Upon arrival at our barrio in Buenos Aires

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UPON ARRIVAL AT OUR BARRIO IN BUENOS AIRES

As we exited our trusty 767 at the Buenos Aires Airport, Ezeiza, the airline staff smiled sweetly and proudly waved me toward a waiting wheel chair, in deference to the walking stick I was using. I demurred, because the back affliction I have been enduring since a week before our departure, wreaks maximum havoc just after I get up from sitting, as in from a wheel or any other chair, and extracts demanding tribute just after I get up from lying, as in asleep in bed. But, enough of that, already; except to say that the very helpful airport staff, eyes entranced by my walking stick, insisted that we join them and the wheel chair supplicants in the line for the physically challenged, crew and diplomats. So, with the consent of many sympathetic glances, we sped through the arrival formalities in just short of a jiffy and into the face of a large sign saying, “Welcome Penelope Eccles”. Whereupon we were whisked away, baggage and all, into a waiting taxi for a leisurely drive to the B&B in our neighbourhood of choice.

Buenos Aires, “city of the good winds”, is about neighbourhoods, barrios as they are called, some forty-eight of them; and the Portenos, as its citizens refer to themselves, identify first with their barrio and then with the city. Our barrio is Palermo, lushly treed giving copious shade; parks freely spotted around with children and the elderly at play; pet shops aplenty grooming frisky four-leggeds; a diverse range of restaurant banners, signifying multi-ethnic European with traces of other strains sprinkled-in; well kept shrubbery between and leading to the rear of two-storied townhouses; many small storefronts with residences atop; and a corner-store, if you know what I mean, on virtually every corner.

We got home from the airport; tipped our informative and luggage-attentive driver; met our hosts: father, mother Marta Elena, son and an English speaking Mexican guest; freshened up and went out for the stroll that would confirm our debit cards work in these parts; they did, 300 pesos at a time. We walked through a park, the one, as it turned out, that is home to indigents; alas, this city has its social challenges too.

After a twirl or two around several blocks, we found a place to have dinner and verify that our credit cards would work. As I ease into telling about dinner, I need to let you in on a few open secrets: meat, to wit, beef, including all organs of the cow, is what people prefer in these parts; also, they make wine in Argentina, red, tinto, more so than white, blanco, Malbec, to be precise; and, they start dinner late, 9-ish or so; and take their own sweet time over it.

Against that background, and as the only patrons present, we began dinner at 9, promptly, with a salad, mixed at the table, of beets, boiled eggs, celery, leafy greens, and diced melon, with a trace of nuts. All of this was lightly dashed, after permission sought and granted, with olivico and balsamico. No wine at this stage; just sparkling water, agua con gas, ensuring, I guess, a clean palate for what was to follow. A Parradillo for two, followed; roughly understood by us as a mixed grill, think mixed grill-plus. The cooking process began under chef-control at a huge grill and was completed over slow burning coals at our table. We are talking here about two serious short ribs and a half of chicken, surrounded by kidneys, liver, tripe, sausage, pudding and brains, served so that the innards come first, while the outers continue cooking to perfection before you; all of it faintly herbed and seasoned so that each mouthful is a memory. As accompaniment, we chose a Nieto Sentinel, Malbec, 13.5%, from the vineyards of Mendoza in the centre-west of the country. Legs, nose and appeal to the palate were exquisite. The quite agreeable senor kept pouring into those nine ounce glasses they seem to favour here, like there would be no redemption and without another sip of agua in sight. For sure, there was no dessert, coffee or tea, in spite of his pleadings.

Tomorrow, we venture into the heart of Buenos Aires.


Vernon

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