More Than a Meal of Appetizers
April 27, 2010 | Posted by Editor010 
By Nicole Torres
“Tapas are Not Appetizers.”
Our waiter kindly informed my friend of this after he had translated tapas into appetizers. It was our last night in Palma, the capital of Mallorca, a Spanish island between Spain and Italy. We should have figured out the translation by then, yet we sought out the highly recommended Bar Andaluz, a tapas bar specializing in Andalusian cuisine, still unsure of what tapas were to the Spanish. Andaluz had been a local favorite for 25 years, and the cozy atmosphere and the bustling staff gave the place the feel of a European diner: people dining solo at the counter, a newspaper out here and there, a soccer (excuse me, fútbol) game on TV, and enough drunken laughter to assume the entire neighborhood was present.
The menu was only available in Spanish, but our waiter put on his eyeglasses to help translate into very decent English. He reminded me of my grandfather— a small smile that crinkled his eyes and he gave recommendations that constantly affirmed the homemade quality and popularity of the dishes. He helped us decide on Spanish-style potato salad, stuffed mussels, chicken croquettes, grilled vegetables and fried calamari. Add some “muy bueno” house red wine to the list. And since these were just tapas, we had the idea that “We’ll start with that.”
The wine was brought out, tasted and agreed upon. Our waiter, Miguel, set the table and winked as he maneuvered a basket of sliced bread and (what looked like) plain mayonnaise from behind his back and onto the table. Oh, grandpa. The curious off-white, mayo-consistency substance had to be braved. It was delicious—“tarragon” or something, we were later told. While anxious for whatever would come our way, the comforting presence bread and dressing had a steadfast place on the table for the entire meal. “Bread goes with all,” our waiter told us and exchanged our basket of crumbs for one overflowing with fresh bread— literally, four or five slices fell out as it was set down. Uh oh.
The potato salad came out first, and as fiends for a good potato salad (we’re from the South), less than 30 seconds passed before bites were taken and our eyes widened to express how unbelievably good it was. Approved. The comfort of good potato salad on an island in Europe was enough to send us out raving about Andaluz. The plate wasn’t nearly finished before the stuffed mussels came. “Trust me,” Miguel said charmingly while he squeezed half a lemon over the dish. He knew how to take care of us. Not knowing what they were stuffed with, we scooped into the mussels with our tiny, three-pronged forks and went through the same routine of exaggerated eye expressions. “Stuffed… muss…so… damn… good,” we got out in between bites.
The chicken croquettes arrived before we were ready. My friend dabbed it in the supposed tarragon mayo, stuffed it in his mouth, rolled his eyes and said what he always says when something is that good, “I wish you ate meat right now.”
It turns out that a half-plate portion in Spanish is actually a full-sized portion in my food dictionary. In fact, everything Andaluz served us was considerably large-sized, especially since these dishes were all tapas. Miguel explained that tapas were typically a quarter portion of what a meal would be. That meant the plates on our table amounted to one full portion, which was split between two of us. And we were already getting full. No, we were already full. Our “we’ll start with that” mentality evaporated faster than our food came out. However, leaving food on the plate was not an option. Tapas are ordered to be finished. Miguel saw one mussel left on the serving dish, said, “It is only tapas!” and put the stuffed shell onto my plate. And then he set the calamari down.
The wine was just making us more full, so a cigarette break was our only option if we wanted to finish everything in front of us. With another wink from the happy old man— it was like he was cheering us on— the calamari, grilled vegetables and chicken were slowly cleared from their plates. The smile and a nod of approval from Miguel as he took the bare dishes made the stomach ache worth it.
“I can’t take anymore,” I said. And immediately after, Miguel filled two shot glasses with complementary Pacharán, a Spanish after-dinner, berry liqueur. I drank it. He refilled the shot glasses and brought out small pieces of pound cake. “Gratis,” he winked. I winced. We had to finish everything, they were gifts. Only our determined desire to make Miguel happy gave us the willpower to finish it all. I wanted to kiss my soon-to-be grandpa on the cheek. I was full, I was drunk and I did not want anymore.
This place wasn’t about fast or fancily prepared food. Andaluz served comfort food, home-made from the heart, with readily available ingredients- fresh seafood, fresh vegetables, and whatever kind of mayonnaise that was. Dinner lasted about two and a half hours, not including the time we sat there, dazed and too full to move. But tapas bars are about relaxing, enjoying yourself and company; they are important for the Spanish lifestyle, a pleasure-seeking one, ready for several good tastes at one time and a good atmosphere to meet up, catch up and get full.
The place, the grandfatherly waiter and the food were enough separately to make our visit memorable, but together they created more than a dinner experience, they made us feel at home and feel Spanish at the same time. We overdid it with the food, but how could we not with that kind of hospitality? “Muchas gracias Señor,” we thanked Miguel. If only I knew the Spanish word for grandfather. But at least we knew from experience that tapas were not appetizers.
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