connotations of the word, denoting “force,” but it is key to note that describes the word as being “valued by the

Basques.” In using this Basque word, I argue that such value is transmitted to the final product through this “force.” Should the Castilian equivalent “ fuerza ” have been used, it would not have been as likely to encompass the nuanced meaning that includes the natural, physical, and spiritual facets, therefore giving greater value to its use.

One of the most salient words I noticed when observing Boga’s website was

“bertokoa.” My experience in learning Euskara had given me knowledge of the word

“bertakoa,” meaning “local,” so I wondered if the variation in spelling carried any meaning with it. The Royal Academy of the Basque language recognizes the word

“bertokoa” as being used above all in the Western Basque dialect (Bizkaian dialect)

(Euskaltzaindiaren Hiztegia, Euskaltzaindia 2018), as an adjective meaning “native, autochthonous, or from the place” (Elhuyar Hiztegia 2018). This means that those who do not use the Western dialect do not have a way to differentiate their sense of “local” in this form.

In discussion with other Basque speakers, it was agreed in this sense, that the dialectal description of “bertokoa” increases the sense of localness due to the additional information that associated with Western dialectal use. The word, therefore, is more closely related to the place from where the dialect originates. 16 Urtzi additionally noted

16 This conclusion was based on conversation between visiting students Gutierrez and Azurmendi, who were studying at the Center for Basque Studies at the time this conversation was had.

236 that for him, there was an association of “physical distance” for the word “bertakoa,” while “bertokoa” implied a sense of “what is ours, more identity” (Urtzi Ugalde, August

21, 2017). The distinct use of “bertoko” is unique for the Western dialect, just as the previously discussed “geuria” are unique for other dialects. The word insinuates physical distance by referencing social boundaries. By using “bertokoa,” Boga is not only enhancing the sense of physical localness by referencing the linguistic source of its products, but also integrating a social identity of place. In turn, if the quality of

“localness” is valued by consumers, the value is enhanced by this dialectal marketing for

Basque speakers, or those that understand the dialectal differences.

Boga utilizes Euskara in ways that create value for their product by using language that references social values, using words that encompass meaning which transcend simple translation through dialectal differentiation to insinuate a sense of localness. A more explicit way of language support is seen through various collaborations with Basque community groups. The beers produced through social collaboration are advertised on their website as limited edition. One example of these beers advertises the

Korrika (Run), a relay race run throughout the Basque territories that raises funds to support Basque language schools, the AEK euskaltegiak , and the Basque language in general (figure 7.3) . The Boga webpage explicitly states who this beer is made for with the description “This natural Pilsen style beer is for lovers of Euskara and the Basque culture. Made in collaboration with AEK for the 20 th Korrika” (Cerveza Artesanal Vasca n.d.).

The explicit message of this marketing strategy makes the cooperative’s intentions clear. Consumers in support of the Basque language and culture might be

237 motivated to choose this beer over others in support of the cause, providing value for the cooperative’s product, but also directly providing support for Basque language normalization through beer consumption. This example is unique in that value is simultaneously and directly created for both the product and the language, whereas the consumption of other local products labeled in Basque may indirectly create value for the product and language with less observable traceability to determine why the consumer purchases the product. I argue that a more direct marketing strategy that supports the

Basque language could be advantageous for creating linguistic value when used with a wide range of products. However, I assert that such a marketing strategy would create the most support and value for Euskara when used in conjunction with products that depend on becoming commoditized through a sense of distinction, or at Urtzi explained, products that are differentiated by “Something a bit unique/weird, the role they play in developing the social economy, and by using local ingredients.”

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Figure 7.3 Boga’s label advertising the Korrika

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Figure 7.4 Boga main label

The label in figure 7.4 shows various linguistic and symbolic uses of Basque semiotics. In working from the top-down, the label illustrates what Scollon and Scollon discuss as the ideal/real composition (2003, 92–94) as put forward by Kress and Van

Leeuwen (1996, 208). They describe the ideal/real positions of information structures as one component of a larger system which typically places images or logos toward the top of a sign, with more concrete information located lower in the sign.

Analyzing horizontally from top to bottom, from ideal to real, allows us to see what could be interpreted as both a symbolic and political use. The ikurriña , (the Basque flag) is a symbolic representation of the Basque Country while the linguistic usage of

“gure zaporea ,” is an abstract notion of Basque “taste” as is only interpreted by those that

240 can understand the Basque phrase. A set of oars serves as an icon and symbol to represent the brand name and cultural associations through the physical object, followed by the brand name itself. The real or more concrete information given is in the bottom half for the logo, describing what the product is ( Garagardoa, beer), the style of the product

(Pilsen), and an iconic representation of the ingredients in the beer.

The use of the Basque flag, as noted in other chapters, is a symbolic representation of Basque Country that is not often seen in Hegoalde—whether it is because producers are afraid to use it, or perhaps it is seen as an outdated symbol . As noted by Iztueta milk producers, this image is more freely used in Northern Basque

Country. There, Basque products are deemed high in quality and imbued with value, with little association to the political and cultural friction between the state This explanation reflects similar sentiments expressed in Rioja Alavesa, where Basque producers express hesitancy and fear in using Basque language and symbols for exportation to the rest of the Spanish state. For international craft beer consumers and others that might visit the

Basque Country hoping to engage in culinary tourism, the flag may, however, become a symbol representing a key element for craft branding—a sense of localness. The same localness is expressed by using the Basque language and oars to locate the Basque

Country as a seafaring culture alongside the use of the local, distinct language in the formation of the phrase “ gure zaporea.” This phrase, which means “our taste” as discussed in the introduction, is a key component in the formation of localness through the sociolinguistic use of Euskara to define a place by the language spoken.

The brand name Boga is centered in large font across the middle of the label. The brand reflects both the Basque and Castilian use of the word “row.” In Euskara, it is

241 considered the verb in when phrased “ boga egin ,” meaning “to row” or “ bogatu, ” and in

Castilian its equivalent is “ bogar ,” meaning “to row.” There are other synonyms that could have been used in both Euskara and Castilian, but this particular use is comprehensible to both Basque- and Castilian-speaking consumers.

The typography used for the brand and the phrase “ gure zaporea” appears to be the traditional Basque font that can be seen on a multitude of signs for restaurants, labels, and stores. The use of a font called “waskonia” is indexical of the traditional, nationalistic, and even rural Basque Country (Laia, Waskonia n.d.), a symbolic of a time period (Scollon and Scollon 2003, 118), and historicity (Coupland 2003). The font’s creator explains how they developed the typeface recounting that “The old characters of the 8th century are the inspiration for this font, specifically those used during a remote time of the Basque Country—or waskonia as the Franks would call it–in the old gravestones and doors entryways.” (Laia, Waskonia n.d.) Various versions of commonly used Basque fonts can be seen in figure 7.5 below. The associations tied to the use of these fonts create value—or in other cases possibly devalue—the product indexing aspects deemed traditional, nationalistic in nature, or associated with rural production.

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Figure 7.5 Waskonia type

Figure 5http://www.lanbroute.com/tipografias-vascas.htm

As noted in the chapter on milk and in conversations with Estitxu Garai, linking the Basque language with the past or tradition can be detrimental to language normalization efforts as it contextualizes the Basque language as part of history, with little value for modern-day use. I suggest that using a traditional Basque font creates value for a product when it is meant to profit from associations with the longevity of production, rural production, and, at times, nationalist values. However, I propose that its use on Boga’s label aids in the creation of value through an implicit recognition of traditional practices, timeless to Basque consumers, such as the cooperative’s role in sustaining the social economy, alongside innovative, modern products new to the Basque market.

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I argue that craft beer’s value is also derived from its independence—from larger industrialized production that has historically dominated the market—but also from providing an independent, unique flavor profile. These characteristics are exemplified within the Basque culture itself in their goals to become recognized as their own independent country and the uniqueness embedded in the Basque language and various cultural practices. This independence and uniqueness is treasured by both local and international consumers of craft beer and arguably iconized in the use of the font. It is the balance of these traditional, independent, yet modern characteristics that the Basque font is able to support value for the language and the product. Below the brand name is the identification of the product through the Basque work “ garagardoa.” By positioning this word in Euskara above translations in French, Castilian, and English, the label language is accessible to all viewers. However, a hierarchical value is given to the order with

Euskara being the primary language intended for viewing (and possessing symbolic power in its primacy).

Another collaboration involving social values and involvement of Boga is apparent through the “Black Is Beltza” beer. The collaboration is between the cooperative and Fermin Muguruza, a prominent Basque rock musician, singer, songwriter, producer, record label manager, and founder of the popular bands Kortatu and Negu Gorriak.

Together they produce an Irish Stout named after an animated feature film that brings attention to issues of racism. It portrays the 1960s counterculture era “when a group of giants and carnival heads—inspired by Pamplona’s seventeenth-century parades—is invited to march down New York’s Fifth Avenue on Hispanic Day. However, the figures of two black giants are not accepted for the parade” (Mayorga, September 24, 2017).

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The beer label dons the film title and advertises on the label that 10 percent of the proceeds go to the Federación SOS Racismo, a generic name referring to the distinct autonomous organizations whose principal objective is to fight against the distinct manifestations of racism (Federación SOS Racismo, May 24, 2016). The description on the Boga website describes the beer as “Black stout beer created in collaboration with

Fermin Muguruza. A tasty vindication against racismo” (Cerveza Artesanal Vasca n.d.).

The collaboration of Boga with a cultural icon alone gives value to the beer, alongside the strategic use of semiotics. A key combination of local and international culture creates an inclusive image for the product that neither negates the sense of

Basqueness nor ignores larger, activist issues. The use of Muguruza’s film title “Black Is

Beltza,” uses a language combination reflecting the local while incorporating the international by using both Euskara and English to advertise the beer. In addition to advertising the movie itself, this marketing strategy successfully acknowledges the globalized language of English while also maintaining the minoritized Basque language. I advocate for this type of marketing as it serves the purpose of reaching a wider consumer base, without losing its local identity; this idea is reinforced by the fine print underneath the film’s title “Irabazien %10A SOS Arrazakeriarentzat izango da,” meaning that “10 percent of profits will be for SOS Racism.”

While writing this dissertation, Boga collaborated with La Pirata brewing company to create a beer “made exclusively for women” called “Empoweradas” (figure

7.6) (Boga Garagardoa). This beer label was designed and the beer elaborated by women as described on Boga’s Facebook page as an India Pale Ale made with blueberries. This is yet another example tied to social activism that directly involves making a beer not

245 only for woman, but having women as the producers of the beer. This example addresses the androcentric notions of who gets to be both modern, Basque and associated with the craft beer movement. This marketing efforts, in part, mitigates these issues by not only having a beer featuring women, as Pagoa has, but by women designing the marketing and designing the taste, in addition to making and selling it to them. I suggest, however, that the linguistic tie could be stronger. Instead of using the Castilian word, “Empoweradas,” increasing the link to beer for women would be achieved by creating a brand in Euskara.

Creating a similar label in Euskara would be one way create value through gender- equitable images for a modern, global marketplace.

Figure 7.6 A beer “designed and produced by women” as a collaboration between Boga and La Pirata

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A final value attributed to this marketing strategy can be derived from the fact that it is tied to social activism. When I started my research, I saw social activism taking place ubiquitously in comparison to the United States. I not only encountered it when running races such as Korrika, which supports the use of the Basque language, or the women’s- only race, Lilaton, but many gatherings with friends were centered on demonstrations and activist-led marches. In this way, social activism is a value of Basque society. As Kasmir

(1996) states, “The Basque region has a history of working-class activism, the co-ops are thought to have created a classless society by inventing a person who is neither worker nor capitalist but cooperator and who benefits from neither syndical nor party politics”

(10).

7.7 Boga's beer label for “Black is Beltza,” marketed in conjunction with the film of the same name

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The examples provided primarily by Keler and Boga illustrate the various way in which

Basque semiotics are used to create value for the product, as well as for the language.

Akerbeltz (meaning black goat) provides another marketing example. It indexes

Basque mythology with an animal that resembles a goat, as well as the uses the lauburu and the Basque language alongside French. 17 Founder François Iraola chose this symbol to brand the beer, representing Basque heritage for a time when mythological beings were attributed supernatural powers. The goat was associated with notions of power and protection on farm animals. In many houses, a black goat was kept to provide protection for all livestock (La Brasserie Akerbeltz 2012).

Figure 7.8 Akerbeltz beer By embracing the historical heritage of the culture and using other semiotic forms such as the lauburu and Basque font, Akerbeltz creates value by linking the new style of craft beer to the historicity (Coupland 2003) of Basque mythology. This is strikingly

17 “Curiously, this is also the company name of one of the biggest commercial Gaelic-language consultants in Scotland:akerbeltz.org (One speaks Basque

248 similar to what Paul Manning describes in The Semiotics of Drinking (2012) in his chapter on Georgian beer marketing. He says that marketers have domesticated and

“traditionalized” both “beer” and “brand,” grounding beer in ethnographic images of the

Georgian nation. As he notes, these ideas could embody the ideals of traditional masculinity that beer marketers wish to associate with their products (206). The use of

Akerbeltz parallels a marketing strategy that lends toward the ideals of traditional masculinity that is associated with beer consumption.

Advertisements as seen in figure 7.9 are standard in many craft-brewing communities. This bottle mimics the cider produced in the Basque reason, and as mentioned in the chapter on this beverage, provides a guide to pronunciation. “Txotx”

(rhymes with coach) is a Basque call to drink together from a massive barrel of sidra. No cider here!” The description continues, eluding to the world of craft beer as male- dominated describing it as “Just a fruity, west coast session ipa made in the heart of ‘sidra country’. Dry-hopped with vic secret and ella. “Just txotxing bro.” Not only does it denote the language of masculinity associated with beer and cider both, but the source also reveals that the male producers are from the United States (Txotx Session IPA, n.d.)”

This association of craft beer to masculinity was a common theme throughout the marketing strategies I observed, with a male chef and male surfer representing Keler and what it means to have Basque identity, with the majority of Boga’s team consisting of men, and this final example given by Akerbeltz. As noted, tastes are changing, however, and if the Basque Country continues to follow a road of activism, it will not be too long before women take on a more predominant role in producing, marketing, and consuming beer. This transition to involve women is seen with Boga, as the person in charge of the

249 beer recipes and production is a woman and by the example of the Boga collaboration with La Pirata (see figure 7.6) to make a beer designed and exclusively made for women.

Perhaps there is a benefit to the late blossom of craft beer production in the Basque

Country: the social movements to create gender equality are happening concurrently alongside the craft beer production, which could allow the two movements to grow together in an integrated fashion.

In the meantime, popular use of Basque semiotics includes use of the language itself, either in symbolic of communicative form—as seen respectively with beers that use single words in Basque to advertise, as seen with the word “txotx” on Basqueland

Brewing Project’s beer, and in Keler’s use of “nortasuna” amid an otherwise Castilian commercial. Boga’s “Korrika” label (as seen in figure 7.3), however, employs total use of

Euskara to advertise communicatively with consumers. Value is created in both, but a stronger attempt toward language normalization is only encouraged in the latter example.

Language use is also seen by using traditional versions of Basque-style font. Boga incorporates this font into their advertising, indexing the traditional Basque life associated with the font, while also taking on the “independent” quality by indexing independence movements and possibly even nationalistic tendencies valued by consumers seeking traditionally local yet independent profiles found in a beer.

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Figure 7.9 Taken from company website “Txotx Session IPA.” Basqueland Brewing Project. Accessed December 03, 2018. https://basquebeer.com/en/txotx-session-ipa/

Branding that finds the balance this duality to capture tradition, independence, and innovation have also proved successful in the creation of value. Keler does so by associating their product with arguably the most iconic chef, Arzak. What appears to be a movie reel highlights the decades past of a man that lived this wild, carefree,

“independent” lifestyle. By contrast, Keler also features the narration of the famous young surfer, Axi Muniain as he defines himself and the Basque Culture by this same fearless nature, and also as an independent person not willing to conform to globalized tastes such as fast food.

In the winter of 2017, I attended Beerbao Fest, a relatively new event that took place in November at the Palacio Euskalduna. The event brought together local and

251 national artisan beer producers, and would do so the following year in 2018. The first celebration of Beerbao Fest took place in 2013, providing a milestone for significant growth in craft beer popularity over the last five years. I was interviewed by a local news station EITB while in attendance in 2018 and was asked why I came to the event and what I thought about Craft Beer (Beerbao Fest 2017). Although the entire interview was not aired, I did mention that there was a space available to use Basque when marketing craft beer. Ironically, the next take was of the newscaster showing the “currency” used at the event, which were named “Beer Coins.” These Basque producers marketing their product in Euskara that were bought using called “Beer Coins” illustrates a similar strategy as seen with Boga’s “Black Is Beltza.” Both strategies use a bilingual system that erases the dominant local language while embracing both ends of the linguistic spectrum by using the local Euskara and the global English. This engages locals and tourists alike when presented at festivals.

While, as a linguistic anthropologist, I champion the sole use of Euskara in marketing Basque products, I believe English can be incorporated to reach the global consumer/tourist while still retaining Euskara in the creation of value. By using both, a unique space can be created that provides a balance of “the familiar” and “different.”

This strategy can be successfully created to market other gastronomic products, but I argue that craft beer holds a special ability for marketing in Euskara as its not only a sense of localness that is desired (just as with many other products), but as Urtzi from

Boga stated, the consumer wants “Something a bit unique/weird.” The use of Euskara is that thing—for Basques, Catalans, Spanish, and foreign tourists alike—to create symbiotic value for the language and product alike.

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Chapter 8: Conclusions and Further Research

My research took place primarily in the Southern Basque Country over twelve months of 2017. This time marks a continual increase in the number of foreign tourists— a large portion who arrive seeking culinary tourism—and sustained concern for the normalization of Euskera. By analyzing the use of Euskara to market gastronomic products, my aim is to demonstrate, not only that using Basque could create added value for a product as well as for the language, but to demonstrate how this occurs with specific culinary goods. The research I conducted in relation to my chapters on gastronomic societies, milk, cider, Txakolina, wine from Rioja Alavesa, and beer demonstrates how each cultural product currently contributes to the maintenance and normalization of the

Basque culture and language.

The semiofoodscape (2018 Järlehed and Moriarty) is a helpful concept that provides a categorical/scalar approach to looking at the effectiveness of Euskara in marketing gastronomic goods. It is through this framework that language normalization, occurs, and as these scholars say, “the creation of the marketing and gastronomic terroir is inevitably linked to legitimization of political territory and to the mediation of cultural and linguistic patrimony occur” (37). I agree with this statement, but emphasize a slightly different approach that relied more on the pairing of food and language, with the linguistic terroir that I put forward the key ingredient; without keeping the linguistic terroir a constant, the cultural capital will be lost to the economic capital, which many argue is already happening. The ingredients put forth in their article are shown as:

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Foodstuffs Food and drink products (e.g. beans, cheese, wine, cider,

pork, olive oil

Spaces Stores, markets, festivals, museums, bodegas, restaurants

Actors Producers, regulators, distributors, designers, advertising

agencies, connoisseurs, consumers (instances of the

commodity chain)

Practices Eating, drinking, naming, branding, differentiation,

localization, authentication, standardization, regulation,

recontextualization, (re)scaling

Norms Explicit (e.g. geographic origin certification) and implicit

(taste defined by class, Distinction in the Bourdieu sense)

Inscriptional genres Product labels, certificates, cookbooks, recipe cards, tasting

protocols, expert columns

(Other) Semiotic Names, linguistic code, script, orthography, typography,

resources color material, images

The “ingredients” they list: food and drink products (e.g. beans, cheese, wine, cider, pork, olive oil) contrive much of their value from being place-based products, and overlap with the products presented in my chapters. However, I also put forth both mundane and more innovative ingredients, such as milk and craft beer, presenting ways in which they uniquely function as valuable vessels for language. Milk is a unique platform in that is a quotidian product associated with a sense of “naturalness.” My

254 research shows that authenticity and value for Euskal Herria Esnea was determined by the use of Euskara, not the production methods, showing the formation of value for local consumers. Cider, as a product, carries the association of being produced in the heart of

Gipuzkoa, the province with the most Basque speakers. There, the value of this beverage is tied to the traditional cider house experience where Euskara is present in its many semiotic forms for local and tourists alike. Authenticity of the cider house is reliant on the call in Euskara for “Txotx” as well as the other authenticating sensorial experiences.

Txakoli’s ability to provide value to the Basque language and culture is as Järlehed and

Moriarty (2018) point out, in part. The cultural capital gained from consuming this wine has commodified it for tourists, but the use of Basque semiotics such as the “tx” and, as I argue, more communicative marketing in Euskara, create an authenticated product consumed for distinction locally and abroad. Rioja Alavesa wine holds a unique value in that is it linked to the valuable Rioja DOCa winemaking region, but unique as the only

Basque zone. The high prestige of these wines coupled with using the linguistic terroir for distinction allows Euskara to share the prestige associated with the product, while maintaining the “solidarity” associations of the Basque language. Craft beer, throughout the world, has gained momentum due to authenticity created by a sense of authenticity through localness and uniqueness. Basque beer uses dialectal variances of Euskara to imbue beer with these qualities, as well as the social activism of the community; the perception that beer is a drink made accessible to the average consumer, mobilizes it as a platform for every-day language production (10).

Many of the other ingredients these authors put forth for the semiofoodscape, such as the spaces, actors, practices, norms, inscriptional genres, and semiotic resources

255 are incorporated into this research. The practices I observe do include those listed in their work, such as eating, drinking branding, and authentication, but my research focuses on the practice and normalization of language (10). However, the spaces included in their work are primarily public spheres, whereas I include the private, such as consumption and production in the home—the cradle of Basque language and many of the beverages covered in this dissertation. My work uses the materiality of Basque semiotics, to include auditory production and consumption as well, which expands any framework or model that could be developed for looking at the products being marketed, where they are being marketed, and extends the ways in which we think about language use for purposes of normalization. Additionally, while the framework of the semiofoodscape is a helpful tool for looking at the mobility and relationship between food and language, through my ethnographic work, I show how is it creates, and how the different ingredients function distinctly in relation to other factors such as gender, and how the linguistic terroir affects these processes.

My own theoretical frameworks of the uztartzea , or pairing, uses an otherwise gastronomic device to illustrate that the value of two separate items can increase as they

“feed” off each other through concepts of commodification, authenticity, and distinction, in addition to their quotidian uses. These mundane practices of food and language production and consumption work together to not only bestow prestige to each, but a practical value as well that can be used in processes of language normalization.

A key component in the development of these processes is the linguistic terroir. I put forth the concept of linguistic terroir, or the sense of places as defined by language, to describe the totality of the perceived or mandated use of language along with the actual

256 use. This idea shows the variance of language use within a bounded area, just as the terroir of a bounded vineyard contains within itself smaller identifiable microclimates. It is a term naturally came to mind when thinking about the pairing of food and language, to encapsulate the practices I found occurring in certain areas, independent of political and economic systems and boundaries. It is with an understanding of terroir—with its previously negative and newly positive connotations—that I use linguistic terroir to unearth the anomalous practices of language, and in this case, when paired with food to create a more authentic account of language practices. Understanding the linguistic terroir captures the discrepancy of language practice that occurs between actual use and linguistic representation through the signage and linguistic landscape (i.e. public events, the labeling of food products, or even practices language instruction in school), and the language spoken within a bounded area. By looking at both the actual and perceived use of language for a specific place, we can create a more holistic and accurate and picture of language practices for a place, adding to the definition of “authenticity.”

Another common theme woven throughout my chapters was the role and visibility of women in relation to food and language. Throughout the chapters, we can see the evolution of women’s roles over time and in relation to each gastronomic product. In each, they have always played key roles in the production, distribution, sale, of these products, or in support of these efforts, though they may not have been given credit or visibility. This is changing. Women are increasingly allowed in public and private spaces, such as gastronomic societies (though not all), they are starting to be recognized in the world of cider with expositions and presentations just like the one developed this year.

Women are now enologists responsible for producing milk and crafting the taste of

257

Txakolina, beer, and Rioja wine, but, like Compañon in Rioja Alavesa, are now also leaders in the push for language normalization. Estitxu Garai and Itxaso Compañon both were the only two interviewees that risked advertising their products solely in Euskara despite laws forbidding this practice. In the case of the Zabala sisters and Compañon from Rioja, they are also the owners of their wine production business (and in

Compañon’s case, a leader in the local wine movements).

These examples are challenging the perceptions and norms for women in the

Basque Country. Begoña Echeverria’s work (2010), illustrates limited valued spaces and roles that women inhabit in society. While language use, as seen in Basqueland brewery’s

“txotx” beer description, and spaces such as the cider house, the Txakolindegia, craft beer, are often still dominated males and male voices, this is changing, but slowly. The list of Michelin star chefs in the Basque Country is still almost completely dominated by males. This also inevitably has a great influence on the language used in association with the gastronomic sectors. With the language activists such as Estitxu Garai and Itsaxo in mind, one wonders what would happen if there were more women in this culinary industry to push for the use of Euskara.

Questions such as this remind me of a female food producer that I interviewed, but whose interview I had to delete. This interview sticks out in my mind for two reasons.

The first is because I conducted nearly all the interview in Euskara, which was not typical considering Castilian was better for comprehension purposes. I was pushed, as she sat patiently, to keep trying even though I was sure it must have been just as painful for her to listen to me as it was for me to try and speak. The second reason I so vividly remember this interview, was because after so much effort on both sides, she requested that I delete

258 the interview. I did so on her request to ensure that the sensitive information she shared would not be revealed. This information was sensitive in nature in part due to her difficulties in the food industry when interacting with males. Her push for me to use

Euskara and the delicate nature of her experience forms another uztartzea, or pairing of food and language that illustrates the challenges that need addressing in both worlds.

Marketing Strategies

In terms of what I found for marketing strategies, especially in the midst of tourism, I suggest a more focused marketing strategy be formed, taking into consideration the ingredients of the semiofoodscape to outline marketing goals (Järlehed and Moriarty

2018, 27). For example, look at a specific “foodstuff” (Rioja Alavesa wine) to see where it is sold (a market). Devise a marketing plan with the actors involved in each of its commodity chain (distributor, producer), and what practices and norms give it value

(differentiation, geographic certification), and on what inscriptional genres it will be applied (labels, tasting protocols). Finally, analyze the semiotic resources that would give it value by looking at research, such as this dissertation, or by comparing the success of similar products in other cultures. For example, consider if Basque font will work as well on milk products as they would on Rioja Alavesa wine. These processes could be made available for those explicitly wanting to market their goods with an individualized plan for their product, according to the market they wished to send it to (local, international).

I recommend holding language planning conferences and working with other minoritized cultures to specifically look at successful indigenous tourism marketing strategies. Tohu Wines, for example, is owned by a larger Māori organization, Wakatū,

259 and is New Zealand’s first Māori-owned organization. Its business model is informed by

Māori heritage to spread the story of its people (Emen and Grindberg, 2019). Knowing that other minoritized cultures are facing similar situations and cooperating with them could be key in finding ways to focus on each culture’s individual linguistic and cultural goals.

The Indigenous Tourism Association of British Columbia (ITBC) is a non-profit membership-based organization that is committed to growing and promoting a sustainable, culturally rich Indigenous tourism industry. It is a “stakeholder-based organization that is committed to growing and promoting a sustainable, culturally rich

Indigenous tourism industry” (BC Aboriginal Tourism, 2019). This organization works with tourism, business, education, and government organizations to help Indigenous tourism businesses in British Columbia. Their vision is to create a prosperous and respectful Indigenous cultural tourism industry sharing “authentic” products. Their mission is to provide training, awareness, product development and marketing to support a sustainable authentic Indigenous cultural tourism industry in British Columbia while contributing to cultural preservation and economic development (BC, Aboriginal

Tourism, 2019). Their services include offering outdoor adventures, food and wine, art and culture, and wildlife tours.

Nk’Mip Cellars (pronounced in-ka-meep) and translated as “Bottomland” is one of the places that offers tours through ITBC. Located on 32,000 acres of Sonoran Desert landscape in Okanagan valley of British Columbia. They are the first Indigenous-owned winery in North America, “inspired to express our culture in everything we do” (“The

Land Brings Simple Pleasures To Life”, n.d.). The team of 500 Osoyoos Indian Band

260 members takes on a similar motto resembling the Basque’s use of “innovation and tradition” by stating that their love of land is represented in a way that preserves

“authenticity of the past while offering simple pleasures to the present” (The Land Brings

Simple Pleasures To Life, n.d.) Their reservation spans several with names derived from the Indigenous language, and wines such as the estate reserve “Qwam Qwmt,” meaning

“achieving excellence,” “Talon” after the mythical thunderbird, and “Dreamcatcher” are marketed under names that reflect the language culture. Ultimately, the municipal initiatives developed have earned the Band financial independence and high employment.

Another example of marketing Basque goods locally and abroad might be attaching a label to products. A label advertising to “Buy Euskaraz” or “Buy Basque” on the bottles of cider or Txakolina could indicate an explicit effort toward supporting language normalization. Other options for this would be to connect other minoritized cultures to gain successful strategies for marketing any goods. I suggest this as it was clear for many of the products, that no efforts had been organized for language normalization. Many goals were aimed at sustainability or quality, with value being derived merely as an unintentional byproduct.

In addition to efforts in the Southern Basque Country, I have seen links that lead me to believe that studying these elements, or aspects of them, in the French Basque

Country of Iparralde would be of interest for value creation. Differences in the political, economic, geographic and historical parameters create a different local market where particular conditions would frame the how language is used in marketing local products there. With the failed attempt at forming a D.O. for Basque Rioja Wine, one possibility might be to look at forming a larger D.O. bound by the border of the larger Basque

261

Country. In doing so, language use could be more easily supported in both the Southern and Northern Basque Country, and tourist routes could be formed across the Spanish

French border to reify the historicity of the Basque Country. Forming more links between the two parts of the Basque Country could strengthen overall value for Basque products, and in addition, strengthen the use of Batua or local dialects.

Figure 8.1Wine marketed with Basque semiotics produced in Iparralde

Considering the articles and laws that prevent the use of Euskara for marketing products may be an option. By slightly changing the verbiage or by advocating for

“traditional” products to include a wider range of goods, more Euskara could be used to market them. This article previously mentioned not only limits the products that can

262 market solely in Euskara, but it creates a stigma for the language as proposed by Estitxu

Garai, that it is a language relegated to the past, unfit for modernity. Changing this law, and in turn this perception, is key for producers that speak Euskara, but feel no value for using it as a marketing tool.

Other beverages that could be included in a market evaluation would provide more insight into the variables that give distinct products value. Kalimotxo —a mixture of cheap read wine and dark soda—for example, is another drink that is making headway in the world market, and that does appear to have it origins in the Basque Country. The makers of Pepsi Cola have started advertising this drink, so it would be interesting to see something marketed officially outside of the Basque Country (I have not seen any official marketing or brand names attached to it here yet) with products that aren’t from country of origin.

There are potentially positive consequences for the created transformative power with advertising cultural products, to create as niche markets, increased tourism, and other complex shifts in bilingualism; all of these noted changes occur within the capitalist economy. However, not all populations of minoritized cultures may support the way in the Osoyoos, for example, achieve economic independence. This might be because a people or culture do not believe in the appropriation or financial gain that comes from marketing sacred parts of their culture. It is from a more personal example that I will illustrate the importance of understanding that my framework will not be applicable to all linguistically minoritized cultures. I will illustrate this point with an example derived from a plane trip home from Reno, Nevada.

263

During the fall of 2018, I was sitting on a plane early in the morning waiting for takeoff with Amy Lonetree’s Decolonizing Museums book in my lap, when the longhaired man sitting to my right pointed at my book and then reached into his bag. He pulled out his business card, which indicated that he was Alex Mitchel 18 from the Paiute tribe. I had been hoping to sleep for the first leg of my trip back to Kansas, but found his questions and willingness to answer mine worth the sleep I would be missing. He not only addressed some of issues regarding language that discussed in Lonetree’s book, but knew enough about how the Native Americans of the area interacted with the local

Basque American culture to inform me on this topic, too.

One thing that he mentioned, which was specifically addressed in Lonetree’s book, was the sacredness of names and words. He told me about an internal disagreement within the Native American community that involved using a name from Pyramid Lake’s creation story—“Stone Mother”. A group from within the indigenous tribe wanted to revitalize the economic well-being of the local Native Americans by using this name as the brand under which they would sell coffee. Not everyone liked the idea of using a sacred name for capitalist gain, as the sacredness of such names are especially important within Native American communities.

This short account touches on what Lonetree mentions about the desire to create a less homogenized, or pantribal view, and to acknowledge the sacredness of the creation stories (92, 169). In the book, she reflects on how the tribal origin stories have not been privileged, and if mentioned, they are usually presented as quaint myths of primitive

18 Pseudonym

264 peoples: “They are not taken seriously or treated to have profound meaning” (169). She continues by lamenting her suggestion without realizing how important it was to allow the Native Americans to tell the story as they wished about this sacred part of their origins.

This account reflects the importance of two points from the dispute over coffee as told by Alex Mitchel: Native Americans in the U.S. are not one homogenous culture, but various groups and individuals with different stories to tell, and many of these stories— such as the creation stories—are sacred parts of their culture that should be shared only with their voice. Alan’s account of the Native American’s coffee dispute highlights the differing opinions of Native American’s in the Reno area to use a sacred part of the

Paiute’s creation story for monetary gain. The difference lies in that the group responsible for starting this business, who also claim to have lived on the reservation, had seen “the growing disparity between Main Street and Indian Country” in regards to the lack of small business investment (“About Us”, Stone Mother Coffee). Alan’s argument shows that there can be a difference of opinion within tribal communities, especially when involving the use of creation stories for profit, engaging in the capitalist society that has previously profited from or exploited Native Americans in the past.

The examples mentioned in Amy Lonetree’s book that uses decolonizing approaches points to the spectrum of views that cultures may have when considering the use of their language to market in our global, capitalist society. These examples were illustrated in Alex Mitchel’s account of the local coffee roasters that use “Stone Mother” to sell their product, and can also be applied to my own research in using linguistic resistance against the majority culture and language. In all cases mentioned, providing

265 more knowledge about the language and culture so the greater public can help with awareness, but it should be done in a way that represents the plurality or the culture with their consent, and in a way that preserves the sacredness and integrity of their way of life.

Interestingly, when I tried to locate the website for Stone Mother Coffee Roasters while writing this dissertation months later, the only related website I was able to find was linked to a photo of the photo of the sign of Stone Mother with a coffee bean forming the shape of her lower body. The Yelp website linked to this photo was now named “Star

Village Coffee.”

Figure 8.2 Photo of the previous sign for Stone Mother Coffee Roasters Taken from Yelp

266

Figure 8.3 New Photo and name of coffee shop, Star Village Coffee Taken from Yelp

Under the “About Us” section was written:

“Star Village Coffee (SVC) is a Native American owned and family

operated coffee company…We are loyal to our soil...Star Village Coffee is

a young startup company that’s poised to make lasting impacts on the

local and national native food movements. Our approach to making coffee

combines old wisdom with new insight…We’d like to imagine that our

coffee inspiration exists in a creative space of compromise, where the

desert alpine converges with the high sierra, to symbolize a historical

resilience that pays homage to that which came before…For us, ‘quality

assurance’ means paying extra attention to overlooked details that can

make the difference between coffee’s that are run-of-the-mill, or coffee’s

that are fine-grained with distinction” ("About Us." Star Village Coffee).

267

Their header titled, “Rezonomics” explained the efforts to find successful balance of economic and social success stating:

The absence of small business investment located within our tribal

community’s continues to exacerbate the growing disparity between Main

Street and Indian Country. That's why SVR embodies a cultural ethos of

indigenous entrepreneurship, which are self-determined, resurgent, and

self-sustained. By circulating portions of our profits throughout our

underrepresented neighborhoods; we will uplift tribal owned businesses,

and spark a chain reaction of Indian ownership. Doing business with other

indigenous entrepreneurs is one way for us to spur social mobility. From

the Great Plains, to the Great Basin, there are so many examples of

indigenous innovation gaining momentum in Native Country”

("Rezonomics." Star Village Coffee).

These statements made by Star Village Coffee website with the new name and sign forgo using the sacred name from the creation story as well as the image. The Native

American-owned coffee shop in Reno emphasizes a desire to impact local and national native food movements, a mention of this common theme to combine “old and new” insight in a creative “space of compromise…that symbolizes resilience and distinction.

Under the header “Rezonomics 19 ” the owners describe the efforts to find balance between

19 Rezonomics is also the name of a documentary film highlighting the inventive survival strategies of the residents of the Pine Ridge Reservation as they navigate through the economic and social relation of Oglala Lakota as they challenge the western notions of economy “which separates the ‘rational’ economic from

268 the main stream and Native American culture to uplift tribal businesses to gain social mobility through innovation.

This example demonstrates the constant compromises made to economically and socially survive in our current western society that may not rely so much on reciprocal relationships to build community. A name change would represent such a compromise that is in search of authenticity, without compromising on the values on which a culture thrives. Not using the name though, does represent a success in decolonization efforts to keep Stone Mother sacred, not allowing it to enter the socioeconomic realm for profit.

This example would be exemplary to show how such compromises can be made, and when they can not. While Basque names do not carry a sense of sacredness as do the words for other indigenous populations, it is important to identify how and when cultural cornerstones need to be protected from more globalized, mainstream culture.

Tourist agencies and food producers are tasked with marketing the culinary world in a way that expresses sense of authenticity and local identity to reach international consumers. Airport signs in English wishing a “Welcome to the Culinary Nation” assert the Basque Country’s unique identity, while accessing international travelers in a globally used language. Wine producers market their bottles in the dominant language of Castilian to those from other parts of Spain, as to not index the past political violence past associated with independence movements. As the Basque Country evolves from associations with terrorism, to having the architectural “Spectacle” of the Guggenheim, and into a nation that hosts a city with the most Michelin-starred restaurants per capita in

the embedded moral, normative, and reciprocal relations at play in many indigenous and rural communities” (“Rezonomics” Yay-Native, n.d.).

269 the world, I demonstrate the added value created by using Euskara for marketing gastronomic products.

On March 30, 2019, Yolanda Mendiola interviewed Juan Martin Elexpuru, PhD. writer and translator on the show Artefaktua (ETB 1 channel). Elexpuru spoke about his feelings regarding the emphasis on the Basque Country as a “culinary nation:”

The other day, there in Bilbo airport, well, seeing ... “Basque culinary

country... food” ... nowadays we’re identified with stomachs … at one

time the Basque Country attracted linguists, anthropologists, and people

like that… and nowadays, in contrast, well, it seems like we’ve forgotten

all that and we don’t give it a lot of importance and as regards our

existence, the only pre-Indo-European language and a culture that comes

at least from the Neolithic and so on… er… we’re looking down on

ourselves and I think it’s time to demand from the authorities and the like,

well, to start giving a bit more kudos, to create a Basque language center

on the part of UNESCO and the like, we have a something of global

cultural importance here and without forgetting about stomachs, I think,

we have something important, more important, to offer. 20 (Juan Martin

Elexpuro, March 30, 2019).

20 This interview and translation were provided by Cameron Watson

270

Elexpuru’s comments acknowledge some the same advertisements discussed in my work (2018) regarding the use of Euskara in the efforts to reconfigure the image of the Basque Country politically as its own distinct “nation” as defined by food, not politics, in comparison to the gastronomy offered by the rest of Spain and France to attract tourism and economic gain.

Figure 8.4 Photo courtesy of Cameron Watson in the Bilbo airport in the domestic area, November 8, 2018

As the Basque Country transitions into a culinary nation, we can see the ways in which the minoritized Basque language is utilized or replaced by dominant languages. Its appearance (and sometimes lack thereof) determines the value of the sign in its semiotic landscape. Euskara’s materiality creates value for the tourist and consumer in various settings and when used as labelling on different gastronomic products. The linguistic

271 materiality of the Basque language is determined by the material contexts, as is the context shaped by the value of the language use. In this case, such an exchange occurs on signs in airports, in cider houses, and on bottle labels. Both local and tourist practices are shaped by the emplacement of language in the material environment to influence intercultural interactions and commodification of language.

Through observation of the Basque language in social environments and elements of the physical linguistic landscape, locals and tourists interpret meaning and assign value according to the context of language use; the use of English in international baggage claim area of an airport confirms entry into a gastronomic “nation.” It is in the context of these material environments that the value of a language is produced.

Both the Basque language and the products marketed can symbiotically increase in value by using Euskara to promote beverages such as cider amidst the growing tourist industry in the Basque Country. By developing ideas of how language materiality and value are produced, languages such as Euskara can better strategize the promotion of their gastronomic and tourist sectors. The presence of Basque speakers and foreign tourists alike, represented materially, index various forms of power and dominance.

Maintaining the correct balance of both foreign and local opportunities for linguistic production is crucial to the processes of Basque language normalization as well as the tourist industry.

The benefits of examining linguistic materiality and the application of language in its material environment offers useful insights for stakeholders such as those working toward language normalization, tourism officials, and tourists themselves. Examining these marketing strategies provides opportunities to ensure linguistic equity for Basque-

272 speakers, and increase the value for the Basque Country’s gastronomic products, but they easily be integrated into marketing strategies for other linguistically minoritized populations. By increasing the amount of space where a language is seen and heard through language materiality, value will be created for the language and products, for local speakers and tourists alike. Assessing the use of language through geosemiotics provides us with a lens to view the transformation of spaces in the rise of tourism. The application of this research will provide tourist officials with the tools for creating successful, authentic, educational experiences for tourists while conserving practices of the host culture, and give tourists the tools necessary to navigate through new cultural experiences in minimally invasive ways, ensuring the sustainable coexistence of the host culture and the tourist (Lesh 2018).

By looking at a range of gastronomic products and how Euskara is used to effectively create value through various theoretical concepts, as well as the role that women play in this pairing, this dissertation contributes to scholarship on indigenous and minoritized language use within shifting political, economic, and cultural conditions. By understanding language perceptions for various markets and the valued characteristics for individual culinary products, I demonstrate strategic ways in which the use of Euskara creates potential value for the language and products alike. In doing so, I argue that it is necessary to maintain the visibility and use of Euskara to normalize and protect Basque culture and language in a sustainable way where this culture is the base and springboard for promoting food, and not relying on gastronomy to attract tourists with the culture and language as a secondary interest. The language and culture are the common threads that can be weaved throughout other attractions, which will also allow for a long-term interest

273 and differentiation versus popular fads that may fade over time with impending globalization as other attractions such as architectural franchises and the globalization of cuisine.

274

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