Seville's culinary identity was forged in the convivencia of medieval Al-Andalus, where Moorish spice routes met Christian winemaking and Sephardic preserving techniques. The city's tapas culture emerged not from royal decree but from pragmatic 13th-century tavern law: King Alfonso X mandated that wine be served with food to temper drunkenness among labourers. What began as a slice of jamón laid across a glass evolved into an entire social architecture—the tapeo, an evening pilgrimage from bar to bar, each stop a chapter in Andalusia's living recipe book. Today the best Seville food tour routes thread through neighbourhoods where that history remains legible. In Triana, the Romani potters' quarter across the Guadalquivir, market stalls still sell cazón en adobo—dogfish marinated in cumin and coriander, a direct inheritance from Moorish cooks. Santa Cruz's medieval alleyways harbour century-old tabancos serving manzanilla sherry alongside salpicón de marisco, the cold seafood salad that sustained Phoenician traders. The city's penchant for fried fish, visible in every freiduría window, traces to Cádiz's Roman garum factories; its love of slow-cooked stews like rabo de toro reflects the agrarian patience of Extremaduran herders who drove cattle to Seville's 16th-century fairs. The urban fabric itself shapes how Sevillanos eat. Narrow streets retain coolness, encouraging outdoor dining nine months of the year. The Triana ceramic tradition means every tapa arrives on hand-painted majolica. The Guadalquivir's tidal reach once brought Atlantic fish to market within hours; today's langostinos de Sanlúcar and chocos fritos maintain that supply chain. A Seville food walking tour is less a restaurant crawl than an edible map—each plaza, each tile-clad bar interior, each choice of olive oil or sherry vinegar a geographic marker. Guided culinary experiences unlock the hidden syntax: why tortillitas de camarones are paired with fino, not manzanilla; why salmorejo appears only with Jaén olive oil; why every proper montadito de pringá contains yesterday's stew meat, never fresh. These are not tourist curiosities but active vernacular—rules observed nightly by dock workers and surgeons alike, in tile-floored bars unchanged since Franco's era and slick gastrobars reinterpreting the canon with liquid nitrogen.