Why Tapas Restaurants Fill Me with Rage

There are few things in life I hate more than tapas restaurants.

If you’ve never been before, here’s the gist. You don’t order normal meals at tapas places. Instead, you order several small plates which (surprise!) you’re expected to share with your tablemates. The idea is, ostensibly, to create a communal experience and sample several entrees in one sitting.

In reality, tapas restaurants are one of the worst ideas humankind has ever devised, up there with Crocs and Windows Vista.

Before we go any further, let me be clear: I’m not dumping on Spain or its people (where tapas originated). I’m dumping on the American version of tapas, those allegedly trendy, blatantly overpriced restaurants that fool us into buying glorified appetizers at revolting prices (plus the f-ing gratuity). Allow me to elaborate.

First problem: I have no idea how much food to order. Are three dishes enough? Or five? Maybe 10? More? The waiter/waitress always offers some nebulous answer such as, “One dish usually serves about 2 to 8 customers,” or, “Most patrons find this item rather filling.”

Thanks, Raphael—that wasn’t helpful at all. Anyway, no matter what we do, we’ll inevitably order too much or too little.

This whole futile process also takes forever. The group elects a spokesperson, probably the hungriest one present, then listens to said spokesperson mangle the entrée names. If they forget something, I can’t blame them; the poor sap has to remember 20 different dishes!

After some hangry small talk, Raphael returns with a quarter loaf of bread. This I can handle. Bread is a legitimate appetizer. It’s not masquerading as the main course, unlike everything else listed in curly font within the leather-bound menu.

The bread only lasts a few bites, so I sigh and gaze wistfully at the open kitchen. Our main courses won’t be ready for another fortnight or so, but in the meantime, I’ll settle for a food-high via the smell of other peoples’ dinners as they’re bustled past.

When the food finally does arrive, I’ll admit, some is tasty—if you can get it. With upwards of 10 dishes crammed onto the tabletop, most plates end up out of reach. If I’m lucky, I snag the gravy-laced beef and load up before anyone else. If not, I’m stuck with the pickled cauliflower soufflé, which not even vast amounts of cheese can make palatable.

That’s a universal constant of tapas restaurants, by the way. Someone reads a bizarre concoction off the menu and suggests ordering it. I’d never sample such crap in a million years, but I’m trying to be polite, so I smile and congratulate this person on their adventurousness, all the while wondering if cannibalism is the best solution here.

I goop the experiment onto my plate, then pray there’s enough of the tasty dish left to satiate my raging stomach. Unlikely, since it’s quite the challenge to portion properly.

When the tasty dish appears, I’m presented with a frustrating conundrum: Do I take whatever’s left, or should I leave a scoop for some other schmo? It’s always the latter, because emptying the plate feels like splurging during a famine.

If tapas portions were reasonable, this wouldn’t be an issue. However, the plates look like they’re prepared for Keebler Elves. What’s worse, while I’m trying to eat, I get nudged on both sides by new dishes I don’t even want. So I discard my utensils and pass the food along, all the while pretending this is all so much fun.

At some point during the meal, I must excuse myself to the bathroom. Not that I actually need the facilities; I haven’t consumed nearly enough food to warrant a bowel movement. Instead, I’m going there to mutter about how irritating this situation is. “Tapas restaurants,” I growl at my reflection, probably sounding like Robert Durst. “I’d rather watch the film adaptation of Cats than eat here.”

If only there was something in the bathroom I might eat, but they’re out of paper towels and I won’t stoop so low as to try the urinal cake. So I wash my hands, return to the table, and smile apologetically whenever my empty stomach gurgles too loudly.

This is the part where I become envious and straight up angry at my fellow diners, even if they’re friends or family. Because while I’m force-feeding myself cauliflower, I notice somebody across the table poking at a half-eaten slab of gravy-laced beef.

How dare you!? I think to myself. You got the gravy-laced beef and you’re not even going to finish it? Don’t you realize how lucky you are!?

Sadly, none of this torment rivals the most infuriating moment of the night. That comes when the check arrives.

Though the dining party usually wants separate checks, nobody ever remembers to tell Raphael pre-meal. If he’s sharp, Raphael might ask preemptively—perhaps noticing that nobody appears to be related—but most often it’s only remembered at meal’s end. At which point Raphael invents some convoluted excuse about why he won’t do it. “The cash register—it’s part of a union! I can’t ask it to separate checks!”

So that’s great. Where’s the person with the closest amalgamation of a mathematics degree? They need to parse this tapestry-length receipt so we can pay and get the hell out of here.

This is all assuming we didn’t make the mistake of ordering dessert. Because now that we’re at a tapas restaurant and we’re all treated as one entity, Raphael will totally foist some sweets on us. If somebody decides they’re craving sugar, they’ll be disappointed if I’m not. So now I’ve been guilted into dropping another 20 bucks on some banana-flavored ooze that takes the kitchen another half-hour to concoct.

Also, before I forget, there’s something else I’d like to complain about. Unless you’re on Top Chef, I don’t give a crap about the presentation of the dish. If there’s more empty plate than there is food, I’m gonna be furious. I don’t care about negative space, or artful streaks of sauce, or garnish. None of those things make me less hungry. I can dig art, but when I come to a restaurant and pay money for food, I want food. Not a goddamn Van Gogh.

Anyway, back to the bill. By now we’ve discovered the restaurant’s 20% gratuity tip, a term which I’ve always found oxymoronic. Nobody feels gratitude toward anybody for being forced to pay anything. Whatever. I hate these stupid places, anyway.

Now that my wallet is $80 lighter, it’s time to reflect on this experience. How many stars would I give it? Zero! Negative five! I just spent my hard-earned cash on Happy Meal-portions of mediocre food I had to share with a bunch of people I now despise. No thank you, world.

Once we get outside, someone invariably remarks, “Wasn’t that fun? Shouldn’t we do that again sometime?”

Depending on who this person is, I feel like punching them in the neck, or at least challenging them on their definition of “fun.” What else do you find fun, former friend? Self-immolation?

Instead, I say nothing. I just nurse the grievance like a Neanderthal sharpening a wooden spear. There’s no vitriol left in me, anyway—I’ve poured it all into this essay, or rant, or whatever you want to call it.

So I silently seethe the whole drive back. I’m just trying to hold it together until I arrive home. Once there, I’m going to gorge on Cheez-Its.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories about coffee.