A server we hadn't seen before comes over with our wine glasses and interrupts our blatant checking-out of Gorgeous Spanish Man No. 1304 across the room. As the waiter comes over, said man looks at our table, smiles, and gives us an admiring nod. The server also does a double take:* "��Hay mucha comida, chicas!" *("That's a lot of food, girls!") There's probably some sort of algebraic equation Spanish kids are taught for tapas-ordering, but the general rule seems to be a small plate for each person, plus one more.
We'd ordered seven. Again, there were two of us.
By our fourth plate, the table across from us has caught our eye. It's filled with French guys, who have just ordered their own tapas in the proper ratio. I make eye contact with one of them, and we both smile. Then he looks at our full table top, and, rather in contrast to Gorgeous Spanish Man No. 1304, his expression settles on a unique blend of awe and horror. He says something to his friends, and in that not-obvious-but-totally-obvious way of checking something out, they turn around to steal a glance. Fiona and I quickly stack and condense all possible plates, but the damage is done.
Midway through wining and dining, we have our first real interaction with a Spanish man — namely, our waiter. He comes over to our table in a jubilant flurry, exclaiming "����Madrid?! ����Madrid?!" I initially begin to respond with, "Actually, I'm reasonably sure we're in Barcelona" but remember that Real Madrid is a football (soccer) club (team). They must have won a game. I respond with "��Vamos Madrid!" which I desperately hope means, "Let's go, Madrid!" and not "Let's go to Madrid!"
He grabs my face and gives me a kiss on each cheek, which really doesn't rule out either option. Then he turns to Fiona, who looks at me with a questioning look on her face, and does the same thing before prancing off to the kitchen. I don't think we're going to Madrid.
By our third glass of wine, Fiona is narrating our dinner like Woody Allen narrates Vicky Christina Barcelona, a feat of impromptu comedic prowess that will reoccur sporadically throughout the rest of the trip. A man comes in and wanders from table to table, selling roses. The Frenchmen are still eating less than we have.
We get the check and pay, but not before another our wine-glass server swings by and presents us each with a blush, a rose, and another kiss. Apparently our Olympian gastronomic feat didn't put off Spanish men — even if they were our waiters and the No. 1304 mystery man.
This might be my kind of country.
Tomorrow: Fiona and I continue to really explore the intricacies of Spanish culture during an encounter with a French curling team in an pseudo-Irish pub.
*Quick movie synopsis: Two friends go on holiday and each have a romance with the same passionate, complicated artist. It may or may not have inspired our trip. *
