The Accidental Invention of Tapas

How a king’s hangover (or a bartender’s creativity) led to tapas – Spain’s greatest culinary tradition.

Once upon a time in Spain, someone got hungry. That someone might have been a king, or a peasant, or perhaps a clever bartender who just couldn’t stand the sight of another glass of sherry being sipped all alone. The origins of tapas are as tangled as a plate of sizzling gambas al ajillo, and just as satisfying to pick apart. One thing’s for sure: nobody sat down with a quill and a scroll and said, “Right then, let’s revolutionise Spanish cuisine with tiny plates.” They just sort of happened, like most of the best things in life – by accident, whimsy, and probably a little hunger-fuelled desperation. The kind of idea that sneaks up on you when you’re peckish and have a half-empty bottle of wine nearby. Or when the bar’s a bit drafty and someone, somewhere, decides to slap a slice of meat on your drink. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but in this case, so was the wind.

Let’s rewind a bit. Legend has it that King Alfonso X of Castile, way back in the 13th century, had a bit of a health wobble. Nothing too scandalous, just one of those royal “not feeling quite myself” situations. His doctors, clearly visionaries ahead of their time, prescribed wine (as they should), but with a catch: he had to nibble on something while drinking. Something to soak it up, keep the royal constitution stable. The snack supposedly kept him upright, or at least less prone to toppling over. Once he recovered, perhaps out of gratitude or sheer self-interest, he decreed that taverns shouldn’t serve alcohol without a little food. Public health policy? Royal hangover management programme? Either way, Spain would never eat the same way again. It might have been the earliest case of preventative medicine disguised as a plate of almonds and sausage. If modern health plans included manchego and Rioja, maybe we’d all be a bit more compliant. Who wouldn’t attend their check-ups for a prescription of tempranillo and toasty pan con tomate?

Then there’s another tale, dripping in drama, involving King Alfonso XIII (no relation, except for the throne and the flair). He stopped by a bar in Cadiz – as you do when you’re a monarch with a taste for coastal breezes – and the bartender, clearly more concerned with gusts of wind than protocol, covered the king’s glass with a slice of cured ham. Practical? Definitely. Delicious? Absolutely. The king liked the idea so much, he ordered another drink and, with it, another ham-covered lid. A tapa. And there you have it: the noble beginnings of the Spanish snack scene, born of breeze and pig. Not quite the Magna Carta, but arguably more delicious. And far less likely to trigger a constitutional crisis. Unless someone tries to serve it without bread. One can imagine the scandal if they’d used lettuce instead – exile-worthy.

Or maybe it was just bartenders being sneaky geniuses. Salt makes you thirsty. Give the punters a bit of salty chorizo, maybe some anchovies, and suddenly everyone’s ordering another round. A clever move in any economy, and let’s be honest, manchego cheese is far more charming than a marketing strategy. You don’t need an MBA to realise that feeding your customers keeps them happy, and happy customers drink more. It’s hospitality dressed up as hospitality, with a little side of shrewd economics. And if they stay for a third round because you served them garlic prawns that demanded a second helping of bread? Well, that’s just good business. Bonus points if the prawns are sizzling so loudly they double as entertainment.

Of course, none of these stories come with a footnote or timestamp. They’re all part of the lore, passed down like recipes and rumours. What we do know is that tapas grew legs. What began as a trick to keep flies out of wine or monarchs on their feet turned into a sprawling, spirited celebration of regional flavour. In the north, you’ll find boquerones marinated in vinegar. In Madrid, patatas bravas with that spicy red sauce that leaves just enough on your lips to justify another bite. In the Basque Country, pintxos rule the bar, spiked with toothpicks like edible flagpoles. In Andalusia, they lean hard into fried fish and cold soups. In Catalonia, they’ve added their own Catalan flair, like romesco sauces and rustic bread rubbed with tomato. And in every corner, jamón – because this is Spain, and ham is practically a religion. Not a mild, once-a-week belief either. A full-blown, daily ritual with reverence, ritual slicing, and the hushed awe of visitors encountering it for the first time. The jamón legs hanging behind the bar aren’t decor; they’re a covenant. They’re also, let’s be honest, a bit intimidating – that hoofed leg watching you as you order another beer.

Tapas aren’t just about food. They’re about timing, about stories, about saying “just one more” and meaning both the dish and the drink. They’re the ultimate social lubricant. You go out for a glass of wine, someone orders a plate of padrón peppers, someone else throws in tortilla española, and before you know it, you’re knee-deep in a meal that no one planned but everyone welcomed. It’s a dinner date that refuses to admit it’s a dinner date. The type of evening that starts with “let’s just grab a quick drink” and ends with dessert, coffee, and maybe a digestif or two if the night insists. Hours melt away in bites and sips, and nobody minds. Time isn’t tracked; it’s tasted. And when you finally stand up from the bar, it’s with a belly full of flavour and zero regrets.

Tapas don’t require you to commit. They’re flirtatious. You can try one thing, move on to another, come back around, or change your mind entirely. Want calamari? Fine. Craving cheese-stuffed piquillo peppers five minutes later? No problem. Feel like skipping straight to the flan and pretending it’s still appetiser hour? That’s entirely allowed. They are small plates, yes, but mighty in their permission to explore. It’s culinary window shopping without the pressure to buy the whole outfit. And if something doesn’t tickle your fancy? No harm, no foul. Try the next one. Or three. There are no wrong turns in the world of tapas, only detours worth savouring. It’s like building your own adventure book, only with more aioli.

And that’s the quiet genius of it. Tapas didn’t swagger onto the culinary stage with foie gras and fanfare. They crept in, humble and helpful, disguised as a lid, a snack, a necessity. Spain didn’t so much invent them as stumble into them, like someone tripping over a stone and discovering treasure. The country simply leaned into the idea and said, “This works.” And then, crucially, they kept going. They turned it into a culture. A ritual. A way of life that welcomes appetite, conversation, curiosity. Tapas are what happen when food stops trying to impress and starts trying to belong. When you let a meal be more about who you’re with than what’s on the plate. When you realise that culinary greatness doesn’t need to be complicated – just shared.

Now you’ll find tapas bars from Tokyo to Toronto, each one trying to capture the essence of that Spanish magic, while slipping in their own local flavours and flair. Some succeed. Some try too hard. Some end up with miniature burgers and aioli-laced confusion. But the real deal still lives in those shadowy little bars in Seville or Granada, where you sip something cold, lean on the counter, and watch the bartender plop down a small plate with a knowing smile. Maybe it’s olives. Maybe it’s octopus. You didn’t ask for it, but it’s there. And you eat it. Because that’s what you do. And suddenly you’re part of the ritual too. You’ve joined a lineage of grazers stretching back centuries, bonded by toothpicks and wine.

And then someone says, “Another round?” and someone else says, “And something to go with it?” And just like that, the plates keep coming, the glasses keep clinking, and the spirit of tapas rolls on – charming, informal, unstoppable. An accidental empire of bites and sips, forever expanding, one small plate at a time. No strategy, no grand design. Just the simplest idea – eat something while you drink – turned into one of the world’s most joyful ways to eat. It didn’t need a blueprint. It had wine, good company, and a bit of ham. And somehow, that was enough. Still is.