Keeping the Old World New

It’s a bar like any other bar: the low afternoon light, the dedicated regulars, the neon beer signs and liquor bottles along the back wall. But then one notices the pictures of sheep. Woolly flocks on mountainsides. A fat ewe in a meadow. There are also a few paintings of cows, and one of a group of men in white costumes dancing on a hillside above the sea.

This is the Centro Basco Restaurant & Cocktail bar in Chino. For the last 29 years, owners Pierre and Monique Berterretche have provided a social haven for their fellow Basques in San Bernardino and Riverside counties.

At the restaurant’s Sunday lunch--served family style at long tables and promptly at 12:30--they gather to exchange news and trade stories about “the Old Country.” After lunch, the men drink wine and play Muss, a card game, well into the evening.

On other days, a group sings folk songs. Pierre, also known as “Peyo,” a spry 81, has lovingly compiled more than 50 songs he learned as a shepherd in his youth. His voice is still rich and deep. Or there might be a birthday party, a wedding reception, a funeral gathering, a business lunch. And sometimes, Centro Basco is simply a place where everyone knows your name, no matter how many syllables it has. Monique, Peyo, their son Joseph Berterretche, who cooks, and their youngest daughter, Bernadette Berterretche, who tends bar and manages, treat their customers as extended family: No one comes or goes without a greeting.

A Culture to Cherish Without Nostalgia

What brings Chino’s Basques to Centro Basco isn’t nostalgia for the old days, or homesickness for the region that encompasses the Pyrenees mountains and the seacoasts of Spain’s northern border with France. They waste little time romanticizing a past that was dominated by hard work in the dairies and surrounding hills. But as the farms here that employed so many of them yield to industrial parks and strip malls, and the town fills up with newcomers, almost every Basque, young or old, spoke of the importance of belonging. Their cultural identity is a touchstone.

“It gives me a sense of security,” said Bernadette. “I always know I have this place. And I think that’s very special.”

Her brother agrees. “Even 10 years ago you could walk down the street and see everyone you know,” said Joseph, an avid player of Basque handball, or pelota. “Now, you come in here to see everyone you know.”

For families like the Berterretches, maintaining their Basque identity in an increasingly homogenous society takes considerable effort.

Maria Petracek, the Berterretches’ eldest daughter and an accountant in Mission Viejo, made a decision to involve her two young daughters, Alexis and Kristyn, in their heritage as much as possible. Her husband, Chris, who has drifted from his own Czechoslovakian roots, fully approves. Their house is filled with Basque artifacts. Their nanny is a young native Basque who has taught the girls Basque nursery rhymes.

“I felt it was important that my children be aware of other values--the values of family and community,” Petracek said. “And love--not just love from the family, but from the community.”

Honoring Heritage Provides Continuity

After working at the restaurant for 25 years, the Berterretches’ second eldest daughter, Jeanne, quit to become an accounts payable clerk at Bausch & Lomb. But she still involves herself and her 13-year-old daughter, Michelle, in local Basque events. She taught Michelle to speak fluent Basque, reads a great deal about Basque history and spends at least one night a week teaching Michelle traditional folk dances and listening to Basque music.

Jeanne said she feels passing down her language is crucial. It differentiates her and Michelle and identifies them as part of the Basque community, she said. After all, Basques refer to themselves as “Euskaldunak,” literally, “speakers of” Euskara, the Basque language.

Other families participate in the dance groups. Just down the road from Centro Basco, in an industrial park built on a former dairy farm, is the Chino Basque Club. On a recent Saturday afternoon, a dozen 4- to 7-year-olds sang, clapped and stamped to accordion music; occasionally, they were even in time, and they were definitely enjoying themselves. Joseph’s 5-year-old daughter, Taylor, was among the children learning the folk dances.

“It’s great to be part of this,” said Taylor’s mother, Roxanne Irvin. Roxanne grew up in Texas without this strong “sense of belonging” that her daughter--and she by relation--has in the Basque community.

The Berterretches, like most other Basques, are practicing Catholics, and their connection to the church also plays an important role in their connection with each other. As Bernadette points out, Sunday lunch is served at 12:30 because Mass finishes at 11:30.

When Peyo and Monique first arrived in Chino in 1955, it was a small farming town, and the Basque community was necessarily intimate. As strangers in a strange land, they turned to the familiar in each other. Peyo first worked as a shepherd and then at various Basque-owned dairies for 15 years. Monique opened a boardinghouse for other local Basque shepherds and dairy men. In those days, there was a constant flow of Basque immigrants to work the flocks and herds, and it was easy to keep the language and the traditions alive, to sing the old songs and dance the old dances. To belong.

Flourishing by Embracing Change

In 1970, the couple bought the Centro Basco, a boardinghouse as well as a restaurant. Around them, Chino, by then a town of 17,000, began to change radically. The Pomona Freeway, built in 1971, brought newcomers and a housing boom, doubling the population in a decade. Immigration from the Old Country became more difficult. One by one, Monique’s boarders moved on and no replacements arrived. Today, only one remains.

“I still miss my dairymen,” Monique said.

The farming industry that employed so many Basques began to disappear. Though local dairies still produce almost as much milk as ever, the farms are smaller. Sometimes a mere 40 acres support 2,000 dairy cows. Tougher environmental laws are forcing the farmers, many of whom are Basque, to sell out or move on. A decade ago, there were 20,000 sheep in Chino, grazing the barley field stubble and the undergrowth along the aqueducts, said John Gardner, chief deputy commissioner of the San Bernardino Department of Agriculture. Today there are fewer than 5,000 seasonal sheep, he said.

Peyo, however, happy with his Muss and his singing group, said he doesn’t miss his dairy days, the cold mornings and long hours. But what about his songs, what about that communion with nature he must have had? No, he said, the songs are all love songs. Not one about sheep? He laughs. “Animals you see every day. But love, love is not every day. We just get on with life,” he said, echoing a practical sentiment shared by many other Basques.

This ability to embrace change rather than cling to musty Old World ways may explain why so many Basque clubs throughout the state are thriving. Today, the Chino Basque Club readily accepts members who are only part Basque, thus including a new generation of children like Taylor.

“This isn’t the Dark Ages,” said John Barcelona, the club’s president, who led the successful movement to allow women members 15 years ago. “It doesn’t matter if people are only one-eighth Basque--if they’re interested in their heritage, we think that’s great and we welcome their involvement.”

Maite Maisterrena, Taylor’s dance teacher, who is full of energy and enthusiasm, has adapted many traditionally male dances to include everyone. Having encountered apathy from certain parents and children, she said, “we need to keep things interesting to keep it going.”

While Basques such as Maisterrena, the Berterretches and Barcelona work hard to perpetuate their culture on a local level, the wildly popular summer picnics encourage a wider sense of community and ethnic pride.

Hosted by different Basque clubs throughout California, Nevada, Idaho and Montana, the picnics draw dancers, musicians, singers and their accompanying families from hundreds of miles around. Connections, once based on relationships from the Old Country--who knew who from what village--are now forged and maintained through this vibrant movable feast. Romances begin, alliances form, and everyone sings, dances and drinks up a storm. The picnics, Bernadette beams, are “the best, just so much fun.”

In the end, the fun may be what helps American Basques keep their culture alive. Whether Joseph is playing a fast game of handball behind the Centro Basco, or Taylor is dancing a centuries-old folk dance, or Peyo and his friend Mike Bidder are singing sheepherder songs over a bottle of red wine, there is a strong undercurrent of joy and pride and celebration.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Bernadette said. “This is home, this is where I belong.” Then she starts teasing her uncle Pele in a language that has endured for thousands of years, across oceans and mountain ranges and new worlds. Chances are it will last a while longer in this little corner of California.