One of the little things that one has to get used to in Spain is that service can not only be slow but snail-like. More often than not, this is because the waiter or bar tender feels a certain compulsion to demonstrate – quite rightly – that his or hers is not a servile trade. It doesn’t make much difference whether one is a regular or not; things have to proceed at their appropriate pace and one might as well get on with something else while they do. Nothing is going to accelerate them. So this morning my coffee took between 8 and 10 minutes to reach me from the machine directly in front of me. Before serving me my regular morning order, Carmen felt obliged to not only finish the dishes she was washing but also to have a long chat with one of her colleagues about how she was getting on with her new responsibilities. If it wasn’t for the fact that – being an above-average tipper - I always get a double helping of the statutory biscuit or mini-croissant, I would begin to wonder whether it was something to do with me. But it isn’t; it is everything to do with the Spanish concept of nobility. Very Old European.