KCFreePress.com

It will happen to all of us sooner or later: we will be deciding where to eat, and someone will broach the subject of tapas. It will seem, at first, like a great idea. Sangria tastes good. Shellfish taste good. The people of the Mediterranean live an enviable lifestyle. They sit in cafes and drink red wine by the gallon. Their afternoons are filled with naps and their nights are filled with magical realism. They live, on average, 28 years longer than the typical American.

But in my experience, the trip to the tapas joint is more trouble that it’s worth. So, in honor of the number of shrimp you can get for 11 dollars at a certain Spanish restaurant on Southwest Boulevard, here are my five observations on tapas:

1) I can’t pronounce it. I took three years of high school Spanish, but try as I might, I always make the first syllable of “tapas” rhyme with “map” or “sap,” and then I feel like an idiot. Senora McGill would be muy triste if she could hear me.

2) Never go to a Tapas place with people you don’t know very well. This summer, I was attending a seminar in an East Coast city, and someone suggested tapas for dinner. When you’re with friends, you can be honest about your needs (i.e., “No, good buddy, half a pitcher of sangria will not get me drunk enough to stop complaining”). But when you’re out with professional acquaintances, it’s a minefield. Who gets the last mussel? Has everyone already had at least one artichoke heart? Is that woman keeping kosher? If so, will she be offended if I suggest a pork dish?

Bottom line: if the meal could conceivably impact your future job prospects, you don’t need the added tapas stress.

3) Never attend a tapas place if the number of people in your group equals a prime number larger than three. You know why Einstein never ate Spanish food? Because he couldn’t figure out an equitable way to divide four fried ham balls among seven people either.

4) Sharing is Un-American. Look, I’m plenty liberal: I voted for Obama, I watched "The Wire," and I’m pretty sure that buying Shatto milk makes me a better person than you. But if I wanted to share my dinner with the person sitting next to me, I’d move to Sesame Street.

5) Never be the biggest person in your group at a Tapas Place. At 6’3”, 220 pounds, I’m hardly gigantic, and by Kansas City standards I’m practically a model. But if friends drag me to a tapas place I am invariably the largest guy in the group. This leads, without fail, to a moment when I am totally ready to order up another round of cold potatoes or meat-stuffed olives or whatever, only to realize that everyone else in the group is patting their bellies and checking their cell-phone clocks. So do I order more food and look like a pig, or go home hungry from a frankly-kinda-expensive dinner? I always go for option two, because I am a gentleman. Then, one hour later, I sit in silence and eat the peanut butter sandwich of solitude.

It’s not worth it, Kansas City. Just walk to the other side of the Boulevard and eat Mexican.

Photo: ZagatBuzz/Flickr/CC.

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