An Evening of Small Plates by the Sea

by Paula Birr on October 13, 2025

Every now and then, a meal becomes more than just something you eat. It turns into a story — one that lingers in your mind long after the plates are cleared and the night grows quiet. That’s exactly what happened to me on a warm evening in Costa Teguise, Lanzarote, when I sat down for what I thought would be a simple dinner of tapas.

I’d eaten tapas before - quick bites in lively city bars, usually surrounded by chatter and clinking glasses. But here, on this volcanic island in the Atlantic, the experience felt entirely different. Maybe it was the rhythm of Lanzarote itself: slow, steady, unhurried or the salty air rolling in from the ocean, or perhaps it was the realization that even in a culture known for seafood and cured meats, there’s an abundance of vegetarian flavors waiting to be discovered, one small plate at a time.

Costa Teguise isn’t the loudest or busiest town on the island. It has an easy charm, with whitewashed houses glowing against dark volcanic stone, and palm trees that lean toward the ocean breeze. As I walked through its streets that evening, I could already smell what awaited me: grilled peppers, toasted bread, olive oil, and garlic - the language of Spanish kitchens spoken through scent.

The restaurant was perched near the promenade, its terrace open to the sea. Wooden tables, terracotta dishes, and soft music set the tone. Around me, people laughed and talked, sipping wine, passing plates, and letting time slip away unnoticed. It felt as though everyone understood an unspoken rule: dinner was not a thing to rush.

When the waiter arrived, I asked for a vegetarian selection. He smiled, not surprised, not hesitant just genuinely pleased. “You’ll like what’s coming,” he said.

Minutes later, he returned carrying a large round wooden board, dotted with small clay bowls. It looked like a painter’s palette - colorful, balanced, full of life. I remember pausing for a moment before touching anything, just taking it in.

There were golden cubes of fried cheese, their edges crisp and glowing. Beside them, the island’s signature papas arrugadas - wrinkled Canarian potatoes, their skin lightly salted from being boiled in seawater. Small jars of mojo rojo and mojo verde sat between them, their colors as vibrant as their flavors. The red was smoky, warm, and rich with paprika; the green was garlicky and bright, tasting of fresh coriander and sunshine.

Further along the board, wedges of tortilla de patatas waited: thick Spanish omelets layered with potato and onion, firm on the outside, soft and tender within. There were roasted peppers glistening with olive oil, marinated olives with herbs, and slices of zucchini drizzled with local honey. A few pieces of warm baguette sat to one side, ready to soak up every bit of sauce.

It was a feast not built on size but on variety - an invitation to eat slowly and with curiosity.

I tore a piece of bread, dipped it first into the red sauce, then into the green. The contrast was perfect: one deep and spicy, the other fresh and alive. The cheese followed, crisp on the outside, melting inside  paired unexpectedly well with a spoonful of tomato jam the waiter had suggested. “Try it like this,” he said with a wink, and he was right. The sweetness balanced the salt beautifully.

Tapas, I realized, are more than food - they’re rhythm. Each small plate arrives as a pause, a moment to taste and talk before moving on. There’s no rush to finish, no main course waiting at the end. Everything is the main course.

The evening light softened as the sun began to sink behind the horizon. Around me, conversations rose and fell like the tide. A family at the next table laughed over shared plates; a couple clinked glasses in quiet celebration. Even the waiters seemed to move in harmony with the mood - calm, precise, unhurried.

As I ate, I thought about how tapas came to be. The story goes that centuries ago, Spanish taverns served drinks with small slices of bread or ham placed on top - a tapa, meaning “cover” - to keep flies away. Over time, those little snacks became part of the pleasure of eating and drinking. People stayed longer, talked more, shared more. A custom was born, and with it, an entire culinary philosophy: that meals should be shared, savored, and never rushed.

The next round of dishes arrived just as the sky turned violet. Pan con tomate: crusty bread rubbed with ripe tomato and drizzled with golden olive oil - simple, fresh, and perfect. A bowl of toasted almonds, still warm and lightly salted. And more papas arrugadas, because one bowl of those little potatoes is never enough.

The flavors told their own story of Lanzarote: the heat of the sun in the peppers, the salt of the sea in the potatoes, the deep green of the island in the sauces. Even without meat or fish, nothing felt missing. Every bite had its own purpose, its own personality.

As a vegetarian, I had expected my options to be limited, maybe repetitive. Instead, I found abundance - not in portion size, but in creativity. These dishes didn’t try to imitate anything else; they stood proudly as what they were. The fried cheese was indulgent and golden, the potatoes comforting and familiar, the omelet layered with quiet perfection. Together, they formed a mosaic of taste and color that felt as rich as any full-course meal.

Eating slowly like that changed the meaning of dinner. Back home, meals often slip into the background, something that happens between studying, working, or planning the next thing. But on that evening, dinner became the center of everything. Time expanded around it. The conversation, the sounds of the sea, the dim light reflecting off glasses - it all became part of the meal itself.

The waiter came by once more and offered a small dessert just a few spoonfuls of creamy yogurt drizzled with palm honey. I hesitated, already full, but said yes anyway. It was the perfect ending - cool, sweet, and softly tangy, like the echo of the meal rather than a new beginning.

As the restaurant began to quiet, I sat back and watched the lanterns flicker to life along the promenade. The ocean shimmered in the distance, and the night air carried a mix of salt and music from a nearby bar. I thought about how every dish I’d eaten that night - humble, simple, and local - had told me something about the island. Tapas were not meant to impress; they were meant to connect.

When I finally stood to leave, the waiter smiled again and asked, “Todo bien?” I could only nod. Everything had been more than fine.

Walking back along the seafront, I could still feel the warmth of the evening in my skin, still taste garlic and olive oil on my lips. Costa Teguise was quiet now, its streets bathed in golden light from the last shops closing for the night. I thought about how this small meal or rather, this series of small moments had managed to fill not just my stomach, but my sense of presence.

Tapas are, at their heart, about sharing - not just food, but time. They ask you to slow down, to notice the people around you, to listen, to taste. They remind you that eating is not something to rush through, but something to live through.

That night taught me something I hadn’t expected to learn: that vegetarian food, even in a land of seafood and meat, can be just as expressive, just as joyful, and maybe even more surprising. Each dish I ate celebrated vegetables and local ingredients for what they were - vibrant, honest, and full of character.

By the time I reached my hotel, the moon hung low over the water, and the air was still warm. I felt full, but not heavy; satisfied in a deeper, quieter way. It wasn’t just the food; it was the rhythm, the atmosphere, the sense of connection that came from giving a few hours of attention to the simple act of eating.

That’s what stays with me about that night in Costa Teguise. Tapas may be small, but their meaning is big. They’re reminders that life, like dinner, is better enjoyed in small bites - slowly, with good company, and with the sea nearby.

So this is the story of my Lanzarote evening: of tapas, of time, of a meal that became a memory. And now I wonder - if you had an evening by the ocean to dedicate to small plates and slow conversation, what would you want to find on your table?

See you next week 🌅

Paula