It might have been Mallorca or Ibiza, I can't really remember, but what I do recall is knocking back a free shot of something that tasted remarkably like lighter fuel in a dingy basement bar, having been corralled down there by one of those young reps whose job it is to drag customers in off the street.
I only went because I felt a bit sorry for the lad in question, although not as sorry as I felt for my liver the next day, I must say.
As tough jobs go, rounding up total strangers for a small commission has got to be right up there and, these days, as the phenomenon becomes ever more prevalent in Malaga city centre, I always endeavour to decline any such advances as politely as possible.
Of course, it's restaurants rather than nightclubs that court my trade these days (if I walked into a nightclub now, the youngsters would think someone had ordered a taxi, I imagine). It goes like this: you're strolling down the street minding your own business, preferably whistling a merry ditty, when, suddenly, a smiling stranger springs out of nowhere like a menu-clutching ninja, asking if you want some tapas.
If you're lucky, you can point to the kebab in your hand while pursing your lips as empathetically as possible. Otherwise it's a question of lying - 'No, thank you I've just eaten,' 'Sorry, my house is on fire,' etc.
Now, here's the thing. I've never once - not a single, solitary time - ever seen anyone say 'Ooh! Yes, please! I'd love some tapas just like the ones in the photos on the dog-eared menu you're brandishing'. Until yesterday, that is.
Yesterday, a young, somewhat pale and portly couple of tourists were waylaid by a middle-aged Spanish woman whose job it was to regale them with mouthwatering tales of nearby victuals. While she worked up a good head of steam, they squinted quizzically at the menu, squinted quizzically at each other and then - lo and behold! - nodded in perfect unison at the woman. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me. She caught my eye and clearly registered my amazement, presumably picking up on the fact that my eyebrows were located somewhere on the top of my head by now. We exchanged a complicit smile as she ushered her prey towards the restaurant door.
Meanwhile, somebody about ten yards away stubbed out a cigarette and scurried in behind them. I suspect he was the chef.
So, next time you're in Malaga, spare a thought for these hardy souls who have a difficult job at the best of times and do be polite whenever you find yourself rejecting their advances.
Alternatively, carry a kebab.