Why I hate Tapas

This Sunday my mother and my brother took me and my sister out to celebrate our birthdays.
They took us to Eastside’s Westside’s Barcelona Tapes Restaurant without conferring with our digestive preferences beforehand. I’ve been to Tapas restaurants before, and I didn’t like it this time either. Some of you suckers may be all like Ooooh, Tapas! but I’m not thus mentally challenged. I have seen the scheme.

A couple of girls I know once took me to a Tapas place. They didn’t do it again.
They were all like: Ooooh, Tapas! It’s so fun! It’s so educational! It’s so good! Why are you growling, Sigg3?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not dissing the food. The food is great. The food that’s served during a tapas meal is great. You would have to be a complete fool not to like the food. I just hate the scheme.

Normal restaurant:
You go in, get a table, look at the menu, find something you like and order it.
You wait for them to make it while refreshing yourself on a coke or a glass of wine.
You get the delicious food.
You eat the delicious food.
You pay for the meal and tip the waiter.
(Optional: A cup of coffee and a cigarette)

Tapas restaurant:
You go in, get a table, look at the menu, find something you like but it’s not enough so you find something you like but it’s still not enough so you find something you like and hey! this isn’t going to get you anywhere so you find something you like and now we’re getting somewhere so you find something you like and you order them. And that was only five.
You wait for them to make it while refreshing yourself on a coke or a glass of wine.
You get the delicious foods.
You realize that squid, serrano ham, chorizo sausage and brie is not the best combination you could have chosen. You have another look at the menu and see that all combinations are ridiculous unless you buy five identical dishes. Surrealists agree.
Follow me on this one; a brilliant chef does not only make a brilliant meal, he composes it like an artiste. That’s why he’s a chef as opposed to a cook flippin’ burgers at a truck stop.
Nevertheless you eat the seperately delicious dishes.
You pay for the meals, noting that you ate five and have paid a 150% of what you’d normally pay for a dinner making you half full. You tip the wannabe-Legolas waiter in sheer sympathy.
(Optional: A small fries and a coke at the burger place down the street)

Here in Oslo everyone is like: Ooooh, tapas! That is so intellectual!
While I go: Suckers.. For 100 NOK you get three times the food at Bislet Kebab!
Without lowering expectations. Food should be good.

It’s not that I don’t like the individual meals, but if you want to have everything you could ever dream of mixed up in a meal, put it on dough, throw on some cheese and toss it in the stone oven. Besides, it’s not enough real food. I’m supposed to eat serrano ham and lettuce with a knife and fork? This is like going for breakfast: Drop the bread, I’ll just have the peanut butter, please.

The scheme is this:
Don’t have the skill of composing a good meal?
Make 30 separate dishes and let the suckers have a go at it!

Can’t afford big plates?
Serve it on tea plates, just call it tapas.

Can’t make money out of small plates?
Don’t worry, they won’t notice you’ve put on 30% extra!

Can’t work efficiently?
Nevermind! Just serve the courses as you go along.

Whatever you do, call it tapas, and every sucker in town is throwing money at you.

And Easter? Well, haven’t you heard? Somebody shot the bunny:

I had to compose two written tasks that required me reading and writing the entire holiday. I finished at 8:30 pm my last day off. Yeah, I know, it was totally tapas.