Tasca Angel, Valencia

By Michael Quin

Damp, humid summer evening,
To a traveler alone, everything is seeming,
Tapas sizzles and spits on the grill,
At the street-front bar, Valencianos awaiting their fill.

Marinated ‘sardinas’ and ‘champinones’ wearing oil like beads of sweat,
Either side of me, chatting Spaniards I’ve never met.
The smoke of cheap cigarettes whofts aplenty,
But is outdone by food smells hanging rich and scenty.

The barman shouts culinary commands to the chef down the bar,
and jokes with customers in the confidence of a talk-show star.
Now a group of old amigos arrive, the men in neat shirts and classic black pants,
Lead by an older olive brown man, with a soft accent and regal stance.
Glasses of ‘vino tinto’ wider than they are tall,
Conversation levels rise now there’s tapas and alcohol for all!

It’s busy now and so my seat at the bar is elevated to prime real estate,
Whilst new arrivals, trying to catch the barman’s gaze, are eagerly awaiting their fate.