“Do you want anything?” Michael asked as I looked at the piles of sandwiches and pastries sitting on the counter of the bar.

“No, just coffee,” I said.

“We make the croissants ourselves,” the barkeeper said. “Everyone who tries them likes them.”

“Well, in that case. . . I’ll share one with you,” I told Michael. Michael’s face reminded me he doesn’t particularly like to share.

“I already had breakfast,” I explained to him. Not wanting a marital feud in his bar first thing in the morning, the bar keeper wisely said, “I’ll bring one. And if you decide you want another one, just let me know.”

The barkeeper motioned for us to take a seat at one of the dozen tables, telling us he’d bring everything over. Because of course we were going to sit down to drink our coffee. Coffee to go? Where do you think we are? America? Here in Spain, I rarely see anyone walking down the street with a cup of coffee in their hands.

The man first brought over two small round plates–a napkin, fork, and knife on each one. Then he returned with a full tray. Two small, empty glasses came down onto the table first, then a bottle of water was put between them. Michael and I passed puzzled looks between us–neither of us had ordered a bottle of water. The croissant was placed gently between us, then two cups of black coffee, mine only half full. The milk I ordered was poured into my cup from a silver pitcher. It was steamed, of course. Because who pours cold milk into their coffee? Where do you think we are? America?

And then, with a flourish, the barkeeper removed the last items from his tray: two mugs the size of shot glasses filled with fresh-squeezed orange juice. How do I know it was fresh-squeezed? Where do you think we are? This is Spain, my friends, where it’s rare to find a bar without an orange juicer on its counter.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’m given a shot-glass sized mug filled with fresh-squeezed orange juice. Free, of course. Because–in case you missed it–we’re not in America anymore.

As Michael and I dug in to the best Spanish croissant I’ve ever had (warm, of course), I said, “Did you order water?”

“Nope.”

Once we finished, we went up to the bar to pay. We usually just catch the barkeepers eye and signal for the check. But that’s not always so easy to do.

• The main goal of the servers here seems to be to take your order and serve it. Paying is more of an afterthought.
• They’ll only return to your table if signaled. But they’re not really keeping an eye out for such signals.
• Most of the time a server comes out completely focused on their task at hand and hardly gives the rest of us a glance. Not because they don’t care. But because they do–the goal is to enjoy your food and drink, not to be stared at or constantly interrupted by servers.

Regulars will know the cost of their coffee and just leave the coins on the table. Yes, coins. Because the smallest paper bill here is five Euros (~$5.43). And what coffee costs more than five Euros? Where do you think we are? America?

The barkeeper printed out our bill and placed it on a small, round silver plate in front of us. He pointed to the charges for our two coffees and our croissant. “And the water?” I asked.

“Oh, no. That’s free,” he said. I almost fainted. Free orange juice and free bottled water? Then I remembered. We’re not in America anymore.