Tag Archives: Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires–Day 6

31 May

I had another overnight flight back to Texas, so after packing, I still had several hours before it was time to leave for the airport.  I hadn’t bought gifts for anyone, so my first stop was Havanna, a local coffee shop chain known for their alfajores, sandwich cookies filled with ducle de leche or some other sweetness and frequently coated in chocolate.  I actually didn’t get the chance to sample any while I was here, but my friend took me to an Argentine bakery in Miami a few weeks ago, and they are seriously delicious.  I’m going to work on finding a good recipe for them when I get back. 

My next stop was a shoe store I’d been eyeing since my arrival, Divia.  I could tell just from the window that their shoes were fantastic, but I wanted to make absolutely sure that they were the most fantastic shoes in the city before committing.  They undoubtedly were, all handmade and unique.  And I was fortunate enough to find a pair in my size that looked more summery, so I’ll be able to start wearing them immediately upon my return.  Shoes, teapot–my trip is complete. 

I wanted to eat a big lunch to minimize the need for airplane food, so I went to a Palermo restaurant called Bar 6.  I took another stab at ojo de bife, though since Bar 6 isn’t a parrilla, the steak came coated in a mustard sauce, more similar to bistro food.  The meat was very tender, though very overcooked.  It didn’t matter as much with the sauce, but I do like my steaks as rare as I can get them, and that’s how I ordered it.  The mashed potatoes that came with it were excellent, though, and it certainly filled me up. 

I’m off to the airport now, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that everything goes smoothly.  I’m not ready to go, but once the departure process is in motion, I’m not a fan of delays.

Buenos Aires–Day 5

30 May

Today was my last full day in Buenos Aires, and I’m happy to say that the city cooperated with me.  The rain was gone by noon, and it turned into a completely gorgeous day–crisp and sunny, just cool enough for a coat but not anywhere near cold.  Kate and Stacy had already made alternate plans, but I decided to head to the weekly outdoor market in San Telmo anyway. 

And I’m so glad I did.  I have a thing for flea markets and antique shops; many of my grandmother’s ancient pieces of furniture have found their way to my townhouse.  This was an excellent market, with the quality items all neatly concentrated in the center of the Plaza Dorrego, leaving the crap to the outside of the square.  There was more silver than I’ve ever seen, along with quite a bit of jewelry.  I was on a mission, however.  I’m slowly gathering a collection of antique ceramic teapots from around the world.  I started close to home, picking up one at a market in Dallas and one from my grandparents’ antique store, then got more exotic with teapots from Florence and Madrid.  I was lucky enough to find a stall with several to choose from, and the old men rambled enthusiastically in Spanish about how special it was as they carefully wrapped it up.  (All I caught was “very rare,” “Italian,” “very old”…but I still appreciated their excitement.)  I know this collection makes me sound like a little old lady, but as my sister-in-law pointed out, it’s better than salt and pepper shakers, spoons, shot glasses, or my niece’s shell collection.  After the teapot, I bought a cheap but pretty strand of bottle green glass beads, then decided to leave the market before I spent my taxi fare for the ride home.

Before cabbing back, I took a mini-break for brunch in a cafe/art gallery, where I got a cafe con leche and three medialunas (similar to croissants, but with a sweet glaze and not as flaky) for just $3.  I could seriously get used to the cost of food here.  I was happy I fortified myself because the next 20 minutes may have been the scariest of my life.  All drivers in BsAs are slightly crazy.  No one pays any attention to lane demarcations, there’s a serious shortage of stop signs, and many cars don’t seem to bother with turning their headlights on at night.  But this driver was in a class by himself.  I gripped the edges of the seat as he nearly sideswiped one car, cut off another, and accelerated through a red light.  And just to add another dollop of excitement to the trip, he had his meter jacked so it clicked through at twice the normal rate.  In addition to fearing for my life, I was terrifed that I wouldn’t have enough cash to pay him, and I’d have to face another taxi driver showdown. 

Since I’m typing this, you obviously know I made it.  But just let me say that I stepped out of that cab a grateful girl.  I spent the rest of the afternoon strolling around Palermo, watching the leaves drift down from the trees, and basking in the sunshine.  I did a quick walk through of the craft tables set up in the Plaza Serrano, but it was mostly junk, especially compared to the offerings in San Telmo.  I’d pretty much hit my purchasing quota for the day, though, so it was for the best.

I went back to the hotel when the sun started to set and eagerly awaited my dinner at La Cabrera, an upscale parrilla.  I’d been saving the reputed best for last, and it did not disappoint.  I was seated at a corner of the tented patio, which was comfortable enough thanks to a nearby heater.  Since it was my final dinner in Buenos Aires, I opted for a full three courses, with a big glass of Malbec to top it off.  And I did my best, but I’m ashamed to admit that La Cabrera’s giant platters of food had me beat.  They opened with bread served with both green and black olive tapenade and a roasted garlic bulb.  I’m not a huge olive fan, but I do love garlic, so I quickly demolised a roll despite my previous resolve to wait til the real food came.  I had my favorite provoleta to start, and it was just as delicious as I’d remembered.  For my main course, I ordered vuelta y velta de cuadril–lightly seared, i.e. super rare, rump steak.  La Cabrera allegedly cheats by marinating their meat, but I don’t really care what they do.  It’s perfection.  Flavorful but tender enough with the perfect amount of fat.  (My sister will be disgusted by that, but fat makes good meat; that’s just how it is.)  The portions are out of control, though.  One order basically consisted of THREE steaks, along with four sauces and tapenades, a salad, and another platter of side items.  I skipped the sauces since the steak just didn’t need them and focused on a couple sides, only eating my favorites: pureed squash with raisins and mashed potatoes with mustard grains.  I rarely eat dessert, but I was glad I treated myself.  The dulce de leche crepes with vanilla ice cream were incredible, the perfect ending note.  I collapsed into bed pleasantly stuffed.

Buenos Aires–Day 4

29 May

“And the rain, rain, rain came down, down, down”…on the fourth day, it rained.  Hard.  All day.  But since I have no idea when or if I’ll be in Buenos Aires again, I dragged myself out of my cozy bed and grabbed my trusty Juicy Couture umbrella.  (Three years in torrential Boston rain, and it’s never flipped inside out.)

My first stop was a nearby parrilla (steakhouse) called Don Julio.  I can’t believe it took me so long to make it to one; for a carnivore like myself, parrillas are as close as it gets to heaven.  Dan from Casa Saltshaker last night told me that, in his opinion, Don Julio has the best ribeye (ojo de bife) in the city.  Since that’s my favorite cut of meat, I was excited to try it, but I ended up a little disappointed.  Traditionally, parrillas  don’t marinate the meat or use seasonings, and it tasted a little bland to me–though it was much improved with just a dash of salt.  The bigger problem was the quality of the beef; it was far too fatty and nearly impossible to saw through.  For $10, though, it wasn’t bad.

After lunch, I grabbed a taxi (stepping in a giant puddle in the process) and went to the MALBA–the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires.  It was much smaller than I’d anticipated.  The top floor was blocked off for some reason, so it was really just a handful of rooms.  Nevertheless, there were some fantastic pieces.  A bench created by Pablo Reinoso had wooden slats that extended on one side in a riotous heap of tangles that climbed the walls of the museum.  And I loved Armando Reverón’s Mujer desnuda leyendo (Nude woman reading).  Unfortunately, pictures weren’t allowed, and I can’t find an image online, but it was a large canvas painted entirely in a flesh tone with just the hint of an outline of the figure–so subtle and lovely.  If you’re interested, however, you can see some of Reverón’s other works here.  White Landscape has a similar style. 

Since it was still pouring when I left the museum, I walked quickly around the corner to the Paseo Alcorta mall, which is supposed to be one of the more upscale malls in the city.  I believe that because the prices were a little steep by Argentine standards, but otherwise, I would have no idea.  The best part about shopping in foreign countries is that you have no label preconceptions.  In high school, I would never buy anything from Banana Republic because ALL of the other girls at my school shopped there.  I could have been shopping quite contentedly at the BsAs equivalent, however; I certainly didn’t know the difference.  It’s very freeing.  It also means, though, that you have to go in almost every store…not such a hardship, on second thought.  Argentines are teeny tiny (one person told me they come in second to Japan in the number of people with eating disorders), so pants were a definite no.  But I did buy a magenta shrug embellished with something akin to leather paillettes on sale at Trosman and a camel sweater with topaz (my birthstone!)-colored stones sewn on the sleeves at Maria Cher.  My mood always lifts when I feel the weight of shopping bags on my arms, and I was happy to go back to the hotel for a brief rest before dinner.

An hour or so later, I met Kate and Stacy, my new friends from the first night’s wine tasting, for dinner at Bereber, located just a few steps from my hotel and distinguished as the only Moroccan restaurant in Buenos Aires.  It’s also one of the few places in the city that serves cocktails, and so I started with a Gazelle–strawberry, lime, vodka…and possibly some ingredients I couldn’t decipher.  Notwithstanding my less than stellar language skills, it was delicious.  We ordered two appetizers for the table: a sampler with hummus, tabouleh, etc. and an amazing sort of pastry stuffed with chicken, raisins, and spices.  I wish I could remember its proper name because it was delicious.  For the main course, I had the Habra, which was lamb with a chimichurri sauce on a bed of field greens with a roasted red pepper and feta salad and honey soaked crisps.  Separately, it was all very good, but the flavors never coalesced.  We shared two desserts: something advertised as a crispy chocolate cake that looked like a giant Ho-Ho and wasn’t very good and a much more successful almond filled pastry called the Snake with creamy ice cream to accompany it. 

After dinner, we went to a birthday party at Antares, a little further down the street.  The girls had started talking to the couple sitting next to them during a very lengthy dinner the night before.  Their neighbors turned out to be a couple from New York who were working in BsAs for the next few months, and the guy invited them to his party.  It was a good thing we went because most of his Argentine friends bailed on account of rain.  But we had a great time chatting about expat life and sampling the house-made beers.  I went back to the hotel around 2 A.M. with tentative plans to meet up with Stacy and Kate at the San Telmo market tomorrow if the rain stopped.  Buenos Aires social network: check.

Buenos Aires–Day 3

28 May

Another late night; another late start.  No alarm clock trouble this time, but my hotel room looks out over a lovely little park.  Sadly, however, this means that I get all the park noise…people drunkenly shouting until 5 A.M. and then a hundred dogs barking as if they’re being stabbed with red hot pokers starting at 7 A.M.  And two hours of sleep just isn’t enough.  Definitely need to bring earplugs or stay on a side street next time. 

When I finally got moving, I walked to the Evita museum and had lunch at their cafe.  The cafe is very nice, with a large patio and plenty of greenery.  They have a crepe stand outside, so I started with a fruit and nut pate crepe topped with three different kinds of cheese.  The taste was good, but I thought the cheese would actually be baked into the crepe, and I think it would have been better that way.  The main course was fantastic, though–extremely plump pumpkin ravioli in a sage cream sauce. 

Then I headed into the museum itself, which was created in an early 20th century house used as a shelter for women and children by the Eva Perón Foundation.  The museum was a bit disappointing in that there was a lack of original materials, featuring instead things “of the same period,” or reproductions of photographs, with numerous quotes on the wall from Eva’s book, The Reason of My Life.  I did really enjoy all of her clothing on display, though, and since my only knowledge of her life up to this point came from the musical, I learned a lot.  I had no idea that she’d moved to Buenos Aires with her mother (not a man she’d slept with), and I also didn’t know about her leadership in the women’s suffrage movement in Argentina.  Very educational.  And I’m still dreaming about the gorgeous black velvet round toe pumps with a champagne silk ruffle.

That night, I had dinner at Casa Saltshaker, a puertas cerradas (closed door) restaurant–essentially dinner at someone’s apartment with a bunch of strangers.  Casa Saltshaker is run by an American expat, Dan, and his partner, Henry, out of their Recoleta apartment.  They feature a different theme each week; ours was the anniversary of the Cloud Club, a private dining club in the Chrysler Building that was started in the 1930s.  Dan served five courses: a duo of savory profiteroles (roasted red pepper and eggplant purees), mushroom veloute, whole wheat pasta with chickpeas and truffle oil, a take on Philadelphia chicken that was wrapped in pastrami and stuffed with goat cheese, then served with glazed carrots and roasted cherry tomatoes, and a light almond cake with caramelized bananas for dessert.  The food was all good, and the first and last courses were exceptional. 

The company was as much a part of the experience as the food, though.  There were seven other guests in attendance (and two no-shows): three couples, all from New York City but traveling separately, and a British man who decided to live in Argentina for a couple years to play polo.  Two of the couples seemed nice and normal; the third was odd.  They asked the other couples how they met and then told us all they’d met at a party.  “But a special party,” she added. 

We all giggled nervously, and one of the other men said, “You have to tell us what you mean…cause my imagination is just going out of control here.” 

She smiled and said, “Special…not too special, though.”  And that was that.  I have a feeling this is going to torture me for awhile; it’s just rude to make allusions without clarifications. 

The British guy was also quite the character.  He continually asked for more alcohol and claimed to know the scientist who cloned Dolly the sheep.  Everyone was friendly and social, though, and since I’m traveling alone, it was a treat to chat with people in English for awhile.  I’d return to Casa Saltshaker, for the lottery factor, if nothing else.  You never know whom you’ll be sharing your table with, so there’s always the possibility of getting the story of your life along with your meal.  I wasn’t quite that lucky, but $50 for five tasty courses with wine pairings and pleasant conversation seems reasonable enough to me.

Buenos Aires–Day 2

27 May

I got a late start this morning, thanks to my 2:11 A.M. wake up call, delivered by the egg-shaped alarm clock with no apparent off switch.  After five minutes of beeping, I finally figured out that you have to hold two buttons down simultaneously for three seconds.  Obviously. 

So I headed out around noon.  It was a cool (low 60′s), overcast day, but that was perfect for my purposes.  My main sightseeing stop for the day was the Recoleta Cemetery, a large, walled-in cemetery featuring above ground mausoleums and beautiful, albeit slightly creepy, statues.  This is Eva Perón’s final resting place, and many people visit the cemetery to take pictures with or put flowers on her tomb.  From an artistic perspective, however, Evita’s tomb is far from the most interesting.  The cemetery was almost completely empty when I was there (the joy of traveling in fall), and I was able to wander down the paths, examining all the choices in the architecture and embellishment.  Many mausoleums have fallen out of repair; some have broken windows, making it possible for you to reach right in–not that a sane person would want to.  Especially on a cloudy day, when there aren’t many people around, the cemetery would make a perfect setting for a horror film. 

Or perhaps a love story?  One of the weirdest parts of traveling by yourself, especially as a woman, is that people interact with you in ways that they never would if you were with a group of people.  Case in point, there was a man (mid-thirties, attractive) standing outside the cemetery, collecting money for children’s AIDS hospitals.  I gave him a few dollars, and he started talking to me about where I was from, who I was here with, how long I’d be staying, etc.  After a couple minutes, I told him I was heading in, and he said, ”Wait, just give me a kiss.”  Naively, I assumed he meant the traditional Argentine right kiss on the cheek that they give as both greeting and farewell.  Instead, he attempted to full on make out with me.  I jumped back, appalled, and said, “We’re outside a CEMETERY.  And you’re collecting money for HOSPITALS!”  I’m not sure he really understood my discomfort, but he let me escape. 

At any rate, after a couple hours among the tombs, I was famished, so I went to Rodi Bar, a casual nearby restaurant.  There weren’t any other tourists in there, which is always a good sign, but the food was only so-so.  I took Fodor’s advice (shouldn’t I have known better after the taxi situation yesterday?) and ordered the breaded veal stuffed with ham and cheese.  As with all Argentine restaurants, it was plentiful and inexpensive, but the ham and cheese inside were still cold, and there wasn’t enough veal to hold up to the breading.  Coffee was a treat, though.  Instead of a cafe con leche (similar to a latte), I ordered a cafe con crema, which had a dollop of thick, Devonshire-style cream.  With a packet of sweetener, it was a doll cup sized piece of heaven.

Recoleta is the most famous shopping area in the city, so I took to the streets after lunch to wander around.  Most of the stores were things you can find anywhere, though, and I detest traveling thousands of miles to look at the same Louis Vuitton purse I’ve seen in every major U.S. city.  After an hour, I opted for a nap.

That night, I went to a tango show, de rigueur for any Buenos Aires visitor.  I sprang for a more upscale option and booked a table at Rojo Tango, which is housed in the much lauded Faena Hotel & Universe.  The hotel is a bit out of the way, but a private car to and from the show is included in the price.  The room was intimate, with just about 20 tables, and the decor was opulent, with the same red and gold theme as in the lobby.  An optional three-course dinner preceded the show, and though I’m generally wary of mass-produced cuisine, it seemed like the only reasonable way to eat dinner and make it to the show by 9:30.  I was very pleasantly surprised by the quality of the food, however.  I started with a fresh mozzarella, ham, and basil pinwheel with field greens, then had veal with potato gratin, and finished with a dessert trio that included passion fruit cheesecake, berry crumble, and a chocolate cake layered with dulce de leche. 

And the show was as good as the food.  There were eight dancers, two singers, and a full band, and the numbers ranged from the traditional to their interpretation of the El Tango de Roxanne from Moulin Rouge.  (The female singer, incidentally, looked like a walking advertisement for the plastic surgery/tour packages I’d read about…but beyond that, she was very talented.)  The total price, including gratuity was about $240, so very expensive, especially by Argentine standards, but I’ve paid that much for Broadway before, and this was something you can only see in Buenos Aires.  I think it was worth it…probably wouldn’t do it again, but good for a first visit to BsAs.

Buenos Aires–Day 1

26 May

When my plane landed in a foggy Buenos Aires, I was far more refreshed than usual.  I’ve never been able to sleep on overnight flights.  I’ve always used them for ambitious projects: reading Lolita or watching three Best Pictures I’d never seen.  But this time, I chased an enormous diner meal in the Houston airport with two Tylenol Simply Sleeps and got a solid eight hours. 

But a good night’s sleep wasn’t enough to calm my nerves.  Friends and strangers on the internet had filled my mind with stories before I left about all the horrible things that could happen to me.  “Latin America is a different kind of dangerous,” one girl friend told me.  Another was more explicit: “Have you seen Taken?  These girls talked to a cute guy in the taxi line, and he followed them to the place they were staying, kidnapped them, and sold them into sex slavery.  So you should be careful.”  Right.  Yes.  Not becoming a sex slave is an excellent vacation goal. 

After paying the enormous entry fee ($131, but good for ten years…return incentive), I collected my suitcase–and was stopped by a Continental representative checking passports against luggage claim tickets.  I guess everyone wasn’t lying about that whole crime issue.  I changed some money (at the wrong booth, but oh well, I’m still kicking ass with the exchange rate here) and headed outside to get a taxi. 

Big mistake.  Huge, as Julia Roberts said.  If you’re flying into the international airport in Buenos Aires, have your hotel set up a transfer.  Just do it.  Because Fodor’s lies.  It says getting a taxi is fine, cheaper than hiring a car, no problem.  So I went out to the official taxi stand, armed with all the horror stories about unofficial taxis, and got into a cab with two very nice-seeming gentlemen.  One of them focused on driving (a necessity in Buenos Aires), and the other chatted with me.  Since I barely speak Spanish, and he barely spoke English, this involved a lot of pantomime and dictionary use.  All was well until we pulled up in front of the hotel.  The friendly man who had been talking to me got out of the taxi to make a phone call, and the driver informed me via a laminated chart that it would be $80 or 300 pesos.  Fine, I thought, and handed over the money. 

But apparently, not fine at all.  The driver rejected my money, both Argentine and U.S., because the serial numbers didn’t end in C or D.  Wtf.  I was well aware that Argentina has a problem with counterfeit money, and I’d read about watermarks and silver stripes and such minutiae.  But C or D, not so much.  He became more agitated, and I became more panicked.  I tried to get out of the cab (not to skip the fare, just to get a translator from the hotel), and he started screaming at me.  Finally, I lost it and yelled back, “I don’t know what the F#@* you’re talking about, but it’s THIS or NADA.”  I know, ugly American, party of one, but how much abuse can one girl take?  He relented, and told me to just give him 100 pesos and $60.  I still haven’t figured out what his game was…if he was trying to get me to give him more money than he initially said I owed, he succeeded…netting himself a whopping SEVEN extra bucks.  Lord knows I would’ve paid more than that just to avoid the whole mess. 

I was tearing up as I walked into my hotel (Craft in Palermo Soho).  It was very stylish, with a bright red exterior and modern pictures on the walls inside that contrasted with the rickety stairs painted different, faded colors.  But at that moment, I didn’t even care; I just wanted a bed and a pillow.  They were nice enough to let me check in early, and I crashed.

Before my trip, I’d booked a wine tasting with Anuva Wines, which was held in the owner of the company’s apartment in the Las Canitas neighborhood.  The set-up was lovely.  We tasted five wines: Hom Sparkling (Chardonnay/Chenin Blanc blend) paired with a light, creamy cheese on a cracker with green apple, Serrera Torrontes (the primary white wine of Argentina, similar to an unoaked Chardonnay) paired with two delicious fruit sorbets, Mairena Bonarda (an Argentine red, less well-known than Malbec) with two salty cheeses, a gruyere and a cheddar, San Gimignano Syrah Roble (only the name is Italian) served with a beef empanada from a local shop, and finally a Don Juan reserve–Las Perdices malbec paired with two kinds of chocolate.  The wine was good, though not exceptional.  There was nothing that wowed me like some of the offerings in Napa did last month.  But the pairings were tasty and definitely enough for a meal.  And I enjoyed it enough to join their wine club, so there will be future reports on Anuva.

As a bonus, I made two new friends at the tasting!  Kate and Stacy, two 30ish American women who had been friends since college, were my wine tasting companions.  After the tasting was over, we walked to a bar on Baez Street, recommended to us by Sarah, the very friendly woman who hosted the tasting, and we sampled an Argentine beer called Otro Mundo.  We also ordered appetizers (not that I needed them after the pairings), and I got my first taste of provoleta–a big pile of delicious melted provolone cheese topped with herbs.  Someone needs to start making that here because it is, without a doubt, the ultimate comfort/hangover food. 

Between the cheese, the wine, and the overnight flight, I was spent at the very early hour of 10 PM, so we called it a night, exchanging email addresses and agreeing to meet up later.  Despite the run-in with the taxi driver, I decided to put my first day in Buenos Aires in the win column.

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