Hello sailor

There’s a typical bread roll in Alcoy that’s called tortilongui or torti y longui; it’s a sandwich of omelette (an omelette, not a tortilla española) and longaniza (a sausage something like a British banger). Before about four o’clock last Sunday afternoon, I didn’t know that. 

It happens quite a lot in Spain: you go into a bar or restaurant, they ask what you want, and when you ask what there is, you don’t get an exhaustive list so much as a couple of suggestions. Many places aren’t big on printed menus or blackboards, especially outside the (relatively rigid) lunchtime slot. You order something, and then five minutes later, something much more interesting lands on the next table.

Part of the problem is knowing what to ask. If you reach for your phrase book and ask if there is anything to eat—comer—you’ll often be told no. A better question is whether the kitchen is still open. And if it isn’t, you can ask if there’s anything to snack on: tapear, or perhaps picotear. 

Anyway, a couple of months ago we were in the city of Murcia for one reason or another. We noticed a trendy-looking bar that hadn’t been there the last time we passed, so we went in. We ordered drinks and peered into the little display, trying to work out what was on offer and what we might fancy.

When the drinks arrived, the barman asked if we wanted anything to eat. We did—but even after he’d reeled off a few options, nothing quite stuck. So, to buy a bit of time (and hedge our bets), I said, “Give us a couple of marineras.”

He hadn’t mentioned marineras, and there were none on display. But we were in Murcia, and if there is one tapa you can be confident will be there, it’s the marinera. If, for some reason, it isn’t on offer, then you’ll have demonstrated that you are not new to the tapas culture of Murcia and the bar staff might even be a bit shamefaced that they’re missing something so quintessentially Murcian.

The marinera is the tapa that best sums up Murcia. It’s dead simple, but it has become a little regional treasure. A crisp bread ring (using that grissini-type bread), a spoonful of Russian salad (a finely diced potato salad with mayo), and an anchovy on top—that’s all it takes.

Its origin is wrapped in the kind of urban myth that makes the tapa feel even more rooted in local life. The most common version places it in Cartagena, in the late 70s or early 80s. The legend says that a group of old sailors used to meet for their pre-lunchtime snack and drink. One day, one of them arrived late and found that nearly all the tapas had been sold. Rather than let down a regular customer the barman improvised something by spreading the last of the Russian salad on the rosquilla and then topping it with a single anchovy. As the barman handed it over, he said, "Toma, marinero, tu marinera," which is a bit of wordplay—"Here you go, sailor boy, your sailor girl"—that sort of idea, anyway! And just like that, a classic was born.

The cities of Cartagena and Murcia are traditional sparring partners in nearly everything, and there is, of course, "friendly" rivalry about the invention of the marinera. Cartagena points to literary references from the 1960s and, to the landlocked Murcia city, the seafaring link. The capital argues its case with the first press mentions appearing in 1984 in the bars around Plaza de las Flores, the place Murcianos themselves think of when tapas are mentioned. In the end, I don’t suppose it matters who gets the credit; what matters is that the marinera became one of the great symbols of Murcian food culture.

Part of the marinera's charm lies in its balance. The rosquilla needs to be properly crisp so it can carry the salad without collapsing. The Russian salad should be creamy and well seasoned. And the anchovy brings that sharp, salty note that lifts the whole thing. It’s a tiny composition, but when it’s done well, it’s a thing of beauty.

And, as with many things in Spain, once you think you’ve got the hang of it, the variations start to appear. If the anchovy is replaced with a pickled anchovy fillet (boquerón), it becomes a marinero. If you have both on top, you get a matrimonio. And if you don’t care for fish at all, you’re looking for the bicicleta. It’s a small vocabulary to pick up, but a useful one—and, like the tortilongui in Alcoy, one of those local details that helps you to feel that you know your way around, that you're not just a lost soul surrounded by Spain.