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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
