Bar Tapas, Exchange Street

9 June 2007

Saturday was bland. The sky was bland. The weather? Bland. Between breakfast and lunch, the highlight was the inserts in the free paper.

We drew up the agenda for the trip to town. The most exciting item was a visit to the building society to update Mrs Wifey’s contact details. This was two years overdue.

Lost in the thrill of executing this administrative exercise, we found we had drifted to Pulse, the vegetarian café bar.

I generally consider vegetarianism to be wrong. Not *wrong* like Nazism, but nonetheless, an unnecessary crime against the palate. Still, I try not to be prejudiced (hey, some of my best friends are vegetarian!). On reading the menu, however, my excitement was measured, contained and humanely destroyed.

Vegetarian food is not strictly required to be tedious, but then one could say the same for house music. The day had already had blandness in spades; the last thing it needed was a chickpea burger too.

Instead we took the toro by the horns and headed for tapas.

Bar Tapas is another restaurant without ground-floor space – this being dedicated to Brambles instead. It’s also a personal favourite where, due to my tapas menu disorder, I inevitably order more than is sensible or healthy.

The walls are covered in posters for bullfights and similar Spanish paraphernalia; the ceiling is populated with football shirts, possibly from former Norwich City FC players. The smokers’ den is chock-full, but we have the no-smoking room to ourselves, and sit under a window that offers daylight but no view.

Due to the price of real estate and the onerous restrictions of health and safety legislation, the sardines were grilled rather than flame-charred in a scuttled fishing boat. However, they were still mighty fine, and an excellent reminder of everything good on the Costa del Sol.

The ham and artichoke was also tasty, with a garlic and butter sauce so glorious that gluten-intolerants would queue to dip their bread in it.

As for the meatballs cooked with potatoes, peppers and peas, I’d probably describe them as a new all-time favourite in the world-series meatball rankings. However, my meatballistic fickleness is notoriously bad, and I reserve the right to change my mind next week.

In all, it’s a wholesome experience, and as a paisano on a modest budget, that suits me down to the ground.

Eat here: don’t wait till manana
Keywords: ostentatious carnivorousness