Eating at Telefèric Barcelona 1992 in Long Beach is easier than eating in Spain. I love dining in Spain. I especially love the food of Barcelona, where the cuisine and the place are one and the same.

The tradition in Spain is a feast of tapas and adult beverages in the early evening. Followed by a gut-buster of a meal late at night — around midnight or so. I’ve tried to dine the Spanish way, and it made me a gastrointestinal mess. After gorging myself on tapas and beer, digging into a sizable paella long after my bedtime does not sit well. The food is irresistible. But the next morning, the penance is considerable.

At the American outposts of Telefèric Barcelona 1992 — which has eight branches, including one in Barcelona — the rituals of dining American-style are well respected. The Long Beach branch closes at 9:15 p.m. Sunday through Wednesday … and goes wild shutting at 10:15 p.m. Thursday through Saturday. Hours at which true Spaniards are just gobbling their last gambas and knocking back their final Jerez before getting ready for a late night/early morning exercise in excess.

Trying to keep up for a gringo like me is nigh on impossible. I’ve been known to fall asleep with an empanada in hand.

For me, a lifelong grazer, tapas are the finest accomplishment of the Spanish kitchen, ahead even of the wonders of paella. They’re the Iberian equivalent of sushi and dim sum — meals cobbled together of a multitude of small dishes, variant tastes, cooking that never turns dull. Every bite is a joy worth looking forward to. And indeed, notably, the list of tapas is the longest page on the menu at Telefèric.

There are oysters, served singularly at $5 each, flavored with “mojito vibes.” The menu isn’t always that poetic, but occasionally it is. Another tapa is the paella “bomb,” which is an arancini rice ball of paella rice with a shrimp bisque inside. It’s a bit like Chinese soup dumplings — though not nearly that hot inside.

There are touches of modernism as well; the crab croquettes are topped with tuna sashimi. There’s a tuna taco of ahi and avocado inside a wonton shell. Beef skewers come with tomato hummus.

But most of the tapas are the hardcore original. Is there a tapas bar in Spain that doesn’t offer gambas al ajillo (in this case with lemon zest and the crunch of crispy garlic)? The patatas bravas are crispy as ever, topped with a spicy brava sauce and aioli.

The Jamón Ibérico de Bellota is cured for 38 months. The ham is from pigs that were fed acorns. Can you taste the difference? Darned if I know. But it’s an impressive selling point.

Don’t miss the classic pan con tomate — toasted bread topped with chorizo butter and tomato. So simple. And so good.

If you want to get more serious, then head for the paellas, which serve two, and take about 30 minutes to prepare. The word “paella” refers not to the dish of rice with seafood, chicken, meat, vegetables and many spices. But to the wide, low pan with handles in which the rice is cooked.

Walk through any outdoor market in Spain, and you’ll see stands piled high with paella pans of every width, ranging from cute little one-person pans, to those big enough to feed extended families and tagalong friends as well.

In this case, the pans are technically for two, but they’re easily large enough for four. The most classic (for me at least) is the paella mixta, with pork, chicken, gulf shrimp and octopus — a culinary bestiary. The least expected is the paella negra, which is blackened with squid ink, and made with shrimp, scallops, octopus and clams. The ink gives the rice a funky, salty flavor that’s hard to resist.

The menu mentions you can “elevate your paella experience by asking for ‘soccarat,’ the caramelized crispy rice that adheres to the pan’s bottom.” It’s like Persian tahdig. It’s a great option.

If you need even more, there’s a 40-ounce Catalan tomahawk steak for $120; it comes with potatoes and dressings. There are short ribs and Iberico ham Wellington, inside pastry. There’s shrimp and bacon ravioli.

If I’m still peckish, I’d get the Spanish meatballs. But I’d rather save myself for the flan. No matter how much I’ve eaten, there’s always room for flan. Even at 2 in the morning, on the moody backstreets of Barcelona.

Merrill Shindler is a Los Angeles-based freelance dining critic. Email mreats@aol.com.