Havana
March 29, 2003 No CommentsIn Spain, the origins of tapas are hotly debated. In Castille they claim these appetising morsels were created by King Alfonso X’s calorie zapping chef back in the 13th century. This notion is laughed to scorn in Seville where they believe tapas are heaven-sent to be eaten outdoors accompanied by a glass of sherry. Why, the very name comes from an Andalusan word for the glass dish used to keep flies out of one’s fino.
I discovered the joys of tapas on an assignment in the Algarve. We were held up on the photography by inclement weather and, wearying of the tedium of our hotel bar, the frustrated paparazzo and I fled over the border to a small town, notable only for the size of the parish church. Or so we thought, until we found the amazing tapas bar, where sixty varieties winked, beckoned and cajoled. We saw off twenty, killed two bottles of fino, all served with considerable charm by two brown-eyed girls. We drank our host’s free aguardiente and, for sport, watched the locals tumbling base-over-apex on the submerged cobbles in the Town Square. There are worse ways to pass the time.
Havana in Portobello, an area that’s becoming a synomym for bohemian buzz, has but twelve varieties. One of these is paella, hardly tapas in the true sense but my guest decided to try it anyway. It was a good, but not a memorable paella. We ordered tortilla, another Hispanic staple – again, it was a ‘small portion’ rather than ‘a small entity’ which I’ve always understood to be fundamental to tapas culture. Still, it was fresh and appetising. The third dish, the best to my mind, was a bucolic stew of spicy chorizo over chillied lentils, warming and welcome on a cold March night. The food came in traditional cazuelitas, brown earthenware bowls; or on shallow decorated dishes – the sort you bring home from the Costa del Anywhere to serve crisps and peanuts in. We ordered a e22 bottle of bog-standard Rioja from CVNE, (pronounces ‘koonay’) the big co-operative, fine, but entirely without a “Wow!” factor, common to latter-day Rioja, I find. Leave it to other regions of Spain to inject a dash of pizzazz.
As in Spain, we were served at table. The room, bare when we arrived, was now heaving. There were two parties of six girls, all having a high old time and causing me to wonder “What the hell is up with us males? Why is it we always finish up rendezvousing in the same grotty pub instead of going out for a nice meal?” All the while music boomed unabated. Manuel, Miguel and the lads, thrash flamenco with rocky drums, suddenly gave way to Handel – ‘Royal Fireworks’, ‘Queen of Sheba’ or some such – I half expected Mad King George to come bursting through the door.
Desserts were nothing but the same old story: “We had some nice Spanish ones but they didn’t sell.” Sad, restaurateurs really would like to see you lot get your munching tackle round something other than cheesecake, tiramisu and banoffi pie, so how about it?
Verdict? Havana doesn’t quite have the flavour of old Seville but it does provide honest Spanish-style food at honest non-Irish style prices and an exhilarating night out for not-too-much money, viz. e51 for three ’tapas’, two desserts and the wine.
Havana Tapas Bar, Grantham Street, Dublin 8 Tel (01) 408 4800 Mon-Sat 12-10.30 (later Sats)
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