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Wild Nights in Madrid

“Go ahead, throw it on the floor,” says my amigo Alvaro, a dashing Madrileño whose father was a matador. He’s talking about my napkin, which I scrunch up and toss to the ground with glee. It falls into a heap of white serviettes that sits amid a forest of stiletto heels and polished, sensible Spanish men’s shoes. People might as well be doing the flamenco the way they tromp sensually over the debris.

Littering doesn’t come easily to an American girl living in Madrid. But it may well be the number-one rule of eating tapas. “Ah, now you look like a Madrileña,” says Alvaro, approvingly, nibbling a chunky slice of blue-veined Cabrales cheese and dropping another used napkin between his feet.

Over the past decade, tapas have made their way into major U.S. cities, including Washington, where chefs such as José Andrés continue to impress us with innovative takes on Spanish cuisine. But no city outside of Spain can truly reproduce the experience of roaming for tapas—the Spanish equivalent of a pub crawl, only with amazing food. In Madrid, it is high art.

Alvaro tells me the capital city’s proficiency at tapas-roaming stems from a “herd instinct.” Others attribute the Madrileño enthusiasm for spending entire nights wandering, grazing, imbibing—always standing—to their extroverted personalities, collective gift of gab and adoration of fine food and drink.

Whatever the reason, it’s not unusual to visit five to 10 restaurants and bars during a single evening in the same neighborhood. Why not stay in one spot? Easy—because each venue has its specialty dish, either representing a culinary style or a Spanish region. Plus, it’s simply fun to roam. (The best hoods are Plaza Santa Ana, La Latina, Chueca, Salamanca, Cava Baja and along Paseo del Prado.)

It’s well past midnight in Madrid, and traffic jams abound. Busier than the end of the work day, the post-midnight rush hour isn’t taking people home—it’s taking them out to play. Laughing, gossiping, shouting Spaniards fill the streets, most traveling en masse; some even haul along children. The throng from above must look and sound like partying ants roaring like lions.

We stand in El Escarpin, an Asturian bar and restaurant not far from the Puerta del Sol. Locals flock here to gulp glasses of effervescent apple cider with a bite amid a no-nonsense décor that sets off the well-dressed crowd.

Cider in Spain comes with a ceremony. The bartender raises a bucket over his head with one hand, places the glass far below his waist and then fills it from the metaphorical heavens without losing a drop—a feat that carbonates the beverage naturally. Your job—and this is where I perpetually fail—is to drink the fizzy shot before the bubbles disappear. Somehow, the cider always froths from my lips. But that doesn’t keep me from trying.

In Plaza Santa Ana—perhaps Madrid’s most famous place to partake of the tapeo—the din from conversation thunders. On this absolutely normal Friday night, guests in nearby hotels have no choice but to join the party.

“We Eat a Lot”

After El Escarpin, Alvaro and I hoof it to Museo del Jamón—that’s right, it means “ham museum.” Here, surrounded by chubby, hanging pork legs, Alvaro teaches me some other Spanish tapa tips: “Order your drink from the bartender first, then wait five minutes,” he says. “If you don’t act too greedily, he’ll probably bring you something for free.”

And he does: one small dish of piquant green olives and another dressed with thin slices of jamón ibérico de bellota. Alvaro also shows me how bartenders keep track of orders by making chalk marks on the bar and charge you by your pile of empty plates and used toothpicks.

We sip a caña (small beer) and savor the silky, chewy cured ham. Madrileños have a sacred reverence for this spectacular meat, truly the caviar of Spain. It comes from acorn-fed, black-as-night pigs. Still, it’s not just ham that pleases the palate here. It’s food, in general. “In Madrid, we love to eat,” says Alvaro, playfully slapping my hand and devouring the final pink piece of jamón with a shrug of apology. “And we eat a lot.”

Our tapas pilgrimage lasts well into morning as we eat garlicky shrimp, Gallegan-style octopus, grilled mushrooms and fried peppers. We drink everything from cava to coffee. At last, we end the night by ritualistically stuffing ourselves with batonlike fried churros.

In the wee hours, we find ourselves at Chocolatería San Ginés, sipping thick hot chocolate. Other revelers surround us. They seem to float—happily, surrealistically—like colorful shapes in a Joan Miró painting. The matador’s son and I grin at each other and chat quietly about the places we’ve visited; the count rose to seven and could easily have gone higher.

Check one off the bucket list: I’ve done the ritualistic tapas crawl with the help of Alvaro. Even without the matador’s son, it’s a rite to embrace as readily as the blue-crab feast on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Besides, whether you’re from Japan or America, all it takes is the confidence to hang out with the crowd if you want to join the party.

Where to Stay

Room Mate Laura. Brilliantly plays up the idea that maybe we’d rather be sleeping in the digs of a posh pal than in a conventional hotel. Laura, composed of 36 apartments in the hip Descalzas district near the Puerta del Sol, is an urbane, stylish stay that makes you feel like Penélope Cruz. This hotel may inspire you to redecorate your bedroom. Ask for the gorgeous attic room.

Hospes. Ensconced in an elegant bit of classical 19th-century architecture that was once the mansion of a duchess, this smart boutique hotel might be a metaphor for Madrid. Stridently traditional on the outside, it’s a celebration of contemporary delights within. Ideally situated on Plaza de Independencia, some deluxe rooms have views of El Retiro Park.

Hotel Puerta America Madrid. A must for lovers of design, this hot spot has the imprint of 19 of the world’s most revered—and distinctive—architects. Everyone from Norman Foster to über futurist Zaha Hadid to Jean Nouvel make idiosyncratic contributions. Perhaps the most difficult part is choosing where to stay. We vote for the 12th-floor grand suites by provocateur Nouvel or the third-floor David Chipperfield creation, complete with handmade terra-cotta floors.

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