Gas, chips, Twinkies and ... wine?

These are trying times for talent scouts. Not long ago, a classic "bird-dog" like Jerry Krause could make a stealth trip to central Arkansas, find a versatile swingman and acquire him before other teams had ever seen the guy play. Imagine the equivalent of Scottie Pippen today: His first-triple would be posted on You Tube before sunrise. By which time, some scouting service would have posted his seventh-grade stats on a Web site.

It's not just the major sports. One day Kimbo Slice is a street-fighting hooligan in Miami. One of his brawls makes it onto the Internet and -- presto! -- he's fighting on CBS for EliteXC, a mixed martial arts organization.

And it's not just sports. Take restaurants. Even the most obscure clam-shacks and barbecue pits don't escape Chowhound.com.

On balance, this path toward perfect information is a sure sign of societal progress. It's hard to argue against more people gaining more access to more knowledge. But an unfortunate offshoot is that it deprives us of surprises. Mining those diamonds in the rough -- whether they're undiscovered middle-relievers, undiscovered metal bands or undiscovered diners -- is a dying art.

All of which made a recent trip to a Coral Gables gas station particularly gratifying. I received a hot tip that a local Citgo on the corner of US-1 and 17th Avenue, not far from the University of Miami campus, doubled as a splendid tapas restaurant. "OK," I thought, "and the Jiffy Lube down the street does a mean dim sum." When I pulled up, I was further convinced this was an April Fool's joke. The only sign on the building read "Food & Deli." Inside was a typical Apu-style Kwik-E-Mart, stocked with batteries and beef jerky and every conceivable Frito-Lay product. No gambas a la plancha in sight.

Then I peered around and saw a Moorish-style arch that resembled old Seville. And, there, with wonderful improbability, lies El Carajo, the best tapas and wine bar you'll find -- in a gas station or otherwise. Yes, come for the unleaded, stay for the (comparably priced) Rioja wine. Designed to mimic a Spanish courtyard, the joint features eight tables with iron chairs, a long wooden bar and maroon tiles. Spanish music wafts through the place. The menu is extensive and the wine list is so long it could be serialized.

Once I saw with my own eyes that the place really did exist, I assumed it had a hip and ironic high-brow, low-brow thing going on, much the same way millionaire celebrities wear John Deere apparel. But that's not the case. The owner is a former mechanic who, as I was told, owns a stake in the gas station. He figured he had the space, so why not add a restaurant. As for the lack of signage, an employee explained, "We're working on it. We've only been open about a year."

During a session break at the Sony Ericsson Open tennis tournament in Key Biscayne, my friend Tom Perrotta and I made the short drive to check out the place. I'd been told that El Carajo -- meaning "crows nest," though there is an alternative, lewd translation -- specializes in paella. There are also a dozen or so "platos fuertes" (main dishes) on the menu. But we decided to play it safe and order from a broad list of tapas.

In short, the food was every bit as good as unadvertised. Galician octopus was marinated to perfection, drizzled with paprika and then set adrift in a small lake of olive oil and vinegar. The chorizo in wine sauce was predictably exceptional. (How do you go wrong with sausage and wine?) Lobster empanadas were little packages packed with flavor and, though priced at $2.50, contained real lobster. The bacalao croquettes veered a bit close to Mrs. Paul's fish sticks, but they still disappeared quickly.

At an adjacent table, a multi-generational family had come for what appeared to be a celebratory dinner. Plates of steak and paella passed us by, seeming to taunt us with their aromas. Maybe next time, suckers. But there were also patrons there just for the wine. El Carajo stocks more than 1,000 bottles, many of them Spanish, most of them housed in a "wine cave" against the back wall. Instead of gouging captive customers on wine, the way most restaurants do, El Carajo simply sells the bottles at retail and adds a more-than-reasonable $10 corkage fee. Two dutiful journalists couldn't possibly put away a bottle, but we ordered a "glass" of the house chardonnay, which came in a small carafe.

Presumably by design, virtually none of the seats in El Carajo face the front of the establishment. About the only time you're transported from the Mediterranean back to the reality of the gritty gas station comes when you need to use the shared restroom. When I paid a visit to the facilities, a man was shaving at the sink. All part of the appeal.

The culmination of a thoroughly satisfying meal came when the check arrived. A smattering of tapas and two drinks, and impeccable personable service, barely cost 40 bucks. Bargain. When was the last time you went to a gas station and came away saying that?