The Spanish Mealtime Rules
By Jeff Gamble

The first time Marta and I went out to eat together, we went to an Indian restaurant in the Salamanca neighborhood of Madrid. I guess you could call it our first official date. It was a nice, dimly lit spot with romantic ambiance. The dinner went well and after only having officially met face-to-face for the first time only days before, there was no shortage of things for the two of us to talk about. Everything was smooth. Then, towards the end of the meal, with a slough of Indian sauces mingling in a common trough on my plate, I did something that tagged me with a reputation that has since become the stuff of Spanish folklore. And not the good kind.

Before explaining the act, I feel it’s necessary to first express that – in my viewpoint - details of the actual event have since been embellished and exaggerated. I don’t deny that it happened, but like most stories of legend, the facts are disputable. For me, what took place is hardly notable at all. In fact, if I were to relive the moment, I don’t think I would alter a thing. But evidently, this is wherein lies the problem.

With the lonely curry sauces socializing on my dish and begging for attention, I went for a piece of nan bread to sop up the delicious goodness. As I did so, I noticed a look on Marta’s face that was nothing short of horrific. It was as if I had just scooped a mouthful of turds into my mouth. I paused in mid motion and looked at her, wondering what was wrong. I think I may have actually looked behind me as well to see if something was happening at another table. But the look was directed at me. “What are you doing?!” she said in a hushed and embarrassed voice, glancing around to see if anybody else had seen me.

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you serious?” she responded, searching my eyes for the joke. “That piece of bread you just dipped onto your plate was massive!”

I was lost. “So?”

She made a face that hinted at further disgust. “So you can’t do that here! That’s not just rude, it’s disgusting!”

So much for the smooth first date. But for me eating bread with fist-sized chunks is not just normal, it’s compulsory. In Spain however, it’s this act of blasphemy is something that’s only acceptable under certain circumstances, and even then only with a piece that’s about the size of a measly bottle cap. According to Marta, you could have hidden a CD under the slab of nan I used to soak up the sauce. I dispute this, but either way my conscious is clear. As far as I’m concerned, bread and sauces are meant to be together in joyous harmony, so why not bring together as much as possible at the same time? She’s lucky I didn’t just tilt my plate, pour the remaining curry onto an entire piece of nan, fold it in half like a taco, and go to town.

But what was I supposed to do? As an American, this is how I operate. Americans don’t have time for bird-sized bites. We are a people on the go. Food is often times little more than a power source – a temporary battery that keeps us going until the next time to ingest food comes around. Consumption happens when it happens, and is usually via deliveries, deli counters, or drive-thru’s. For us, if a task can’t be done while doing something else at the same time, then it’s probably not worth doing. Eating is no exception.

Eventually Marta got past my transgression and agreed to move to the States and become my wife. When this happened, one of the first cultural things to make an impression on her was how people could be seen in public, eating and walking down the street as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And she says that there is nothing more red, white and blue than seeing somebody cruising the sidewalks with a giant cup of coffee in their hand. Prior to her pointing it out, I never even gave this so-called phenomenon a single thought. This is after all, the essence of American productivity – the incorporation of maximum activities into a minimum timeframe. We may get upset at seeing the suicidal driver who’s eating, steering, and talking on the phone all at once, but it’s probably only a matter of hours before we’re doing the same thing.

In Spain the approach to doing things is more relaxed, and mealtime is no different. One of the foundations of Spanish culture takes place at lunch, when the family comes together for the biggest and most important meal of the day. It is an opportunity for everyone to enjoy each other’s company, talk about whatever, relish a good meal, and do so without haste or expectations of what happens next. And this doesn’t happen once a week, but every day.

There is certainly good reason to be in attendance for lunch at home. Everything is done with a proper sense of appreciation. Forks and knives are placed on the correct side of the plate, and are situated on cloth napkins. The food is usually served to you, as opposed to the traditional American buffet-style trough in the middle of the table. You begin with some kind of starter, normally a soup or something of the like, and then that’s followed by the main course. Bread is ever-present, and is always fresh because it’s somebody’s chore to fetch it from the local bakery each morning.

Despite the relaxed atmosphere that surrounds mealtime though, the approach to table manners and decorum in Spain is more rigorous than what I am accustomed to at home. That first date with Marta was a hint at how people here operate differently while eating. The other day during lunch, for example, as the family spoke and I was doing my best to follow along and be polite, Marta’s mom began to talk about how things have changed since she a was a kid. She indicated that her mother used to be intolerant of any nonsense at the table whatsoever, and those who crossed her became newspaper headlines. Not sitting up straight? Strap ‘em to the gurney. Eating your salad with your fish fork? The Iron Maiden. Addressing an adult without first being addressed? Oh God, run. Run as fast as you can! Steal a burro and join a band of flamenco-singing gypsies!

I never would have made it out alive.

In the past months I have done my best to adhere to the mealtime rules in the Spanish home. For the most part, by paying attention and not moving or breathing too much, I’ve avoided Armageddon. My experiences haven’t been without incident however, and there have been moments when I have been singled out for my barbarian-like manner. Most times it’s been only a comment, pointing out my indiscretion. Other times though, it’s been noteworthy, causing the kind of stir you might expect if Louis Farrakhan opened a door and suddenly found himself in the middle of a Klan meeting.

Because of past lessons learned, I’ve decided to impart my hard-learned wisdom on visitors to Spain who may not be accustomed to the operating system used at the table here. The following is a top 10 list of things to be aware of before sitting down for a meal:

1. The cook must be complimented.
There is no ceiling to the number of time you may compliment the cook during a single meal, but the minimum number is about twenty-five. However, this rule only applies if you are enjoying the meal. If everything tastes like ass, then you are only required to compliment the cook ten to twelve times. A failure to acknowledge a meal or dish may be likened to the side effects of experimental medication: can lead to anxiety, hyper-tension, or death.

2. Be animated and expressive in describing how much you enjoy the food.
This goes hand in hand with complimenting the cook. Based on how often I have to be encouraged to show enthusiasm, I still have a long way to go. Unfortunately, I am not an enthusiastic or excitable person, so it’s a problem. My failure to get up and do a little dance after each forkful of food I shovel into my mouth is evidently a sign that whatever has been served makes me want to throw up.

3. Keep plates and bowls on the table where they belong.
I nonchalantly lifted my bowl off the table the other day to get an angle on the last noodles kickin’ it at the bottom of my soup, and the room suddenly became very quiet. I looked up to see what was going on and saw Marta’s mom cross herself.

4. The Vegas line on yawning/ stretching at the table vs. becoming a serial killer? Pick ‘em.
Either way you’ll be considered the scourge of the earth. And with both options your only way out is to plead insanity.

5. Keep both hands on the table.
A sole hand in your lap is a sign that you’re probably servicing yourself, so keep ‘em both on the table at all times. Don’t create more suspicion about what goes on in the bathroom than you probably already have.

6. Eating in front of the TV.
Did you say ‘let’s eat in front of the TV?’ No, please. Please tell me you didn’t just suggest that. Tell me you said something else. Actually, don’t say anything at all. Don’t say another word. Let’s just sit here in silence and pretend that everything was just like it was a few minutes ago, back when the world was different. Let’s turn the lights off as well so I can’t see you and pretend you’re not here.

7. Remain at the table until everybody has finished.
We’re talking old-school rules here, folks. And if you think you can just eat and run in order to reach that important business meeting on time, then you’re just going to have to deal with the consequences. From that moment on, you are to people at that table what a baby bird is to its parents after its been handled by humans: filthy and untouchable.

8. No talking with your mouth full of food.
This is a rule, but it’s a nearly impossible rule for the Spaniards to follow, as they all tend to want to talk at the same time. On the off chance you find yourself in a moment where all is momentarily quiet though, there is a saying. “Ha pasado un ángel” they say, or “An angel has passed”. But it might be more appropriate if they said “A miracle has passed” because finding Spanish folks without anything to say to each other is exactly that.

9. Meal time + Dress-up time = Fun time.
When I was high school I once ate lunch with a friend’s family who were hosting a Spanish exchange student. Throughout the meal, I thought the guy looked kind of ill. Having been to the other side now, I understand how wearing your “No Fat Chicks” t-shirt at the table can have that effect on people.

10. “Bread is not a utensil.”
As a self-imposed disciplinary measure, I keep a small chalkboard with me at all times that I use to write this phrase over and over. The inner conflict to use American sized bread chunks versus wearing the Spanish dunce cap however, still shows no signs of diminishing. But hopes for a full rehabilitation are still high. Stay tuned.

- December, 2005