Food & Drink

Small Dishes of Delicious Things

Charles Mudede Discovers Tapas

Small Dishes of Delicious Things

kelly o


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Sleep was the same as death. An absolute darkness with no dreams, past, future, fear, joy, or sense of being at all. And then when I woke up—sun rays, open curtains, closed window—I remembered I was in a strange country. This was Cartagena, a city in Mediterranean Spain. This was a hotel room—clean, small, quiet—on the fourth floor of a building that was surrounded by other buildings. It took three flights to get to this little but crowded city, and one of the stops, Heathrow, had a delay that seemed eternal and caused connecting delays. I arrived in southern Spain in the heat of the night, slept for 12 hours straight, and arose with a deep and true hunger. I did not speak the language of the old country.

The hotel, Hotel Carlos III, is attached to a small restaurant, Mesón Las Viñas (30203 Cartagena, Spain, 011-34-968525775). Inside this place (long red counter, tiles everywhere, orange juice robot), I found a woman serving coffee to a portly man who was digging a house groove on the radio—a black American woman was singing about getting some guy to love her. The portly man smoked, sipped milky coffee, took bites out of a puffy pastry, and nodded to the thumping 4/4 beat. It was 11:00 a.m. Mediterranean light came through a window facing a small, quiet street. The woman behind the counter was somewhere near the middle of her 40s, wore a little makeup, and had a little weight around the hips. I asked for a menu. She did not understand my request because she did not speak a lick of my language. And the man digging the house beat on the radio obviously did not know what the black American was singing because he couldn't provide the woman (who turned to him for help) a translation of what I was saying.

After a few dismal failures, we overcame the language barrier and successfully exchanged information. By play eating (invisible fork and food), I made her understand that I wanted lunch; by pointing to the idle kitchen and the clock on the wall, she made me understand that the chef was not in until 1:00 p.m. But I was confused: What about all the food displayed behind the counter's glass—the small red sausages in the red sauce, the curious salads, the fleshy fish covered by glistening onions? I pointed at these items with enthusiasm. She smiled and said: "Tapas!" I smiled and said: "Sí! Sí! Sí!" Fifteen minutes later, there were three empty plates in front of me and one conclusion in my head: Spain has a far more meaningful relationship with food than any of the great cultures of my life—Great Britain, Zimbabwe, the United States. The main door of Mesón Las Viñas was wide open, the smell of the sea was in the air, and next to the empty plates were two empty glasses of wine and a bill—all of this pleasure cost me only $8.

What the woman behind the counter saw as mere snacks, I saw as a king's meal (indeed, several stories about the origins of tapas involve medieval kings). And the more I ate these snacks—in Murcia, I enjoyed plates upon plates of their famous crusty rice; in Madrid, I ate plates upon plates of something that was soft, yellow, and salty—the more I became convinced that main meals are nothing but a big waste of time and energy. Not only are small plates often served for free with a glass of wine (Spanish generosity), but they are meant to be shared with others (Spanish camaraderie). The socialist in me eagerly made this distinction between meals and tapas: A big plate of food is just for you (the individual); a small plate is for you and others (the communal).

Shortly after returning to the U.S., coming to terms with the bitter fact that my life is not all about small dishes of delicious things and glasses of cheap wine, I paid a local tapas joint a visit. Pintxo (2207 Second Ave, 441-4042) is perfectly urban—small, simple, with an outdoor sitting area enclosed by brick walls—and serves "Spanish-inspired" tapas. It has the mood or function of being not a point of destination but a point of transition: from a day of work into a night of big things (meals, events, parties). Pintxo has one of the best happy hours (from 4:00 to 6:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. to midnight) in town. The plates (my favorites on the menu: lamb meatballs, prawns and garlic sautéed in olive oil, quail eggs on toast, the meat plate) range from $2 to $4 during happy hour, and a glass of house wine, which is dark and decent, costs a reasonable $4.

Though none of the food at Pintxo (and I sampled every one of the small plates) is as good as much of what I devoured in the faraway land of Spain, it certainly is not disappointing or a poor imitation. But the best thing about the place is that it doesn't serve big and ugly and hyperindividualistic meals, the new enemy of this wine-loving Marxist. recommended

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Comments (14) RSS

Oldest First Unregistered On Registered On Add a comment
Four flowing, poetic paragraphs about a travel dream. Less than half that for a by-the-numbers for the actual review, with a mere recitation of preferred dishes?

Restaurant reviews should talk about the food - you know: what's good (and why), what to avoid. Why a place kicked your ass, bored you, dared you to try another dish. Two sentences about the actual dishes do not do justice to any restaurant.

Charles, perhaps you should stick with politics.
Posted by supdegrave on November 4, 2010 at 12:29 AM · Report this
Or architecture.
(Just joking,)
Posted by David Sucher on November 4, 2010 at 1:22 AM · Report this
sevendaughters 3
Man, the commenters that trail Mudede critcising his every move are beginning to get on my last frigging nerve.

I've eaten tapas in Barcelona's Barri Gotic. Whilst I could write individual descriptions of the goat's cheese, chorizo in cider, and the local speciality 'leche con pantera' (look it up) - what's the point? What was unique about the experience was the idiosyncrasy of the experience: the stone floor, the swords hanging from the wall, that the tavern owner had to go into the basement for minutes at a time to prepare the food and entrusted us (and passers-by) with his till full of Euros. Dining isn't purely about shoving morsels into your mouth; it's a sensory, social experience, and I think Charles has captured that.

(Now I feel bad for having to defend someone. Eesh. This place.)
Posted by sevendaughters on November 4, 2010 at 4:01 AM · Report this
i agree with the criticism of mudede's writing. off topic. off the point. meandering. vague.
Posted by kasper on November 4, 2010 at 9:56 AM · Report this
Criminy, guys - Have you not read Charles' before, are you new here, alzheimers? When I saw the headline I thought "What the hell is Mudede doing writing about food? This'll be different." And you know what, it was. Does the slightest deviation from accepted forms ruin your day? Embrace the variety, I say, venture out. Go eat the effin' food that he suggested. Draw your own conclusions, and see if slogging all the way through Charle's meandering tale of the tapas somehow diminished your experience. Eesh. This place.
Posted by Doug in SC on November 4, 2010 at 3:26 PM · Report this
Karlheinz Arschbomber 6
Any time Mudede does a post not about Amanda, and not featuring breasts, you have a good chance of something worth reading. I enjoyed this mini-gastro-travelogue. Although going to Spain and knowing identically zero Spanish is -so- Ugly American. Big plus points for getting away from Barcelona & Madrid, as usual for European countries, the big centers sort of suck, you have to go to 'lesser' places to get the real experience.
Posted by Karlheinz Arschbomber on November 5, 2010 at 4:23 AM · Report this
Joe Szilagyi 7
You haters are stupid, and I'm one who sometimes says Charles, WTF? This article was great.
Posted by Joe Szilagyi on November 5, 2010 at 11:41 AM · Report this
De vero, amigo mio. En Espana, nadie come solo, nadie tome solo, todos nosotros estan uno en los tavernas y en las calles. Y desde nadie come comida mala, nadie se vende comida mala.
Posted by Chicago Fan on November 5, 2010 at 12:03 PM · Report this
Like many, I sometimes find Chuckles' writing to be like fingernails on a chalkboard. Not this time. For him, it is surprisingly on topic. He didn't mention dialectic materialism ONCE.
Chill, little ones.
Posted by Pol Pot on November 5, 2010 at 12:03 PM · Report this
tournant 10
I saw Mudede's byline on the article and thought "this is gonna be 10% about the actual restaurant, which is one i'm interested in the stranger's opinion on, as i know several people who work or have worked there, and 90% Chuck doing the overwritten, tangential Chuck thing."

and oh shit guess what.
Posted by tournant on November 5, 2010 at 12:30 PM · Report this
I don't understand; if you don't like it, don't read it. I don't spend every waking moment reading and ultimately complaining about the old testament. If you're already familiar with Mudede's writing, and you happen you dislike his work, why would you then read more of his work?

White liberals will find anything to complain about.
Posted by Central Scrutinizer on November 5, 2010 at 2:35 PM · Report this
Fistique 12
Haters all complaining they can't get the exact content from a Mudede review that they could get literally hundreds of other places these days. Stop demanding every restaurant serve you McDonald's fries, haters.
Posted by Fistique on November 9, 2010 at 3:06 AM · Report this
tl, dr: I've been to Spain. Ain't I cultured?
Posted by not logged in guy on November 11, 2010 at 9:19 AM · Report this
Well how about not putting rambling travel memoirs in the "food" section (I follow the Stranger's food RSS feed)? That should satisfy everyone.
Posted by A Reader on November 12, 2010 at 2:58 PM · Report this

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