`There can be few parts of the world about which so many wild and inaccurate statements have been made, and so much irresponsible and unauthoritative literature has been written," Rodney Gallop fumed in A Book of the Basques (1931), a charming if patronising account of Basque folklore which, in the nature of things, introduced a few inaccuracies of its own.
"For few peoples of the world, and surely no other in Europe," Roger Collins, wrote in The Basques half a century later, "can the scholarly study of their origins and earliest history be of such direct and contemporary importance, linked at not many removes to political debate and even terrorism . . . Few statements relating to the people, their history and their language can be treated as politically neutral."
Few? None at all would be more like it. The Basque Country is mined territory, in every sense of the word. No-one writes for long about this enigmatic region, tucked seductively around the skirts of the Pyrennees and the elbow of the Bay of Biscay, without getting blasted for it from one quarter or another.
Mark Kurlansky, author of the very entertaining and original Cod, strides into this explosive landscape armed with Yankee confidence, somewhat selective empathy, a compelling writing style - and a first-class nose for the best kitchen in town. Like Cod, this is a beautifully produced book, with fetchingly anachronistic illustrations, and Kurlansky rarely goes more than a few pages without rustling up a recipe.
He introduces us to the complex topic of the 19th-century Carlist wars, not through a battle or an ideology, but through an anecdote about a dish, and a very tasty and glutinous one at that. According to legend, a telegraphic error landed a Bilbao salt cod merchant with 10 times more fish than he had ordered. Since the Liberal city was under siege from the traditionalist Carlists at the time, he had no difficulty selling the surplus. But there were only three non-perishable ingredients left in Bilbao larders with which to cook the cod: olive oil, garlic and dried peppers.
Such bare necessity was the mother of the invention of Bacalao al pil pil, now one of the classic dishes of Basque gastronomy. As Kurlansky points out, this immediately presents us with another puzzle: we know that Bacalao means cod, but what does pil pil mean? "As with many Basque words, orthography becomes almost a question of personal preference," the author tells us, and goes on to record a range of explanations, running from a link to pelota (the Basque handball game) to an onomatopoeic reference to sizzling olive oil. Wisely - remember that this is a country where brothers have fallen out over how to spell a Basque word - Kurlansky leaves the question open, and gets on down to telling us how to cook the cod.
He is at his best in such passages, with a sharp eye for quirky detail, and an irresistibly laconic way of telling good yarns. In the earlier sections of the book, he offers a fascinating kaleidoscope of Basque - and world - history, viewing it through lenses as diverse (and revealing) as whaling and witchcraft. He treads nimbly through a number of minefields, showing a subtle respect for opposing positions, refreshingly aware that Basque nationalists have no monopoly on `Basqueness'.
Shades of meaning fade towards black and white, however, when we reach the painful question of ETA's bloody campaign for Basque independence, and the violent and illegal repression with which the Spanish state, dictatorial and, alas, democratic, has often responded to it.
KURLANSKY'S account of ETA is the equivalent of what a foreigner might pick up about the IRA if one of his best sources was a Provo with a vivid imagination and a selective memory in a Falls Road bar. This is puzzling, because he knows other aspects of the region so intimately, and more so because he credits one of the most sophisticated native writers on ETA (and on all things Basque), Joseba Zulaika, with helping him on the book.
Worse still, there is a cluster of easily checked factual inaccuracies in this section. To give a particularly obvious example, he says that Spanish Supreme Court judges wore masks when sentencing Basque radical politicians in 1997. They didn't. There would have been uproar in court if they had. Spanish judges don't even wear wigs. Rodney Gallop's case is made, once again.
After this kind of thing, it is a relief to turn to his postscript, "The Death of a Basque Pig", a splendid first-hand account of an arcane culinary and social tradition, though not one that vegetarians will enjoy.
Kurlansky's last book was Cod, as we have already noted, and his next book will be a history of salt. Some of his current volume is the former, and should be taken with a large pinch of the latter. But do taste it, and enjoy the rich flavours of his writing.
Paddy Woodworth is an Irish Times journalist