A band tootled its way into the dark square,
followed by a torchlit Madonna, bedecked with flowers
and jewels. There were shouts, bravos and
a ripple of applause. Then another figure emerged from the gloom--Christ, carrying his cross, a carved figure
with real shoulder-length hair and a sweeping purple robe

Just around the corner from the apartment where I lived in Central Madrid is a bar, one of a dozen in the immediate vicinity--and my favourite stopping-off place for a glass of wine and a nibble. For nibbling is what the Spanish love to do, at just about any hour of the day or night. It's a great Spanish pastime, a culinary tradition and probably the main reason so many Spaniards, lean in their teens and Twenties, get a spare pneumatico round their middles soon thereafter.

The irresistible villain? The tapa. Tapa means "lid" in Spanish and originally it was a piece of bread placed on top of a drink to keep the flies out. Today it's a tidbit, served hot and cold in bars and bistros from the green North to the sunburned South in a bewildering and mouthwatering variety. A visit to Spain is incomplete without some tapa nibbling.

Actually, the tapa scene is changing. What was once handed out free along with your drink--a small sampling of something tasty to sharpen your appetite--has now become a more generous racion, or portion, which you pay for. There are some purists who decry this transition, but others-- including many tourists keeping a close watch on their budgets--welcome it. It's quite possible, in fact, to spend a convivial evening in any Spanish town doing nothing but nibbling and skipping the night-time meal altogether.

You can do this in style or in great simplicity. My neighbourhood bar was-is typical of the majority in Madrid. In London, it would be called a working man's cafe. It was usually filled when I passed it in the morning and when I arrived home at night. I would look through its glass windows to neon lights illuminating a smoky haze, seeing people at the pinball machine, by the jukebox or talking animatedly in groups. I'd elbow my way into the throng, over to where the short order cook stood in his little niche by the window. As the waiter called out tapa orders, the cook worked swiftly, chopping up pulpo (octopus), sepia (cuttlefish) and rinones (kidneys).

Usually, I ordered cuttlefish. The chef would place six ripe black olives before me--something to go on with--and reach for the slick white cuttlefish, chopping it deftly into little pieces and scattering the pieces onto a sizzling black hotplate. He would then reach into a wooden box for salt, which he'd sprinkle onto the cuttlefish, then douse them with a mixture of olive oil, crushed garlic and crushed parsley. They'd sputter and sizzle; the aroma was delectable--I can smell it now.

With a swift, sure movement of the spatula, he'd turn the cuttlefish again and again, forming little patterns on the hotplate. Then, just before serving them up, he'd squirt the cuttlefish with lemon juice. Thus my evening's nibbling began. I'd sip my wine and, using toothpicks provided, pop each browned and succulent morsel into my mouth. One racion cost (then) a little over a dollar. Cuttlefish and kidneys (which are cooked the same way) are still my special favourites at this bar. The octopus is boiled, then chopped Up with raw onion and an oil-and-vinegar dressing. It's good, too.

Tapa-hopping in Spain can yield memorable moments. I remember one Easter evening, a friend and I decided to go to the Plaza Mayor, in Madrid, to watch the procession. We heard trumpets in the distance and then a band tootled its way into the dark square, followed by a torchlit Madonna, hel aloft, bedecked with flowers and jewels. There were shouts, bravos and a ripple of applause. Then another figure emerged from the gloom- Christ, carrying his cross, a superbly carved figure with real shoulder-length hair and a sweeping purple robe which moved as the Christ moved, borne by eager bearers. Someone in the crowd sang a saeta, a highly individualistic song of tribute, to more applause. And then, suddenly, the procession and the people were gone. We were almost alone in the plaza, deciding it was time for a snack. On one side of the square, we discovered a cellar bar called Terra Nossa, run by Galicians. The raciones served here were delicious. We chose Panadas de Mariscos--- small Galician pies filled with shellfish, something like Cornish pasties. And we washed down our tapas with Vino de Ribero, also from the North, a wine as red and as thick as blood.

By far the tastiest kidneys I have ever nibbled are served in a little bar opposite the cathedral in Seville. Go to where the carriages wait for tourists and you'll find it. You can sit at a sidewalk table and watch the horses clip-clop by.The kidneys they serve, rinones al jerez, are simmered in sherry, and they're incredibly good. Be sure to try them, here or elsewhere. When you get home, try making them yourself. Here's how you do it--the recipe I coaxed from the Seville chef:

Saute 12 lbs sliced lamb or calf kidneys, a chopped onion and a clove of minced garlic together in l cup of olive oil, over a high flame, for about a minute. Add 1 cup of sherry and simmer, covered, for 3 minutes. Serve at once. Serves 4.

In Chinchon, a small town near Madrid, I have idled away afternoons nibbling huge black olives and sweet, pungent chorizo, a highly seasoned pork sausage, listening to the roar of the bullfight crowd in the distance. The place to look for here is called Meson Cuevas del Vino, a onetime warehouse for wine. Here, in a whitewashed, wood-beamed warehouse, you can eat a full meal or, if you prefer, you can linger in a large bar, strung with chorizo sausage and carpeted with sawdust. Before you leave, see the wine caves below. For a small admission price, you'll receive a glass of the local tinto, a pleasant red, and sip it in dark, cobwebbed caverns filled with huge earthenware casks.

Back in Madrid, stroll along the Avenida de Pintar Rosales, a broad and handsome tree-lined street in the expensive side of town, near the university. Along the full length of the avenue, set under the sidewalk chestnuts, are al fresco bars-- -the perfect place to spend an hour or two on a hot summer day. The nibbling's fun, too!

Ernest Hemingway, when he lived in Madrid, used to frequent the Alemana on the Plaza Santa Ana. It's a very atmospheric bar, a combination of macho and Art Deco--the perfect place, I think, for after-Prado nibbling (the Prado museum is just down the street). I used to come here for sweet, smoked Serrano Ham, and for plump pink shrimps which go so well with a chilled dry sherry or a beer.

There are so many bars, so many different tapas and raciones to choose from. One bar, the Corillo de Ayala, offers a mind-boggling variety--- ham chunks with red peppers, tortilla (potato omelette), kidney in white wine, chicken livers in meat sauce with egg slices, salt cod with a Basque sauce, tuna pies, stewed quail, tripe stew, snails in hot sauce, baby eels, squid in its own ink, pigs feet, clams with parsley, mushrooms with garlic, stewed partridge--- the list goes on and on, thirty two different snacks altogether. The simpler places, like my little neighbourhood bar, won't have a selection like this; they'll usually offer only about a dozen choices, with daily specials. Look for the tapa menu as you pass by. It will be painted in white on the inside of the window and, inside, on a mirror somewhere. And keep a little Spanish dictionary handy to help you decipher what's what. That way, you won't order baby eels when what you really want is an omelette!