Snacking in Spain

Two weeks were not enough to do justice to a variety of tapas.

July 26, 2014 03:49 pm | Updated 03:49 pm IST

Bacalao.

Bacalao.

“There is no night life in Spain. They stay up late but they get up late. That is not night life. That is delaying the day…”

Ernest Hemingway

Of course Papa Hemingway burned his candle at both ends, but in Spain, anyone would. It is spectacular, and the food was a revelation: the sheer quality of ingredients, the vibrant colours and freshness, the simplicity of the cooking — I’m not talking molecular gastronomy here. I had gone not expecting much, just paella and tapas. Pardon my provincial ignorance. Just tapas?

The very first lunch that Fernando, an old friend and a local, led us to started with tomato salad. Didn’t sound very exciting but the waitress was persuasive. A large white dinner plate arrived, piled with a mountain of multicoloured fruit. They were all tomatoes — red, orange, purple, green, yellow — big slices, small berries, dark quarters, pale wedges. They had been marinated and then drizzled with olive oil. And that was it.

Fortunately, no one appeared at our elbows with a giant pepper mill before we had even tasted it. We didn’t even ask for salt. I don’t know what the marinade was but the fruits retained their natural taste. Juicy and fragrant, the smell of each kind of tomato was different and the shapes and colours new to us. One was naturally scalloped, obviously sliced from a large tomato with lobes — it had been chilled and sliced that very minute because the seeds and juice were still gleaming within. The purple ones had less juice but a more intense taste. And that was our introduction to tapas.

In Spanish, tapa literally means ‘cover, lid’ because the dishes were given free with drinks, served on a dish balanced on — therefore “covering” — the glass. Legend has it that a king stopped at a bodega, or maybe a cervecería, on a hot, dusty, windy day, and asked for a glass. It came topped with a thin slice of chorizo, the local sausage. The innkeeper had only tried to prevent dust from getting into His Majesty’s drink, but he loved it, asked for a repeat, and it became a tradition. In two weeks, we tried to eat our way through every variety of the tapas of Andalusia, Catalonia and Madrid, but didn’t make a dent.

Some tapas bars would place a dish of olives on the table as soon as you sit down, on the house. These olives were larger, juicier and more interestingly spiced than any other. Or they would put down a plate of crusty bread rubbed with olive oil, garlic and smashed tomatoes. Locals say that their production of olives and olive oil is greater than anywhere else in the world; it’s just less aggressively marketed. The olives were flavoured with onion, garlic, herbs, chillies or nothing at all, and they were all succulent and flavourful. After you order and start on the olives, there’s no delay. Within minutes, jugs of ruby red sangria and plate after plate of tapas arrive in quick succession. You’re supposed to have a drink and a tapa and move on to the next bar. We tried but, being solid Indian citizens, often just settled down. Also as the evening progresses and the crush grows, you’re lucky to get a table. The weather was just right for tables to be out on pavements, waiters were charming and flirtatious and, despite the language barrier, food spoke.

The North has lots of potatoes, in tortillas or as patatas bravas . The best kind was long potato crisps mixed with a spicy red sauce, tossed up with chopped just-fried eggs. And seafood and fish. We had anchovies in vinegar and oil, on toasted bread; white and flaky bacalao (salt cod) in a ceviche with lemon and fresh herbs and in croquetas . Croquetas were everywhere. Crisp golden little bolsters with fillings of fish or ham in béchamel sauce, rolled in crumbs and fried crisp, they were crunchy without and creamy within, the ham adding a bite.

In the South, we ate chickpeas and spinach, and lots of berenjena (eggplant): sliced, batter-fried and finished with honey and sesame seeds. And more meat. Everybody in Cordoba recommended flamenquín , pieces of pork loin wrapped in Serrano ham, crumb fried and cut diagonally, exposing the different layers of colour and texture. And they said I must eat the rabo de toro, oxtails simmered long hours with vegetables in sherry sauce. Contrary to expectations, it was utterly delicious, aromatic and tender after long hours of cooking.

I regret missing out on other regions and other tapas, but tomorrow is another day and Spain will still be there.

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