Barcelona
Ten o'clock am. I walk into the Mercat de la Boqueria and am hit by a kaleidoscope of sensual experience. My eyes are burnt by fiery reds and sunburnt oranges. Passionate Catalonian war cries knock me sideways. And my tongue prickles with expectation as though Monica Belluci had just kicked down my bedroom door in negligee and stilettos. But above all this is the smell, the scent of market food which teases me like a mischievous Seraph of the senses. And to the think, the others are still in bed. Idiots.
I feel I sometimes walk the tightrope between Romanticism and cliché. Buying an orange may definitely have been one of the times where my balance gave way. Oh well, it was spectacular, if entirely besides the point of this post. You see, as I look back through my photographs, one particular image seemed oddly prophetic. Dead pig heads. With this I leave the market place and go and meet the others for some Tapas!
I had two directions in which I could potentially take this post. The first addresses the etymology of the word Tapas. Indeed, the waiter of our Tapas bar informed us (quite succinctly) that Tapas comes from the Spanish verb 'Tapar' which means 'a lid or to cover.' According to Fernando's story, (his name was actually Fernando...I haven't just thought of the song...or if you fancy less gay reference, Torres) King Alonso XII was once offered a glass of Sherry in Cadiz, and the waiter covered the glass with Chorizo to keep out the wind-borne sand. Tapas was born. Makes sense. But my issue with pushing that angle is it requires a great deal of regal etiquette on our behalf for the metaphor to work. I simply cannot lie. Instead, with the subtlety of a brick, I have transposed the pig heads I had seen earlier onto our own avaricious, Tapas munching selves.
See where this is going? Let's get there.
'Fernando, here's the craic' (I paraphrase) 'We've got about 100 euros between the four of us, and we want a bottle of a Txakoli (a light white wine which is an excellent accompaniment to Tapas) and of course we would like to leave you a tip, but if we keep an allowance for that, can you just surprise us? Take the money and Tapas it up with anything and everything.'
This is by far and a way the best thing you could ever say. There's no arguing with the others, or embarrassing yourself with pidgin Spanish, or pointing ambiguously through the glass counter. You simply have a glass of Txakoli, sit in the corner, and leave Fernando to work his magic.
Ten minutes later and Fernando brings out the dishes; carne mechada, pimientos de padrón, albóndigas, chopitos and so on.... but what we ate is not really the point of this post. Instead, I'll compare that split second when the dishes remain untouched on the table to a four way gunfight. There was the tension as we waited to see who would draw first. It was Big Hands. Oh he took a pretty hefty spoonful of the Gambas did he? That looked like more than a quarter to me! You should never have more than a quarter, of anything, unless you're willing to offer a trade. Me and Ginger go in next and both take fair amounts. It looks like Quiff is to be the runt unless he acts quickly. That was literally half of the chopitos in one go. Mental!
Big Hands takes a handful of of Olives, but by definition is handful is more than his fair share. I retaliate by taking a frankly audacious amount of squid. No one needs that amount of squid. Quiff goes back for more chopitos. He has literally had all of the choptios. That is not how Tapas works! We stop talking. The Txakoli goes untouched.What happened to cleansing our palettes?
Oh dear god, we all simultaneously notice that Fernando only brought us three pincho moruno. What a cruel game to play. He's like one of the Programme Leaders in Battle Royale. It's a social experiment. Big Hands gets in there first. Safety. A pause. You can't be too obvious. Ginger swoops in. This leaves one pincho moruno between me and Quiff. I could suggest going halfsies? No that's just not right. Our eyes make contact for just a split second. Quiff pulls it out the bag.
'Do you mind if I have the last one?' he asks, without referring to what 'one' he speaks of. He doesn't need to. I mind, I mind so much. 'You can have my share of olives. I don't like them.'
You literally cannot equate a few olives with the last pincho moruno. What would happen if I said no? What would happen if I stabbed him in the eye with a skewer and then ate the blood stained pincho moruno in front of him as he looked on half-blinded? No, social conventions keep me in check. He played a good game.
As I look at the picture of the pig heads, I can't help but imagine Quiff as the one in the middle. He's smiling at me. He's taunting me.
We took any of the fun out of sharing. In future, we'll get all the food and divvy it up beforehand. Or even better, I'll just eat alone. Is this what it has come to? Eating Tapas alone.
D.
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