Eating in Spain is. . . interesting.
First, lunch doesn’t start until around 2 pm and dinner around 8 pm.
What is a hungry American to do?
Eat pintxos (aka tapas). They are about the same thing, but in northern Spain, pintxos have a bread base.
Most bars offer a selection of pintxos during the off hours. You select them from long glass cases on the counter. Some dishes are warmed up, and others are served cold.
Depending on how busy the place is, I have to elbow my way to the bar to get the bartender’s attention. It is not an exercise for the meek.
Of course, when I get there, I don’t know what most of the items are.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing.
“Jamon” He says.
Hmmm. It doesn’t look like jam or ham.
“I’ll have uno,” I reply in my now patented mixed English-Spanish sentence style.
He nods and places it on a plate. The pattern repeats as we go down the line.
“Quieres algo de beber?” He queries, making a glass to lips motion.
“Si, vino blanco,” my new favorite Spanish phrase.
The bartender pulls a bottle out and pours.
Funny, I never ask “what’s that” when he hands me the wine glass.
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