It started, like many bad decisions in Spain, with enthusiasm and cheap wine.
Marisol — my neighbor, landlord, and occasional life coach — had insisted I join her and her friends for “proper tapas.” The real deal. Not the tourist stuff.
“Tonight,” she said, “you eat like a local.”
In hindsight, I should have asked which locals. The ones with iron stomachs, apparently.
We met at a place in a side alley I swear wasn’t there the day before. No sign, no menu, no lighting — just a faint smell of fried seafood and what I can only describe as damp optimism.
Inside were six plastic tables, one elderly man playing cards with himself, and a television bolted high in the corner playing muted bullfighting highlights from 1997.
“This,” Marisol whispered, “is where the magic happens.”
Round one: pulpo a la gallega.
Slices of octopus on boiled potatoes, sprinkled with paprika and sea salt. Delicious. Mildly rubbery, but in a good way. I nodded confidently, like someone who eats octopus all the time.
Round two: callos.
I looked at the plate. It looked back.
“Is this—”
“Tripe!” Marisol announced. “Very traditional.”
Yes. Very traditional. Very… stomach lining.
I took a bite. It had the texture of wet corduroy soaked in beef broth. I smiled anyway. Nobody likes a foreigner who winces.
Round three was where things started to slide sideways.
Huevos rotos con morcilla.
Fried eggs smashed over black pudding, swimming in oil.
“I don’t think it’s meant to glisten that much,” I whispered to Marisol. She shrugged.
“You’ll be fine. Builds character.”
At this point, I should mention that the house red was served in recycled Fanta bottles. Nobody explained why.
Round four — the Russian roulette moment.
A plate arrived that looked innocent enough: croquetas.
Golden, crispy, harmless. Comfort food.
I bit into one.
Immediately, I knew something was wrong.
Now — croquetas in Spain come filled with ham, chicken, or sometimes fish. This one? I would later learn, through unfortunate Google searches, was filled with bacalao cheeks.
Salted cod cheeks.
The consistency of warm toothpaste.
And overwhelmingly… fishy. Like being punched in the sinuses by Poseidon himself.
I smiled. I nodded. I chased it with wine.
Marisol beamed. “See? You are local now.”
I felt my intestines prepare for war.
The next morning, I was a broken woman. My stomach sounded like two angry cats trapped in a washing machine. My bathroom and I developed a deep, personal relationship.
At one point, I hallucinated the croqueta coming back to taunt me.
I texted Marisol:
You tried to kill me.
She replied:
You survived. You are ready for snails next week.
Snails. Of course.
I may not know how this chapter of my Spanish life ends, but I know it won’t be on an empty stomach. Or a stable one.
