Tapeador-ing in Andalusia

If, like me, you are plagued by both diner’s indecision (“How can I possibly choose?”) and menu envy (“Is his appetiser better than my appetiser?”), tapas is the answer to your troubles. The word tapa means cover, and they say it comes from the tradition of barkeeps covering their carafes of wine with a piece of bread and some ham or cheese to prevent flies diving in. This evolved into a style of eating: small plates punctuating a long evening whiled away at a bar. Some places, like Granada, still adhere to the amiable custom of serving tapas on the house.

Those with more decisive natures or larger appetites can upgrade from a tapa to a ración, a full-size portion of anything that’s on the tapas menu. But there’s something really enjoyable about tapear, the verb, which means to meander from bar to bar (eventually, to slide from bar to bar), eating and drinking a little at each, talking to the person next to you at the counter, and then moving on. If you do this well, or often, or enthusiastically, you earn the distinction of a tapeador.

In Andalusia this summer, smack in the middle of the dog days, it seemed impossible to eat full-size servings of anything, and the indulgence of asking for the menu six times in one evening was delicious in itself. During the balmy evenings when everyone spilled out onto the pavements to pick from little bowls of cold black olives and marinated peppers, and drink red wine sweetened with lemonade (the only abomination in all this), it seemed the only way to eat.

On the banks of the river in Seville’s Triana quarter, two friends and I shared a plate of the simplest possible tapa, pan con tomate: grilled bread rubbed with garlic, tomato paste and olive oil, and washed it down with cheap white wine. We piled our bread with Serrano ham, slivers of Manchego cheese, and anchoas, white anchovies marinated in vinegar and garlic. Then we walked across the bridge, stopping at a bar for shrimp grilled in saffron and lemon, and patatas bravas, ubiquitous fried potato cubes with tomato sauce and garlic mayo.

Tapas aren’t usually the best representation of Spanish cuisine, but rather, the cheapest and most filling. They are usually a mix of cupboard fillers — olives, nuts, Spanish omelette, sardines, roast veggies, croquettes, cold meats and cheeses — and things that are easy to cook.

But some of Seville’s tapas bars are sending out unexpected new interpretations on the timeworn standards. We were lucky to stumble upon La Dalia in Hercules de Alameda, a self-consciously hip, minimalist spot that still preserved the convivial hum of a neighbourhood cantina. It didn’t hurt that the kitchen knew its stuff: to wit, duck confit with pear in filo parcels, in a zesty orange reduction, with a thin Gouda sauce, a palm-sized bowl of boar stew in Rioja wine, duck foie gras mousse with biscuit-like toasts and tomato and guava chutneys.

Over in the Santa Cruz barrio, we ate dinner looking out onto a beguiling, leafy square tiled in cerulean. Judging from his harried manner and suspicious disappearances into the kitchen, the establishment’s lone waiter was also its lone cook. But he delivered in the end: sheep’s cheese with figs and bitter Seville orange marmalade, sesame seed-flecked goat’s cheese lollipops, ratatouille topped with poached quail egg and a Moroccan-style stew of spinach with chickpeas in a terracotta bowl.

Back in tree-lined Hercules de Alameda, we chose Al Aljibe for our final night in Seville. Al Aljibe sprawls over a restored two-storey villa with a patio and a charming roof garden. Even if the prospect of dining in a vine-covered courtyard redolent of citrus hadn’t swayed us, the menu, a whirl of Asian, Spanish and Latin American flavours, would have. Service was leisurely, and the tapa came one at a time, so we lingered for three hours over marinated salmon sashimi capped by rocket, a cheerful yellow pepper vinaigrette and sharp drizzles of tamarind, Japanese-style duck breast tataki with mango chutney, grilled squid with coriander aioli and pumpkin, a little shrimp burger with a spicy cream sauce, bell peppers and a wobbly poached quail egg, fillet of beef with caramelised onions, and thin slices of roast pork described as a “secret cut”, served with polenta and salad.

We felt like real tapeadors, sated by the food and the wine and the languorous bonhomie around us. And the night — and several other tapas bars — was still ahead of us. Seconds, anyone?

(Naintara is a food writer based in Paris. Follow her on twitter >@naintaramaya)

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