Roll Over, Plimpton (Blocho blogging)

First of, despite what Tanto Gusto might claim, El Gordo Magnifico has not adopted mate. But he's trying, he trying real hard, Ringo, to develop a taste for the bitter concoction.

Now on to the matter at hand, which includes two experiences with Argentina's sporting scene. The second event took place yesterday, and if I had to write a lede for it, it would probably go something like this:

BUENOS AIRES - El Gordo Magnifico arrived at the boxing gym in Barracas with high hopes and a thirst for the ring. An hour later, he departed after many pains and no accomplishments. In between, he lost his lunch and a couple pounds of bile.

Not bad, huh? George Plimpton, the hero and creator of participatory journalism who once climbed into the ring with the pros and even had a tryout with the Detroit Lions, probably rolled in his grave. Boxing, it seems, is a bit of a barbaric sport, and there was nothing sweet about my experience.

A mediocre lunch of a chicken and mayo sandwich was partly to blame, as was the extensive pre-hydration provided by Coke Zero and agua con gas. And after about 30 minutes of jump rope, some bizarre arm exercises and even weirder calisthenics with a wooden bar, I staggered over to the stairs and got no farther. Thankfully, Tanto Gusto was Johnny-on-the-spot with a mop bucket, which quickly became the home of my half-digested lunch.

The important thing is that Tomas, the boxing coach, was more bemused than angry. And I remain unbowed. EGM intends to return on Wednesday.

Now as for the other scene of athletic endeavor (and a far less indigestible one), TG and I made a trip to the Hippidromo Argentino on Sunday, where we met Gabriel and Manolo Rio Cabo for a day at the races.

Gabe - hereafter referred to as El Flaco Insuferible - had just returned from a trip to Brazil for carnaval, and I hadn't seen him in more than three years. We got reacquainted during several hours spent staring at the finest and swiftest steeds Buenos Aires had to offer.

The Hippodromo had an impressive setup, with several stately, almost regal, buildings providing the framework for the stands and track. TG, EFI, Manolo and I fell into a steady rhythm of visiting the paddock to inspect the ponies pre-race, placing our bets and then retiring to the stairs for a view of the race.

Manolo, relying on decades spent at various racetracks around the U.S., quickly established his bona fides as a handicapper with some astute picks. Tanto Gusto won the first race, and I managed to pick up a pair of wins by betting on horses names Es Huma and Grigoriy. My net take was -7 pesos, a fair fee for an afternoon of entertainment. El Flaco Insuferible suffered the most, failing on all his bets.

The experience was an overall delight, from the loud yells of joy or anger at race's end, to the old-fashioned scoreboard used to announce the official results.

Nazi Hunters and Mate Lovers

First off, an update that I should have posted last Wednesday. My feature article on Nazis in Argentina is in the current issue of The Argentimes. It was a bit of a rush at the end to get it done—not all that atypical of journalism, I suppose—but I'm pretty happy with the finished product. (I say that, although I haven't yet had the guts to actually read the article in print. I think I'll do that this evening.)

Second, my good friend Adam Bloch has arrived for a three-week stay in Argentina, and, as loyal readers will know, has already authored a post on Type and Tonic. Adam correctly noted that Big Night takes place in New Jersey, and while I haven't seen Dinner Rush, his pick for quintessential New York restaurant movie, he's been recommending the movie to me for years and I'll be excited to see it when I return to the States.

In his guest post, Adam also railed against mate, the jet fuel-like tea that powers Argentina and Uruguay, and to a lesser extent, Paraguay, Bolivia, and Chile. Mate is an acquired taste, it's bitter, grassy, and strong. You have to learn to like mate, just like you have to learn to like good-life staples like coffee, scotch, and truffles. I'm proud to say that Adam's learning curve has been rather steep. In fact, I have to end this post now because he's come back to the apartment and is hungering for his mate fix. As a mate lover myself, I have to join in...

El Gordo Magnifico (Blocho's Blog)

You are now reading Blocho, guest blogger for Eric Benson during these next three weeks. And Blocho's got a bone to pick.

First, before I even delve into my many adventures since my momentous arrival here late Thursday night, I've got to respond to the "Big Night" heresy propagated by Benson in his most recent post. First, while Timpano is undoubtedly a great dish, I actually have had it. I ate a timpano at Centolire, that quiet outpost of relaxed, sophisticated old world Italian dining on Madison Avenue. I highly recommend the place. Second, as any person who has seen "Big Night" knows, the film takes place in New Jersey, not New York. So yes, it may be the quintessential New Jersey restaurant movie. And let's hope the two locations never get mistaken again.

For the quintessential New York restaurant movie, I recommend "Dinner Rush," starring Danny Aiello. A fascinating amalgam of a mob movie and a family drama set against the background of haute cuisine and changing times in New York, the movie is supremely rewarding with its panoply of characters and interconnecting vignettes. It was also filmed inside Gigino, a lovely trattoria in TriBeCa.



Now let's get back to the BA, where El Gordo Magnifico (my Argentine alter ego) has been holding court over the past couple of days. In between ravenous visits to local steak joints, adventures at underground jazz jam sessions and a brief interlude at an Armenian Cultural Center, EGM has managed to penetrate the ex-pat journalism community and travel much of the city by foot and bus.

But all this was secondary to my first experience with mate, that soulful beverage that represents all that is true in the Argentine soul (you know, because I really understand the Argentine soul after less than 48 hours here).

Benson, who I will refer to as Tanto Gusto from now on, prepared a mate concoction yesterday, carefully pouring the yerba into his meticulously cured gourd and then going through a labyrinthine process of preparation. One of the tasks included was carefully heating a kettle of water not to boiling but rather to 80 degrees celsius. And how does Tanto Gusto know when he has reached this point? The great mate connosieur (aka addict) can feel it in his tailbone - and sometimes in his ankles.

All this was secondary to the insertion of the bombilla (pronounced bomb-ee-sha), the metal straw/instrument of torture/filter through which the mate is imbibed. My first taste of the fabled elixir was redolent with wonder and thorough disgust.

"How can something smell so good and taste so shitty," I inquired, to which TG laughed heartily, or perhaps ominously.

A mate and bombilla

Second and third tastings were no better, and I yearned to know what attracted the hordes to this bitter syrup. Was it good for the soul? Did it contain antioxidants? Was it fabled to cure ailments both small and deadly? Did it evoke the spirit of Wynton Marsalis? Would your ancestor float out of the gourd and dance in the aromatic air? Did the drink stir intellectual explorations? Would I yearn to know the Pampas? Would I find my SudAmericano soul? Did it increase virility? Would I grow stronger or more determined?

No, mate did none of these things. It just tastes bad.

Big Night

I made my debut on the Buenos Aires restaurant scene on Friday night, and it very much lived up to my expectations of exhaustion, controlled chaos, and reward. Before I go any further, you need to understand that the restaurant, Casa Felix, owned and operated by my friends Sanra and Diego, is a private restaurant in their home that hosts 14-18 people in one seating with a set menu. Because it's in someone's home—although in the summer months (now) they serve in their patio—people assume the demeanor of house guest and much as client. They expect good food and service, but they're also respectful of the people who are hosting them in their home for dinner.

So yes, Casa Felix may not share a lot with the high stakes world of a trendy New York restaurant, but it is a business, it does have patrons, and at the end of the day it either works and succeeds, or doesn't and folds. With this in mind, it was quite kind of Sanra and Diego to let a totally novice like me crash their kitchen for a night. It turned out, as none of us knew at the time, to have been a very good night for a novice, or really any extra set of hands, to be there.

The night started off normally enough. I did a lot of chopping, some juicing, and prepared a sauce for the appetizer course, an incredible ceviche. The diners arrived, and Diego and Sanra schmoozed with them overing drinks in their courtyard as Emi, the assistant chef, and I finished the preparations. In a restaurant like this, most of the work is done before the diners come, so as I put the finishing touches on the tomato and fig garnish for the main-course ricotta and squash tamales, I figured my work was nearly done.

It would be an exaggeration to say that then it all nearly fell apart, and in truth, I'm sure they could have managed just fine without my help. The fact is though that Diego called me the next day and thanked me for saving his business, and when I got home after my work at the restaurant, I slept for ten hours—this might have also had to do with little sleep, my final UBA test, and a generally busy day, but let's just say it was all the restaurant.

What did I do, you ask? I washed dishes—lot's of them. In and of itself that would not have been much, I expected to wash dishes. No, it was the fact that midway through the meal, Diego suddenly felt very sick and had to leave the restaurant, leaving only Sanra, Emi, and me. Sanra was waiting tables, Emi was cooking and waiting tables, and I was left to help prepare food and wash lots and lots of dishes relatively quickly.

Casa Felix has plenty of dishes but depending on the meal, some of them have to be washed, dried, and reused later on. That was the case that night, as I tried to get dishes ready for Sanra to use, and generally clear out the kitchen so it wouldn't be a complete disaster after the meal.

Now, had I not been there, it would have been easy enough just to stack up a lot of dirty dishes, wash the few that were needed, and wait until later or the next morning to clean up. The restaurant would have done just fine. What I did though, was save a mess and save a lot a dish washing. For that, I was perfectly happy to help. And for that, I received a free meal.

Quick notes:
If you haven't seen Big Night, perhaps the quintessential New York restaurant movie, check it out. It features an incredible Tony Shalhoub performance and teaches you all about the greatest dish you (or I) have never tried, timpano.

Amazon.com emails recommending purchases work (in their seductive and slightly evil way). I'm really happy they do. Check out the Vandermark 5's new album, Beat Reader. The V5's albums are all of a similar aesthetic, but this one has connected with me more than most. Maybe it's Fred Lonberg-Holm's cello (an improvement over Jeb Bishop's trombone), the more chamber new music sound of the group now with a cellist in full employ, or just plain and simple Chicago nostalgia. If you don't know the V5, this isn't a bad place to start either.