The Tapas Crawl – Part 1: Five Bars, One Guide

The first bar was dark and narrow, with a counter of worn wood and a wall of hams hanging from hooks like pale trophies. Pilar stood at the bar with a glass of cold manzanilla and a plate she hadn't ordered, and wondered how she had let a stranger lead her into this.

"Eat it," said Iván. "Don't think. Just taste."

"It's ham."

"It's jamón ibérico, from pigs who ate acorns under the oak trees for two years. Eat it, and then tell me it's just ham."

She ate it. The fat melted on her tongue, nutty and sweet, salty at the edges. She closed her eyes without meaning to.

"Oh," she said.

Iván grinned. He was lean and dark-haired, in a loose white shirt and a battered leather jacket, and he moved through the crowded bar like a man who had known every bartender since childhood.

"You're a chef," he said. "I can tell by how you eat. Like you're trying to memorise the recipe."

"I used to be a chef," said Pilar. "I lost my job in London last month. My head chef said I'd become too careful. That I cooked like I was afraid of the pan."

Iván was quiet for a moment, watching her face.

"Then let's go and find a bar where nobody is careful," he said. "Come on. Second bar. The fried fish is terrible but the prawns are a crime."

They walked through the narrow streets of Santa Cruz, past white walls draped in bougainvillea and balconies heavy with pots of geraniums. The bars were loud and bright. The waiters called to each other in rapid Andalusian. Every counter had a plate of something Pilar had never tasted, and every plate came with a story from Iván.

"This one is a chickpea stew from a grandmother who refused to sell the recipe," he said. "She only gives it to people who ask her nicely."

"Did you ask her nicely?"

"I asked her to marry me," said Iván. "She said no, but she gave me the recipe anyway. I'm still working on the first part."

Pilar laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine.

At the fourth bar, with the sun going down over the rooftops and the lanterns flickering on, Iván leaned against the counter beside her, close enough that she could smell orange blossom and smoke.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"What would you cook, if nobody was watching? Not for the job. Not for the head chef. Just for yourself?"

Pilar set down her glass. She thought of her grandmother's kitchen in Valencia, the pots of rice, the sound of the pan.

"Rice," she said slowly. "A paella, the old way, with snails and rabbit and too much saffron. And I'd eat it on the back step with nobody telling me it's wrong."

Iván's face softened. "Then I'll take you to a place where nobody will tell you it's wrong," he said. "Tomorrow. My mother's kitchen. She's terrible at the rice but wonderful at the saffron."

"Is that a date?"

"It's a very honest invitation," said Iván. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me kiss you, here, at this bar, with the whole of Seville pretending it can't see us?"

Pilar laughed, warm and breathless. "Yes," she said. "But if I say stop, you have to eat the terrible fried fish for me."

"Deal," said Iván. "Green?"

"Green," said Pilar. "Very green. Now kiss me before the prawns get cold."