Food Porn

Mike's apartment is 7 blocks away from mine, in a gleaming brand new building.  In the courtyard out back, there is a beautiful pool, a wooden deck with lounge chairs, several tables, and a huge parilla (charcoal grill).  The building seems to be populated almost entirely by rich kids in their twenties, punctuated by an occasional wrinkly Brit on vacation.  The courtyard area turns into a younger, sleeker version of Melrose Place on the weekends, and there are a few sideways looks at the pasty and hairy Canadians if we venture out there on a Saturday.  During the week it is usually pretty dead, so last Monday we invited our Spanish instructors over for dinner.

Since we had only grilled on propane barbecues before, we had a trial run a few days earlier.  It took about an hour and a whole bottle of lighter fluid to get the charcoal going, but after that, I think we handled ourselves pretty well.  On Monday, we went to the San Telmo Mercado for fresh fruit and vegetables, got the butcher to saw us off some thick ribeyes and sirloins, and picked up a bag of charcoal (and more lighter fluid).  Then we hit up the deli for some cheese, and the bakery for dessert.

Dinner was a gut busting success.  Andres and Alejandra brought over several bottles of wine, some cheese, bread and salami for a starter, and a couple of green salads.  Andres showed us the proper charcoal lighting technique (the most important thing is to wave a garbage can lid up and down), and once the coals were hot, took over the grilling duties.  I usually cook a steak for just a few minutes per side on the highest possible heat, then let it sit for 10 minutes to settle before serving.  I was kind of worried when the meat was still on the grill after 30 minutes, but Andres knew what he was doing.  They were a lovely medium rare, and had crusted over a bit on the outside while absorbing the smoky flavour of the charcoal.  We also grilled red peppers with eggs cracked into them, provolone cheese, and asparagus.  There was a watermelon-basil-feta-almond salad, as well.  For dessert, fresh cherries with a chocolate, ricotta, and dulce de leche tart.  We didn't finish eating until midnight.

Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the Candlestick

This is the building my apartment is in.  My place is in the back of the building, so there is no patio, unfortunately.

The Foyer/Driving Range

Navigational Chamber/Yoga Studio

Floor Hockey Rink.  It may not look that big, but keep in mind those are 15 foot ceilings.

Accusing Parlour

Salon/Cribbage Court














Master Bedroom

Bidet Practice Room

Interrogation Room

Guest Bedroom

Breakfast Nook

Washeteria

Servant's Washroom.  Yes, I have a urinal in my apartment.

Kitchen.  When the maid came on Wednesday, I asked her to show me the proper way to start the oven.  It was so obvious, I was embarrassed not to have realized the proper procedure.  All you do is find the long metal poker behind the sink.  Cut a strip from an old t-shirt, tie it to the poker, and soak it with rubbing alcohol.  Open the oven door and pry out one of the heavy bricks from the bottom.  Then, you simply turn on the gas valve, twist the oven knob counter-clockwise a quarter turn and push it in, light the t-shirt poker on fire, and wave it around in the bowels of the oven until it catches.  Hold the knob in for 30 seconds, then replace the brick.  Dinner time!

Dressing Room.  Featuring a biweekly montage of me trying on different outfits while listening to "Eye Of The Tiger".

Rush to Relax

One of my biggest vices is punctuality.  It is a natural extension of being terminally impatient.  I'm always conscious of time slipping away, which makes me paranoid that I will force someone else to have to waste precious minutes waiting for me.  Living in BA has been a good way for me to ratchet down my worrying about what is happening next, and learn to relax and be in the moment.  I mean, I'm unemployed and basically have nowhere I need to be, so it's not like this is a profound personality shift.  Still, I have a great respect for the ability of the locals to slow things down.  Close up shop for the afternoon to have a siesta.  Stretch dinner out for 3 hours.  Pretend you don't see me when I'm next in line.  Nice and easy.

This contrasts sharply with local driving behavior, which is a sort of bumper car - go kart hybrid.  Traffic lights are merely a suggestion, and painted lane divisions are an insult.  There is a 7 lane avenue in front of my apartment, but I've seen 10 cars lined up across those lanes at a red light.  The point isn't to get to where you're going faster, it's to get ahead of the car in front of you.  The proper strategy when approaching a blind, uncontrolled intersection is to speed up and flash your lights.  Last week, Shannon, Miko, and I took a taxi to Palermo to check out a band, and the driver squeezed through a seemingly impassable gap between two cars just before a red light.  It didn't get us to the venue any faster, but we were ONE CAR AHEAD.  We started clapping, mostly out of relief that we didn't crash.  The driver was beaming; proud of his skills, and grateful for the recognition.

Over the line

I've been bowling in Belfast, Bangkok, Budapest, and Baton Rouge, but none of them come close to bowling in Buenos Aires.  I'm kidding, of course.  Baton Rouge was way better, bowling alleys in the U.S. always are.  Americans (at least, the cool ones) have a profound understanding of the bowling lifestyle that never totally translates to other cultures.  No matter how nice a foreign alley seems, there is always something a little off, like an Irish pub in Turkmenistan that plays The Gipsy Kings instead of The Chieftans.  I mean, I wouldn't even think of trying to get a white russian at the place we went to yesterday.

Paloko Bowl was pretty nice though, the lanes were in good shape and they had the coolest rental shoes I've ever seen.  There were separate lanes in the basement to quarantine the screaming kids having a birthday party, and the beer was so cold that the foam was a bit slushy.  They do need to work on cleaning the ball returns.  By the end of the first game, our hands were as dark as a black steer's tookus on a moonless prairie night.

Touristing

Mike and I had avoided doing a lot of touristy things for the first month in BA, since we are expecting a fair number of visitors and don't want to get stuck seeing Recoleta Cemetery eight times.  With the arrival of my friends Miko and Shan, and Mike's friend Natasha, it was time to put on the black socks, sandals, and fanny packs.  First stop - Recoleta Cemetery!  It really is awe inspiring, a full city block jammed with the mausoleums of Argentina's most powerful people, from Bernardo de Irigoyen to Madonna.  The best part was comparing the moustaches on the various statues and carvings.

Yesterday, I took the ferry with Miko and Shan to Uruguay for the day.  It is a one hour jaunt across the Rio Plate, or 3 hours if you get on the wrong ferry.  We wandered around the town of Colonia, which is so obnoxiously quaint it was declared a Unesco World Heritage Site.  The quiet, tree lined streets were a welcome respite from the noise and exhaust fumes of BA.  Especially since they started doing construction above my new apartment.

The Case of the Barking Oven

As promised, Malala's niece arrived at 10 yesterday morning to make the switch.  The refund she offered was $340.00 less than promised.  After a series of phone calls, someone from the agency came by with the rest of the money, and I had 10 minutes to get to the new place on time.  If I had known that there are two different streets named Irigoyen, I might have made it.  I thought that the cabbie was going the wrong way, but the last month has given me a healthy appreciation of my poor sense of direction, so I didn't say anything.  I was looking for building 668 (the neighbour of the beast!), but it went 656 - 662 - parking lot - 674.  After checking with the lot attendant to see if there was a secret tunnel or something, he looked at the address on my reservation and explained my stupidity.  A second cabbie was given the secret password (Bernardo de Irirgoyen), and I arrived 15 minutes late, still 30 minutes before the new agency rep got there.

This apartment is located in a historic building.  Seriously, it's on a registry and everything!  It has 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, an office, a giant foyer, and a hallway connecting all of the rooms that is big enough for floor hockey.  The real jewel is the kitchen, though.  After Mike escorted Miko and Shan in from the airport, we went to our favourite Italian place for lunch (motto: No Lasagne!).  They were pretty bagged from the flight and went to bed for a few hours, which gave me time to make some granola.

Did I tell you about the kitchen?  It is designed for entertaining; there is even a second entrance from outside, so your houseguests don't see the help.  The centerpiece is an industrial 6 burner gas stove.  It only took me about 15 minutes to figure out how to turn on the gas valve, locate the proper dial, and find the hole for the pilot light.  Once I got it lit, I had to hold the dial in, or it would go out.  I developed a system of lighting the pilot and holding the dial in for about 30 seconds until the smell and sound of escaping gas unnerved me enough to let the pilot light go out before I destroyed a historic building.  Then, I'd wait for 10 minutes for the gas to clear before repeating the process.  After the fifth aborted attempt, I hit on the bright idea of keeping the oven door closed after the pilot light was lit.  I waited for 45 seconds, then started to worry that the pilot light had gone out, so I cracked the oven door open a bit.  WOOF!  A sheet of flame shot out across the floor, blowing ashes and oven grit everywhere.  But the oven stayed lit!  I'm glad I made a double batch of granola, because I don't think I'll have the nerve to do that again.

Goodbye, Gay City

Unless I'm falling for a colossal fake-out, I think I've extricated myself from Casa del Smasho.  Only one of the 7 apartments that I applied for was available, so I grabbed it while I could.  It is bigger than I need (3 bedrooms!), but at least it is too expensive.  I only have it for one month, so I'll be repeating the process again soon.  I was hoping to move yesterday, but Malala can't get me the refund money until Monday, which I need to pay for the new place. 

Monday morning is shaping up to be busy:
10:00 - Malala meets me here, gives me the refund, and gets the keys.
10:45 - I meet my new landlady at the new place to check in.
10:50 - My pals Miko and Shannon arrive from Calgary.
Also, my house sale finally goes through at noon (4pm my time).  This calls for a steak blowout at La Brigada!  No Riverdancing, please.

Polka Your Eyes Out

When I was 14 or so, I went on a camping trip in Montana with my friend Daryl Grove and his dad.  We stopped at a record store in Great Falls, and each of us bought a tape.  I got Weird Al Yankovic's Polka Party, and Daryl picked up a heavy metal compilation.  Daryl's tape included "Caught in a Mosh" by thrash pioneers Anthrax.  This was before "grunge" had popularized mosh pits, so two small town kids like us were mystified.  We spent the rest of the trip speculating about what a mosh could possibly be.  I think we decided it was some sort of swamp (Yeah!  It's like a marsh!).

When Mike saw that Anthrax was playing Buenos Aires, we knew we had to go.  Neither of us are huge Anthrax fans, but South Americans have a reputation for being passionate metal heads, and this seemed like the perfect chance to see them in action.  Trust me, the legends are true.  The crowd shouted along to every word, the energy was incredible.  And yes, there was moshing aplenty.  Luckily, we didn't get caught.

Victory! Or is it?

It seemed too easy.  After I threatened to refuse access to Malala's realtor, the rental agency sent an email right away.  It turns out that her niece DID hear the construction noise, they were very sorry for my distress, and they offered a refund for the last two months of my lease.  Jubilant, I immediately started scouring the dozens of other agencies offering furnished apartments in BA.  I found the perfect one, sent in the reservation form, and waited for the promised call or email.  I'm still waiting.

This afternoon, I started to get nervous, so I tried to call the new agency.  It was just a recorded message, and I couldn't tell if I had actually reached the agency or if the phone # didn't work.  Such is the state of my Spanish comprehension.  I think I heard "fourteen", and possibly "breakfast".  I decided I needed a backup plan, so I sent out 7 different reservation requests to 7 different agencies.  When I was done, Malala's niece showed up at the door to see if everything was alright.  I asked her to thank her aunt for offering the refund, and she gave me a confused look.  She hadn't heard any noise yesterday, and besides, the labourers told her they would be done by Friday!  What refund?

I think I finally understand the meaning of that old Argentine saying:  "Never Riverdance with a briefcase in Gay City."

Brinkmanship

Construction continues unabated in the apartment upstairs.  I've been trying all week to get a refund for my remaining time on the reservation, but I'm clearly not dealing with amateurs.  The rental agency and my landlady are playing faux helpful cop/benignly obtuse cop.  I email the agency, they say that they will talk to Malala.  I phone Malala, she says she will look into it.  The projected end of construction keeps slouching over the horizon, but it will definitely be soon, soon!

Finally, the agency emailed me yesterday to say that Malala would come over this morning to check out the situation at 10.  I waited until 11, then phoned her.  Oh, her niece went at 10, but didn't want to disturb me!  Shockingly, it was quiet between 10 and 10:30, so maybe they are done.  If not now, then by Friday for sure!

Malala is also trying to sell the apartment, so I've had to leave whenever it is being shown, including a three hour open house every Saturday afternoon.  After the hammering magically started up again at 11:30, I emailed the agency to inform them that if they would not release me from the lease, I was revoking my permission for the Estate Agent to show it.  I can't wait to see their next move.

None of this really matters, because I finally had a really good paella.  This picture does not do justice to the meal, it was much more tentacled in real life.

Anarchic Defecation

People don't clean up after their dogs here.  And there are a lot of dogs.  It kind of grossed me out at first, but it didn't take long to adjust to the new reality.  Yesterday, Mike and I went for a run along the boardwalk in Puerto Madero, and we saw a woman with a plastic bag actually picking up her dog's shit!  In Calgary, I wouldn't have even noticed.  After getting used to to the local custom of "a poo laid is a poo played", it just seemed wrong that she would demean herself that way.  Anyway, my poo-dar is getting pretty good, no major missteps yet.  Every once in a while, I see a skidding shoe print smeared through some caca de perro, and wonder if I'm going to be next.

Symphony for Hammers in BA Minor

I've been avoiding my apartment for the past week.  The unit above me is being renovated, and all day long there is relentless hammering, drilling, and grinding.  At first, it was kind of nice, because the construction noise drowned out my neighbour's stupid barking dogs.  Now, I'm starting to get a little testy.  Last week, the landlady assured me that everything would be done by Friday.  When the pipe burst and I had to go upstairs to tell them that my ceiling was raining ("AGUA!  AGUA!"), it looked more like a 2 month job to me.  Sure enough, the hits just keep on coming.  Malala (my landlady) has phoned to tell me that they will now be done by THIS Friday, for realsies this time!  I'm beginning to question the wisdom of paying 3 months rent upfront in cash.