But “tapas” (let alone “pintxos”) was not a word people readily understood, gravitated towards, or emulated. There were of course, restaurants that called themselves Spanish, and, to prove it, served glutinous paellas made from instant rice and unidentifiable products of the sea. If they knew it, it was a confused knowledge, haphazardly mixed in with Latin American flavors, tastes that had nothing to do with the Iberian Peninsula. Not so very long ago Spanish cooking meant very little to Americans.
Most of us in this country find ourselves at barbecues on the fourth, and, for me, this year was no exception what was different was what was on the table: a prominent political journalist had brought not hamburgers or hotdogs instead, he’d come accompanied by an enormous bowl of gazpacho. There is, perhaps, no day more American than the fourth of July, the day we celebrate our independence from the British, wave our flags, and set off a battle’s worth of fireworks.
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