Tapas etiquette

British subtleties, for the non-initiated (that is: anyone who is not British), are not that easy to grasp. A simple “I’ll bear it in mind”, from which most would assume we’ll make an effort to remember, actually signifies that we’ve already forgotten about it! Such things like “If it’s ok with everyone else” does not mean that we will yield to the majority but that, in fact, we find the proposition ludicrous and refuse to take part. 

So when faced with the dreaded tapas, the Brit crumbles. In any dinner setting that I have been to, prior to experiencing the idiosyncrasy of Spain, the host provides an individual platter for each and every one of his guests, in which such guests find the appropriate portion that they have been allocated and that, in turn, they can eat at whatever pace they see fit. The ballet of dishes is well-rehearsed; starters come first, opening your appetite, before making way for a main dish that will indubitably be followed by a dessert. Everybody is happy. 

This, however, is not the way Spaniards do things. In an attempt to confuse us (i.e. me), they think it's clever to bring out all the dishes at once; dishes that then have to be shared equally, even though the food is in odd numbers. (Think five croquettes for four people.) My manners, cleverly imbedded from an early age, are at a loss. Menu still in hand, I try voicing my disapproval of the dinner etiquette by a simple “If it’s ok with everyone else”—this is often not (i.e. never) heard. Then I use the never-failed-before “I would suggest”, meaning that this is what I actually want to do and would find anything else foolish, but my lovely dinner companion (not fluent in the British ways) took my remark as only an idea to think about and then to be discarded. Unless confrontation is to be had, I have no choice but to abdicate and: we have tapas.

Once served, my mind becomes a minefield. There are plates everywhere, people dig in shamelessly and I am frozen stiff. What to eat? In what quantity? What is the correct amount of time to wait between two bites? Can I have the last bit? Can I dig in a dish first? How do I know if I’ve eaten more than my share or not? And how will the bill be split? Can I have another drink? If so, I would have had two and the friend sitting opposite me just the one? I like tortillas more than I like squid; can I eat more of the tortilla if I don’t have any of the squid? My head hurts. 

The Frenchman in me (dormant but always there) chooses that precise moment to resurface and henceforth the hundred years’ war rages once again; the Plantagenet refuse (at first) to concede their throne to the House of Valois, but the Brit is weak, starving, and has to surrender (Valois win!). Comforted by the thought that everybody knows the French are rude, I grab hold of my fork and start slaughtering the tortilla. My mouth is full and I’m filled with glee. The Brit in me sighs, appalled.  

British subtleties, for the non-initiated (that is: anyone who is not British), are not that easy to grasp. A simple ‘I’ll bear it in mind’, from which most would assume we’ll make an effort to remember, actually signifies that we’ve already forgotten about it! Such things like ‘If it’s ok with everyone else’ does not mean that we will yield to the majority but that, in fact, we find the proposition ludicrous and refuse to take part. 

So when faced with the dreaded Tapas, the Brit crumbles. In any dinner setting, that I had been to prior to moving to the idiosyncrasy of a country, a host provides for each and every one of his guest an individual platter in which such guest finds the appropriate portion that he had been allocated and that, in turn, he can eat at whatever pace he see fit. The ballet of dishes is well rehearsed; starters come first, opening your appetite, before making way to a main dish that will indubitably be followed by a dessert. Everybody is happy. 

This, however, is not the way Spaniards do things. In an attempt to confuse us (i.e. me), they think it's clever to bring out all the dishes at once; dishes that then have to be shared evenly through the food is in odd numbers. My manners, cleverly imbedded from an early age, are at a loss. Menu still in hand, I try voicing my disapproval of the dinner etiquette by a simple ‘If it’s ok with everyone else’ – this is often not (never) heard. Then I use the never-failed-before ‘I would suggest’ meaning that this is what I actually want to do and would find anything else foolish but my lovely dinner companion (not fluent in the British ways) took my remark as just an idea to think about that can be discarded. Unless confrontation is to be had, I have no choice but to abdicate and… we have tapas. 

Once served, my mind becomes a minefield. There are plates everywhere, people dig in shamelessly and I am frozen stiff. What to eat? In what quantity? What is the correct amount of time to wait between two bites? Can I have the last bit? Can I dig in a dish first? How to know if I’ve eaten more than my share or not? And how will the bill be split? Can I have another drink? If so, I would have had two and the friend sitting opposite me just the one? I like tortillas more than I like quid; can I eat more of the tortilla if I don’t have any of the quid? – My head hurts. 

The Frenchman in me (dormant but always there) chooses that precise moment to resurface and henceforth the hundred years’ war rages once again; the Plantagenet refuse (at first) to concede their throne to the House of Valois but the Brit is weak, starving, and has to surrender (Valois win!). Comforted by the thought that everybody knows the French are rude, I grab hold of my fork and start slaughtering the tortilla. My mouth is full and I’m filled with glee. The Brit in me sighs, appalled…