At San Antonio’s Tinto y Tapas, the humblest dishes are often the ones that impress the most

The plates at Tinto y Tapas Restaurant & Latin Jazz Lounge aren’t exactly “small.” Credit: Ron Bechtol

San Antonio’s Tinto y Tapas Restaurant & Latin Jazz Lounge does a pretty good job of laying out its entire essence in its name.

“Tinto” is the term used in Spain for red wine, while any foodie worth their salt is familiar with the term for Spain’s famous little appetizers. The “Latin Jazz Lounge” part explains the dining spot’s rotating cast of Latin-inspired jazz musicians.

Croquetas de jamón are one of several “tapas” on offer at the restaurant.

The quotation marks above are there because, in Spain, tapas often can be consumed in one or two bites. At Tinto y Tapas, the croquetas — just about ping-pong-ball size and gilded with golden-fried bread crumbs — come three to a plate.

These will take at least six bites. Savor them.

The heart of these croquetas is cubed ham, but keeping it all together is a simple bechamel. After forming the mix into balls, they’re rolled in bread crumbs and fried. These croquetas are also served with a vibrant green pesto. Crunchy on the outside, creamy on the inside, they’re beautiful with a glass of melony Albariño from Spain’s northwestern Galicia region.

The band was just starting to set up as I enjoyed my serving of croquetas.

If unabashed by public messiness, you could use fingers to eat Tinto y Tapas’ gambas al ajillo. Once again upscaled, the dish consists of five large shrimp, cooked in olive oil infused with garlic, chili flakes and Spanish pimentón. Served with toasted baguette-adjacent bread, these shrimp are succulent, and their sauce packs a peppery punch.

The band continued to set up as I enjoyed the shrimp.

Albóndigas, or meatballs, are another classic tapa, and here they also got the up-sizing treatment and were served with a sauce of mushrooms enhanced with the pan drippings, tomato and a “splash” of white wine.

The tiny sliced button mushrooms had all the hallmarks of a canned product, but the distinction wasn’t hugely important in context. The sauce was deeply flavored — we were now in tinto territory with a glass of Spanish Tempranillo — and the tender meatballs were practically pillowy. A little more spicing of the meat itself wouldn’t hurt, though. Maybe some nutmeg or a grind or three of black pepper.

By the time I’d devoured the meatballs, the band appeared moments away from starting its set.

Time for dessert.

Churros are one possibility at Tinto y Tapas. But it was the tarta de aceite that caught my eye. Olive oil makes for a marvelously moist cake, and this version, with its murmurs of orange, was no exception.

The band now truly appeared ready to launch into its first song. Sadly, I had come to the end of my Tempranillo and missed the evening’s musical component.

But I did return for the paella — decidedly not a tapa, by the way.

Before I run out of space, I should probably delve into the wine selection. “Tinto” comes first in the name, after all. And, frankly, there’s room for improvement.

True, if you’re standing, sometimes two or more deep, at a bar in Barcelona you don’t have time or inclination to indulge in wines requiring contemplation. Yet Spain’s vinos are as wonderfully varied as the country itself. I’d love to see a reflection of that on the menu.

In the spirit of the Spanish tradition of tapeando — a pub crawl before a late dinner — I ordered more tapas on the follow-up Tuesday, when it’s happy hour all night.

Patatas bravas, consisting of cubed, fried potatoes topped with a salsa brava, are ubiquitous at tapas bars all over Spain. The potatoes were spot on here, but the sauce seemed to be more akin to a chili oil with vinegar than the classic that’s often like a pimentón-scented aioli.

It’s fine to experiment, but only if the result improves on the classic.

Originality abounded in thealitas, or chicken wings — not a traditional tapa as far as I know. And despite the menu description, the sauce didn’t come across as particularly Spanish either. It tasted of spicier Chinese hoisin. Still, it made for very good wings. The accompanying bed of fried potato skins would be worth ordering on their own.

Some — myself included — call socarrat, the crust of deeply flavored rice that forms at the bottom of a paella pan, the best part of the dish, and Tinto y Tapas specially mentions that crusty goodness in its menu.

However, the restaurant didn’t include socarrat in its rendition of Paella Valenciana that’s served — but apparently not cooked — in a traditional shallow pan. The rice is perfect, all the flavors are good, but the lack of the crowning crust was a real letdown.

Good service, though, can make up for a lot. Kudos to Charlie and Brandon, the latter being Tuesday evening’s one-man dynamo who did everything but cook.

Bring on a better wine selection, and I’d happily go back. Whether or not I can get my timing right to catch the jazz.

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