If you’ve ever had tapas in an American restaurant, chances are they didn’t quite replicate what you’d find in a tapas bar or café in Spain. There are plenty of establishments out there that live up to their claim of serving authentic Spanish food, but the restaurant owner might have a liberal interpretation of the word “tapas,” and present them as any kind of appetizer that may or may not resemble something Spanish.

Even if the food is flawless, the concept of the tapas bar has not seemed to transcend the culinary culture of Spain to the streets of American cities. Sure, you might get some potentially contaminated peanuts or popcorn as a complimentary accompaniment to your beer at a sports bar, but you’d probably refrain due to all those articles you’ve read about post-bathroom hygiene. (And why should you get more than some free peanuts? Tipsy Americans with the munchies have few reservations when it comes to paying for a greasy, satisfying meal. Take it from someone who once served pricy burgers and milkshakes to drunken college students at 2 am when the bars let out.)

This digression aside, what I found kind of neat about Spanish bars is that they generally provide something more substantial when you buy a small glass of beer. Sadly, in Madrid where I lived, most bars no longer serve plates upon plates of tapas on the house, and to get a meal this way amounts in a separate charge for food and drinks. In another time, it would have been possible to eat your fill of whatever bread, cheese, ham, and potato combinations the bars provide along with your sangria.

This tradition lives on in many parts of Spain, but in Madrid there was only one place I knew of where it continues. At El Tigre, in the neighborhood of Chueca, you get not just a piece of bread with cheese but a thrilling three plates of tapas for the price of a beer (a euro or two) or super-sweet sangria. The place was often packed, especially on weekend nights, with as many English speakers as locals vying for a stool at one of the rough-hewn tables. My friends and I would usually take turns holding the plates for each other, as earlier-arriving customers left little room for additional plates and glasses. We stood munching and talking, adjusting to the constant push of the crowd trying to order at the bar, observing how the mounted boar’s head watched regally over us and commenting on the attractiveness of the bartenders.

If there was a way to successfully request a specific plate of tapas, I never figured it out. But we were usually pleased with whatever was handed to us, from patatas bravas to croquetas. No fancy endive with walnuts or smoked salmon or artichokes with garlic aioli, thank you very much, but this wasn’t Mario Batalli’s place of business. And it was all muy, muy rico: quality munchies that were down-to-earth, traditional, starchy, salty and oily in all the right proportions. It was a hearty dinner substitute that would prepare my stomach for any alcohol that would be consumed throughout the long night in a Madrid discoteca. (Speaking of using food as a buffer from over-intoxication, I once heard that tapas were originally intended to prevent sailors from getting drunk—a likely story.) I couldn’t ask for more. Now if only I could find someone to invest in my very own old-school tapas bar in the Bay Area—any takers?

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