Three Days and Three Stars - San Sebastian

For as long as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed fine dining — not simply as places to eat, but as places where craft, imagination, and emotion come together on a plate. San Sebastián, Spain, is one of the few places in the world where this level of culinary artistry feels so concentrated. In the best kitchens, food becomes more than food. It becomes art: a form of expression, a creative language, a way for a chef to communicate a lifetime of passion in a single, fleeting moment.
Food, for me, has always been one of the most delicious forms of art.

Michelin stars aren’t merely awards; they’re acknowledgments of a creative mission in the world of fine dining. Chefs are bestowed Michelin stars — one for excellence, two for exceptional craft, and three for a level of artistry only a small handful of restaurants in the world ever reach. As of 2025, there are 157 restaurants globally with three Michelin stars.

San Sebastián, a small city on the northern tip of Spain, remarkably has three Michelin three-star restaurants, one of the highest concentrations of top-tier dining anywhere in the world. At some point, I realized I wanted to experience all three in a single trip — not as indulgence, but out of curiosity. What would it feel like to encounter three different expressions of culinary art on three consecutive nights?

So I planned it deliberately: three days, three nights, three Michelin stars — a short, intentional immersion into a world of culinary craft that exists in only a few places on earth.

San Sebastián felt like the right place for that kind of exploration. It’s a coastal city shaped by the ocean and framed by green hills, reminiscent of Florence in how the water meets the old town, just smaller. It’s only a four-and-a-half-hour train ride north of Madrid, yet it feels entirely different the moment you arrive.

This isn’t how I live day to day. Experiences like this make up a very small fraction of my year. But every so often, that one or two percent offers a chance to pause and reflect. I was coming off an intense chapter of focused work — one I’ve written about elsewhere — and wanted a change of pace that felt thoughtful rather than rushed.

A City Between Two Beaches

Two beaches give San Sebastián its geography and its personality. La Concha, an elegant, west-facing crescent, calm and classic. Zurriola, to the east, more open and energetic. The Old Town sits between them, compact and walkable.

A river separates the Old Town—narrow stone alleys, pintxo bars, and history—from Gros, a creative neighborhood of pastel homes and coffee shops. Crossing the bridge between the two reminded me of Florence: a city divided into distinct areas, architecturally unique.

The Basque people were warm and welcoming—proud of their culture, their food, and their unique language, Euskara. Traveling solo made those interactions feel more immediate and immersive.

A Balance of Routine and Freedom

I enjoy travel where I can keep parts of my routine while giving myself the freedom to explore fully. In San Sebastián, that meant staying at the Hotel Maria Cristina, a beautiful historic landmark, and beginning each morning with some form of movement.

When I travel solo, I tend to divide my day loosely into thirds. Mornings are for breakfast and a workout. Afternoons are for lunch and exploring on foot. Evenings are for dinner and, when possible, something cultural or local. It’s a simple structure, but it allows me to experience a city fully without losing the grounding elements of routine. It also makes frequent travel feel sustainable rather than disruptive.

In San Sebastián, the gym I joined for a few days was AltaFit Donostia, a modern, welcoming space with everything I needed. On the mornings I ran, I followed routes around Monte Urgull, looping along La Concha and weaving through the streets of the Old Town. It reminded me of running the Seawall around Stanley Park in Vancouver—just on a much smaller scale.

Exploring a city on foot — including through running — has gradually become one of my favorite ways to understand a place.

Afternoons were slower. I wandered the Old Town and spent time in cafés. Simona stood out—bright, relaxed, with good food and a view across the water. Dripper was more of a small espresso bar and the kind of atmosphere that invites an hour of reflection or planning.

It was an ideal rhythm: routine in the morning, exploration in the afternoon, and in the evening, meals that lingered. One night, before my first dinner, I walked along Zurriola and looked back toward the Old Town. The pastel buildings were catching the last light of the day, glowing softly. It was a simple moment, but one I still remember.

Basque Cuisine as Art

Basque cuisine is shaped by both the sea and the mountains: fresh fish, charcoal grilling, seasonal vegetables, and a respect for simple ingredients handled with care. The region has long been known for culinary innovation, which helps explain why so many influential chefs come from here.

I’m not a food expert, but I appreciate art — and in San Sebastián, art shows up in many forms.

One note before describing the dinners. There are many excellent food writers who document every course in detail. This isn’t meant to be that. The meals unfolded slowly over a few hours, but what stayed with me wasn’t any single dish. It was the pacing, the atmosphere, the warmth of the people, and the way each place expressed itself. What follows are impressions, not a catalog.

Three Evenings, Three Stars

A typical tasting menu lasts two and a half to three hours—unhurried, intentional, quietly immersive. All three restaurants sit just outside the city center, reached by short taxi rides into the wooded hills or along the coast. Each evening felt distinct, as if you were briefly stepping into a different world.

Night One: Akelarre

“Akelarre” comes from the Basque word for “witches’ sabbath,” a reference the restaurant leans into subtly. When the butter arrived, it was stamped with a small mythical creature—half human, half animal—pressed into the surface. It sounds simple, but it was among the best butter I’ve ever had, and an early signal of the care behind everything that followed.

The dining room is contemporary—wood, glass, open space—and intentionally quiet. The tasting menu, around a dozen courses, leaned gently toward the sea. One dish diners often remember is Akelarre’s playful, ocean-inspired creation, understated rather than showy.

Night 2: Arzak

Arzak is named after its founder, Juan Mari Arzak, one of the pioneers of modern Basque cuisine. Today, the restaurant is led by his daughter, Elena Arzak, who carries the legacy forward with her own voice and perspective.

The space feels like an intimate modern home—less wood, more warmth and history. Upstairs is their flavor and spice laboratory, with hundreds of ingredients, where combinations are tested like creative ideas in progress.

The menu, roughly ten courses, blends innovation with tradition. Dessert arrived looking like a small abstract sculpture—delicate, surprising, and memorable. I had the chance to meet Elena briefly; she was warm and focused, attentive to the dining room while ensuring everything moved with quiet precision.

Night 3: Martín Berasategui

The restaurant that bears his name is even more contemporary: wood, large windows, and an open concept designed not to distract. The room recedes so the plate can lead.

The pacing was steady and assured, each course arriving with quiet confidence. A layered eel dish—often mentioned by diners— was delicious. The atmosphere felt joyful but calm, as if the entire team was moving in sync.

When the food takes the lead

What struck me across all three restaurants was how little noise there was. I’ve noticed this pattern at the best restaurants I’ve been to: when the room steps back, the food steps forward. The result isn’t dramatic—it’s immersive. And it allows the food on the plate to speak for itself.

A City That Leaves a Mark

San Sebastián still carried the afterglow of its film festival, which takes place each September. I’ve always had a soft spot for film festivals, especially ones that celebrate foreign films—the kind that slow you down and ask you to pay attention. Between the walks, the cafés, the hills, and three very different dinners, the city revealed itself gradually—through small details, warm gestures, and the steady presence of the sea.

I was reminded of a line I once read in a critic’s review of Jiro Dreams of Sushi, the documentary about the three-star restaurant in Tokyo:
“The only tragedy is that Michelin does not—and never will—give out a fourth star.”

After three days and three stars in San Sebastián, I understood exactly what he meant.

There are more articles about my various experiences on my writing page.