Spanish Antiquity

El Cid Tapas Bar & Restaurant 322 W. 15th St. (betw. 8th & 9th Aves.) 212-929-9332

Stumbling across El Cid the other day, I understood how Hiram Bingham must have felt when he “discovered” Machu Picchu. Or Tommy Albright, when he first encountered Brigadoon. How had this thriving tapas restaurant in the heart of Chelsea escaped my notice for so many years? And who were these people—plainspoken, humble and so un-Meatpack-chic—who filled the tables and crowded the bar?

I Googled the place later that evening and learned, to my surprise, that El Cid has been a neighborhood institution for 20 years. It managed to escape my notice (and, I’m assuming, the notice of others), in part because of its location. Marooned halfway between Eighth and Ninth avenues on an untrafficked stretch of West 15th Street, El Cid is both at the center of everything and in the middle of nowhere.

I returned a few days later with some friends for pitchers of sangria and dinner. The bartender, an 18-year veteran of El Cid, gave us the restaurant’s back story: The original owner, a Spaniard from Navarra, opened the place in the late 1980s as one of the first tapas restaurants in the city. When he passed away five years ago, his wife took the helm, and the restaurant continues to attract a loyal base of regulars—not just from Chelsea but from other parts of the Manhattan, Jersey and beyond. On the night we visited, the place was packed with repeat customers. The couple next to us greeted the busboy by name when they arrived.

The tapas at El Cid is inspired by regional specialties from throughout Spain. It’s good but not fancy, lacking the pretense of some of the newer tapas places that have arrived in the neighborhood, such as Tia Pol and El Quinto Pinto. (Don’t get me wrong, I love the new arrivals, but they wear their ambition on their sleeve.) The tortilla española (an omelette of sliced potatoes, eggs and sweet onions), was firm and delicious, as was the escalivada (roasted eggplant with peppers and codfish). The queso manchego (aged Spanish goat cheese) was hard and sharp; it served as a nice bridge between the cold and hot dishes.

And the hot dishes, when they did arrive, were generous and mostly superb. We tried two dishes al ajillo, squid and chicken, and I was childishly thrilled to discover that immersed in the garlic sauce were perfectly soggy French fries—or perhaps patatas bravas? A serving of sole, one of the evening’s specials, was buttery and tender, each flake like a sheet of silk. And the solomillo de ceado adobado (pork tenderloin with marinated herbs), was competently prepared and nicely seasoned.

The drawback of El Cid’s long history is seriously dated décor, which, like the traditional menu, doesn’t appear to have been updated since the restaurant’s inception. The blue tiles covering the tables and bar looked vaguely Mediterranean, I suppose; but they reminded me more of my parents’ 1950s tract-house bathroom. One of the ceiling fans was broken, and the wan lighting had a deadening effect, like the dull florescence of an airport lounge. A copper Don Quixote and windmill above the bar added more than a touch of kitsch.

Yet by the time we ordered dessert, the sangria had gone to my head and the room had assumed a romantic glow. El Cid may be a relic, but it’s a relic in the best sense of the word: a reminder of Chelsea’s less swanky and transient past.