God bless the humble tapa. This most civilised drinking partner is said to have been born in the 18th century as a not entirely coincidental reflection of the holy communion. In La Bodeguita, one of Seville’s oldest, roughest bars, the legend “ no sangre sin corpe” – no blood without flesh – is painted above the bar.

Glasses of wine were served topped with a slice of bread – tapa means “lid” – partly because of the Spanish horror of starvation and partly to keep the flies out of the grog. Before long, canny patrons realised a commercial advantage was gained by adding a slice of cheese to the bread, or an anchovy, or a wafer-thin slice of jamon. The rest is history.

Traditionally, the tapa was free, but these days, with few exceptions, you pay. In the Andalusian village of Gaucin, however, the barkeeper Paco Pepe keeps the faith, adding a little onto the price of a drink to cover costs. His eponymous bar doesn’t look like much: plastic furniture, a neon light and one of those indecipherable Spanish fruit machines create a harsh ambience. A boom box plays loud flamenco and, at six every evening, Paco takes down the blackboard to write the tapas del dia.

Old men drag their eyes from the bullfighting, the soccer or the interminable lottery results to watch as the chalk squeaks across the board, calling their favourites to the patron. Their petitions, though, are in vain, because it’s not Paco but his rarely seen missus who calls the shots. As he rehangs the board, a murmur of approval goes around the bar: it’s rosada tonight. Scruffy kids slope off to spread the news and skinny, flat-capped men in baggy trousers arrive like crows congregating on roadkill.

Rosada comprises a goujon of white fish, battered and served with five, sometimes six and never more than seven chips. You’d be mistaken if you recognised this as Britain’s former national dish: Paco never tires of explaining why fish and chips is a Spanish invention. “The English sherry merchants of Jerez loved it so much, they exported the recipe to your country,” he says, his bloodshot eyes defying contradiction.

One tubo of cold Cruzcampo lager, a glass of chilled manzanilla sherry or a copa of the locally produced vino mosto – a dry rosé served from enormous, straw-clad green flagons – entitles you to a tiny tapita of rosada, and the more you drink, the more you eat.

But it doesn’t have to be rosada. On other nights, the tapas del dia might be jamon de pata negra from the neighbouring village of Benarraba, translucent slices of acorn-fed ham shot through with streaks of creamy white fat; or mouthwatering croquetas; or spears of wild asparagus, as slender as girls’ fingers, drizzled with local olive oil; or, for the true connoisseur, yellow wedges of pungent queso antiguo, ancient cheese left to ferment in oil and served on airy slices of white bread.

Locals will limit themselves to one or two plates before sloping off home for dinner, but my advice, should you find yourself propping up Paco Pepe’s zinc-topped bar, is to stay all night, because this simple village boozer is probably the finest tapas bar in the world.

Paco Pepe, Escalinata Calle de los Bancos, Gaucin, Malaga, Spain; no phone, no website

Travel brief: fly to Malaga, served by 17 airlines from the UK, including Jet 2 (0871 226 1737, www.jet2.com ) and Flyglobespan (0871 271 0415, www.flyglobespan.com ). Gaucin is a 90-minute drive from the airport, along the A7/E15 motorway. Turn off at Manilva, following the narrow, twisting A377 up into the Sierra del Hacho. Stay at the boutique Casablanca hotel (00 34-952 151019, www.casablanca-gaucin.com ; doubles from £129), or La Fructuosa (617 692 784, www.lafructuosa.com ; doubles from £60).

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