Letter from Bilbao Paddy Woodworth: Telling jokes about the Basques, in the Basque Country, is a risky business.
But there is one story which, no matter how often it is told, is guaranteed a welcome in any bar or restaurant between Bilbao and Bayonne.
The story goes that the Basques ask themselves three questions every day.
The first two questions relate to the well-known Basque angst about their national identity.
Where do we come from? And who are we? These are, indeed, serious questions, with a bewildering varieties, and we are not going there today.
The third question, however, is the most important, or at least the most urgent: where, ask the Basques, are we going for dinner tonight? I have had a chance to answer this question many times over the last three weeks, in dozens of restaurants and bars, from Bilbao via Vitoria to San Sebastián, and from Hernani viz Zarautz to Hondarrabia. Dozens? Well yes, because eating out here may well involve eating delicious pintxos, or snacks, in four or five bars, before sitting down to the serious business of a multi-course meal.
It's been hard and thankless work, and has left me feeling rather like Mr Creosote from the 1983 Monty Python movie The Meaning of Life. But someone had to do it.
I started my research in Bilbao's old quarter, in the Calle del Perro, which translates, rather unpromisingly, as Dog Street. You can walk right through Dog Street in less than a minute, but you will have passed nine or 10 restaurants in the process.
The Xukela serves what they call tapas, but which look more like a full main course. The table clothes are made of paper, but they are replaced with subtle style and no fuss between each group of customers.
You might start with seven or eight large green asparagus spears, garnished with smoked ham flash-fried with garlic. That goes well with another large plate of dry Idiazabal cheese, always served with quince. And a little Txakoli, the potent "green" Basque wine, for the stomach's sake, if course.
The Arriaga is a new cider house, just a few steps across the street from the Xukela. Serious Basque foodies feel a little uneasy here, because the cider house is an ancient tradition, and the Arriaga is only a couple of years old. But it is a fair imitation of the real thing, with massive stone walls and heavy wooden beams. Two enormous barrels of cider lie on their sides, right by the entrance.
Holding your glass down near the floor, just above a small wooden vessel which catches the splashes, you pull a plug from the barrel and the golden liquid pours forth. If that seems too intimidating, the staff will bring a foaming jug to your table.
You'll need it to digest a steaming bowl of red beans from Gernika, cooked with generous chunks of black pudding and chorizo. And that is just the starter, followed by ample fillets of cod, accompanied by delicious red peppers.
Moving swiftly on, a friend of a friend rang from Zarautz to say that he had just found some excellent sardines in the market. Would I like to help him and his wife do justice to them at their gastronomic society? The latter is a remarkable, male-dominated institution. In almost any Basque village, you may notice one or more mysterious doors. They appear to lead to restaurants, but there are no signs outside, no menu in the window.
Serious-looking men can be seen going through these doors early in the evening, carrying bulky parcels. Many hours later they will emerge again, without their parcels and looking a lot less serious.
José Ignacio's society in Zarautz overlooks the Bay of Biscay and the marvellous promenade of this Victorian resort, recently rediscovered by surfers. His wife, María Pilar, has brought some home-pickled tuna, so we have a salad, and a plate of Iberian ham, before moving on the serious business in the kitchen.
While women are now generally admitted to the societies as guests, very few places allow them near the cooking area. Apparently, they make the men there feel clumsy and awkward - these first-class cooks very rarely make the meals at home. A sort of transition to gastronomic equality has been promised for many years, but it is very slow in coming.
So José Ignacio stokes a huge wooden fire under a grill, selects a gridiron from dozens hanging on the wall, lays the sparkling sardines in neat rows within it, and within five minutes we have a crisp and nutritious main course. Strawberries, cheese, ice cream and coffee follow.
And that, dear reader, was only lunch. The monkfish in Hondarrabia, the mackerel in Hernani and Mutriku, and the snails in spicey tomato sauce at the San Prudencio fiesta in Vitoria, you will have to take on trust: they were all excellent.
Just remember, if you are planning a visit to the Basque Country, to go on a diet before you go.
And you might need to take up other favourite local leisure activities, like rock-lifting, hill-walking and cycling, to understand how the Basques, though they never seem to stop eating, are very rarely obese.