Pintxos are often the first doorway into Basque food culture. The word comes from the Spanish pinchar — “to pierce” — a reminder of the wooden skewer that once held a simple bite together: a piece of bread topped with ham, an anchovy, or an olive. What began as a practical way to keep ingredients from sliding apart eventually grew into an entire culinary tradition. The bites became more varied, the presentation more refined, but the skewer remained — a small symbol of where it all started.
Plaza Nueva is one of the best places to experience this tradition. Under its stone arcades sit old bars where each chef creates their own version of the classics — salted cod, seafood, tiny omelets, bold sauces. In the evenings, people drift from one bar to the next in a rhythm known as txikiteo. It’s quick, lively, friendly — a perfect reflection of the Basque way of socializing.
The square itself was built in the mid-nineteenth century as a sign of a new urban era, bringing government offices, commerce, and everyday life together in one open space. On Sundays, its antique market keeps the old spirit alive. Among the stalls you’ll find seashells remembering Bilbao’s maritime past and the Camino de Santiago, whose shell symbol marks the route through Biscay. And mixed with the antiques are objects from fishermen’s homes, traders’ shops, and craftsmen’s workshops — small fragments of a time when the city lived by the sea and the marketplace.
Plaza Nueva gathers everything Bilbao has always been: shaped by the ocean, loyal to its traditions, and in love with simple things done well — like a pintxo you really have to taste to understand why it became the emblem of an entire culture.
This walk is not just a stroll through the old streets of Bilbao — it’s a walk through the city’s memory. Everything here lies close together: the Gothic gates of Santiago Cathedral, the soft murmur of the “Dog Fountain,” the old plaques still marked by the great flood of 1983, and Bar Xukela, where the spirit of the city lives in a glass of wine and laughter at the counter.
We follow Calle del Perro and Calle de la Torre — streets whose names hold legends and the echoes of ancient family towers. At every turn, a story appears: about the Basques, whose defensive towers once stood like the stone houses of Svaneti; about Diego María Gardoki, the first Basque to serve as Spain’s ambassador to the United States; about Pedro Arrupe, the Basque priest who renewed the Jesuit order in the twentieth century.
Our path leads to the river where ships once lined the shore, and finally to El Arenal — the park where Bilbao learned to breathe, to love, and to listen to the quiet rhythm of its own heart.
This walk is like a simple, honest conversation with the city — no guide, no performance, just a friend who has a story waiting behind every corner.
