A Meat Story

(Part 3 of 5 in a series on Buenos Aires)

"Stillleben - Unmässigkeit"‎ (Still Life - Excess) by Albert Anker

My lovelies,

I was afraid you might say that all I do here is eat - well, tonight I ended up doing something a little different.  I must admit though that even this adventure started out as a search of a place to dine.  I consulted the city (gay) guide  and one restaurant kept popping up:  Restobar Inside.  I went, of course, and if you ever go to Buenos Aires I recommend that you do, too.

The food is just horrible.  Hands down the worst I had in Buenos Aires.  I went there on my second day in the city, see, and on the first day all I had was beef, so I thought I'd give fish a try this time.   How was I supposed to know how precious fresh fish is in BA?  There was just one fish in the menu so I asked for it.  A glass of wine and a basket of stale bread later, a plate came with white fillet, stuffed with vegies and herbs and spices.  I was impressed at how they managed to slice something so delicate and stuff it full without it falling apart.  Cutting a small piece with the knife felt strange as it was tougher than any other fish I've had, and when I put the piece in my mouth,  it all made sense.  It was the fish that never in its life swam in any body of water.  It was chicken.  A really, really bad chicken.  It tasted like something that a food enthusiast who's still learning his way in the kitchen would come up with, putting together ingredients he doesn't fully understand yet.  My handsome hunk of a waiter came running soon to retrieve my plate and apologized for having given me the wrong food.  He was such a hottie and my smile to him so big I don't think he had any idea of how bad I thought of the food.

After a few minutes he brought me the right dish.  Only there really wasn't anything right about this one, either.  The mixed vegetable side was a mushy mess of over-microwaved frozen mixture of corn, peas, beans and carrots that you can get in any discount store.  The fish, I suspect, was just as deep-frozen as the vegies it came with before it was baked wrapped in aluminum foil bag with some herbs and slices of eggplant - the only part of the meal that I was able to ingest.  Partly to finish my second glass of wine and partly to have an excuse to stare at my beautiful waiter, I lingered.  And boy was I glad I did - not too long after I gave up on my food, they served the meat!

"Geschlachteter Ochse" by Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn

Accompanied by boy-band music, mood lights, and among the restaurant's patrons a sense of anticipation  so thick and palpable, the meat came served in the form of a tall, muscular, long-haired blond equipped with that most sought-after quality in a male stripper:  the naughtiest smile.

To say that he had dance moves would be an insult to the discipline, but he knew how to work the floor.  He went to each table, encouraged patrons to touch him - and everybody did.  From the expression on his face you could tell that he was enjoying his job so much - well, either that or he's a great actor.  At the end of his routine, he was at the table next to mine.  He took off whatever's left of the pretense for underwear he's got on, walked behind me, and slapped his huge, throbbing man-meat on my shoulder.  It was the friendliest tap on the shoulder that I shall never forget.   Normally I'd complain of sanitary problems that a huge penis repeatedly mauled my shoulder when there's food on the table, but at the time I really couldn't care less.

EL ATENEO  Photo: Herbert Brant

In penance and partly to redeem myself from all the earthly thoughts racing through my loins, I decided to visit a renowned bookstore in the opposite side of town. It was a run-down theatre that was restored to its original glory and converted into the "El Ateneo" bookstore, and what a sight. I bought a book by one of the most prominent Argentinian writers, Ernesto Sabato, titled "El Tunel" in Spanish.

Having appeased the intellectual gods, I vowed to return to Restobar Inside the next day.


For now,

XXX
L.G.D.

Doing the Locals

(Part 2 of 5 in a series on Buenos Aires)


My lovelies,

In my previous correspondence I mentioned San Telmo, the oldest barrio (neighborhood) in Buenos Aires and home to Feria San Telmo, the very popular flea market held every Sunday in Calle Defensa. Feria San Telmo is not too different from Notting Hill's Portobello Market, the wares probably in similar degrees of authenticity. Even without the flea market on weekdays, San Telmo boasts of a big antiques market and several curiousity shops along the same street.

SAN TELMO  © Joselito Briones

In the same neighborhood are numerous old café's and restaurants - some of them officially recognized by the city as a café of note and historical significance (as is Café Tortoni).  I visited two - La Poesia and Café Coruña.

LA POESIA  © Joselito Briones

LA POESIA  © Joselito Briones

The first one, La Poesia, is the epitome of a Porteño café - the sort that you'll see in a movie if there's ever a scene in a café in Buenos Aires.  It's got the old world feel down to a tittle. Exposed bricks, worn out solid wood furniture, retro images on the wall, ham and sausages hanging over the bar - the works.  It has a mezzanine at the back where you can drink your coffee while watching people.  I could imagine a romantic scene in a film played out in one of the tables by the window, or perhaps a scene where a man drinks quietly in the darker part of the cafe, observing his ability to observe others, asking questions pertaining to his very existence.

LA CORUÑA  © Joselito Briones

The other café, La Coruña, turned out to be a working man's hang out.  There were men in workclothes having late lunch, each one occupying an entire table to himself, but all facing the same wall where a small TV unabatedly displayed football match results. I wouldn't be surprised if generations upon generations of local families grew up having beer and simple food here while watching football on TV.

When I came to visit, the table by the entrance was occupied by a man who looked like he's had a week's worth of alcohol during lunch - long wavy blond hair, in a summer suit and a thin scarf where his collar and tie was meant to be, nursing a drink and occasionally playing the harmonica and singing a blues song loud enough for everyone to hear.  It wasn't difficult to see that he's also not from here, although enough of a regular that the lady shopkeeper was sharing his table.  Intrigued by his attempts to attract attention, I approached and asked him what I now realize to be the most tactless question I could've come up with:  "Excuse me, are you supposed to be famous?" He graciously said no - I was thankful that he was a happy drunk - and in further conversation I learned that indeed he's a foreigner, looking for a teaching job in Buenos Aires.

The shopkeeper was very patient in helping me choose from what seems to be a fixed menu (written on a board high up on a wall), given her limited English and my bastardized Spanish. In the end, I settled for Porteno classics - churrasco (steak) with grilled peppers, lentils, a glass of Malbec, and flan de leche with a good dollop of dulce de leche. This pretty much sums up the must-haves in Buenos Aires, so I was curious to know how they're supposed to be in their most basic form, and I was not disappointed. If you are easily put off by plastic bread baskets or beer-branded retro plastic napkin holders, this place is not for you.  If you are however adventurous enough to overlook the lack of fineries, you will be rewarded with good food.

I really wish you were all here with me - Ms. Vita oggling the hot waiters, Ms. Patty posing for pictures beside marble busts of Venuses, and Ms. Hollie loving and hating his "plebs" in equal measure, but alas, all I can do is imagine what fun it would've been.


For now,

XXX
L.G.D.

Amongst the Ghosts of Fabulous People

(Part 1 of 5 in a series on Buenos Aires)

CAFE TORTONI © Joselito Briones

My lovelies,

I am writing this sitting in a corner table in Café Tortoni, Buenos Aires’ revered meeting place for prominent writers, artists, and politicos of years gone by. It is worth noting that the table I am in is dedicated to painter and poet Emilia Bertole whose self-portrait hangs on the wall beside me. What perfect corner to watch and sketch people. I can imagine what it must have been like - observing celebrities being obsessed over, intellectuals in heated arguments, poets smoking the night away. Today I see dignified-looking older Porteños (how locals call themselves), suits veering over serious-looking folios, locals in animated discussion over wine, and tourists, lots of tourists, who want to partake of the history that is still very much felt in the room, if only through the hanging portraits on the wall. I was seated here by the older gentleman in charge at the door, so well-mannered and agreeable that I wanted to give him a hug and tell him my Christmas wish this year.

CAFE TORTONI © Joselito Briones

As I'm writing this, I'm nibbling on some Roquefort and freshly baked rolls, washed down by a glass of their white 'reserva' - don't ask me what it is exactly, I just know that it's good and that I chose it only because it's proudly highlighted in their not-so-old-looking menu. The suggested (internet source) choice in this fine establishment is house ice cream drowned in dulce de leche (their classic thick custard-like reduction of milk and sugar), but as I have been grabbing every opportunity to dine in the city, I decided I will at least refrain from sweets (except for that one time when I did try dulce de leche in one restaurant - I had to). I figured I can't go wrong with classic cheese and wine. (Not to speak ill of Cafe Tortoni, I'm sure everything in their menu is up to par with the establishment's prestige).

You see, in my few days here in Buenos Aires I've learned not to be too adventurous with the choices in the menu. As a general rule, I try to learn beforehand what the restaurant is known for, or I ask the waiter. I have had really bad food in a restaurant (more on this later) , and although I am still hopeful that the meals in the remainder of my stay here will amaze me, I have not had a single meal that I truly, genuinely loved since I arrived. Don't get me wrong, they're not all that bad. There are local parillas everywhere that are passable to very good, and very reasonably priced. They serve the simplest meat dishes, allowing an unadulterated taste of the local beef Argentina is known for. It's just not like, say Spain or Italy, where good food is the rule instead of the exception. I even tried a couple of restaurants recommended by the New York Times, still no love.

One in particular is Brasserie Petanque, a French restaurant in San Telmo, the oldest neighborhood in the city. I went there for a late lunch and the place was empty save a few window tables. The staff were no-nonsense and could've been a wee bit friendlier, but they were efficient and my table didn't want for anything necessary for pleasant dining.

BRASSERIE PETANQUE © Joselito Briones

The food in Brasserie Petanque is indeed good. I was served generous portions of very tender lean pork in a dark and thick balsamic sauce that was great and went particularly well with a glass of Malbec, the most popular local wine. I was very disappointed though that at the bottom of the accompanying squash purée I found embedded a good-sized portion of a plastic wrapper. The only conclusion I could get to was that the purée was pre-frozen in a plastic bag and some plastic wrapper got caught between the folds when they removed it prior to thawing. It was a let down, considering they took enough time to give the illusion that they were preparing food in the kitchen as you order them, and I assumed that whatever took long to cook were at least prepared that day and didn't need freezing.

Anyway, there's still plenty to write about but I think I shall stop now to have my coffee and observe some more. I just wanted to grant Café Tortoni the claim that this here is the table where yours truly wrote a letter to his lovely friends.


For now,

XXX
L.G.D.