You all know how much I hate to gloat. And truly, this won't be gloating. But on my last evening in Buenos Aires, with pesos burning a hole in my pocket, I figured I should try to find the best possible meal. I even consulted Time Out: Buenos Aires, figuring it would feature high-end, high-quality restaurants. So I picked from it an Asian fusion resto, Azema, in Palermo Hollywood. It was immediately across the street from another Asian restaurant, Green Bamboo, which looked just a little crowded and maybe only very good food.
In spite of not having a reservation (only a few tables were occupied), I was seated and swiftly waited on by a middle-aged gent in a somewhat exotic shirt. I had scoured the menu from the street, and had a pretty good idea what I wanted. When my Spanish failed me, he suggested French, so we continued on in a common tongue. I ordered the vegetarian somosas, and asked about two entrees: which of them did he suggest? The red curry, he suggested, was more exotic. So be it, I said. And when I agonized over the somewhat limited wine selection, he suggested the Syrah and I agreed.
As for atmosphere the music selection was really quite close to my own tastes. I asked my waiter who was performing the African music we were hearing, he said he thought it was <garbled> but he would check. He came back with a slip of paper with the artist's name and album title. (The performer is from Zimbabwe.)
The somosas were smaller than my usual Washington Heights take-out somosas, but these had thinner crusts and were served with chutney (and not the usual 'green' and 'red' sauce). I was skeptical, but they were just fine. Then came the chicken in red curry sauce with coconut milk and aubergines, served with white rice. Exquisite! I was truly surprised to have my taste buds so awakened. When I mentioned my rapture to the waiter (whom I fast suspected was in fact the owner), he promised to send me the recipe if I gave him my email address ... which I did. I waived off the salad I thought I might have, and had instead a mousse de morsaya (sp.?), with berries in coulis on the side, and a small glass of Cointreau. Without asking a cup of espresso was produced and with it a small plate of pastries (the madeleines were particularly tasty).
Surely, I thought, this would be the most expensive meal yet, given the number of courses and the quality of the food and drink. But to my chagrin and amazement, when the bill was delivered it came to AR$84.00, or U$S 28.00. I would have been shocked even without the alcohol intake, believe me.
When I got back to Che Lulu I struck up a conversation with a Londoner staying here, and we compared notes on the eating culture here -- in contrast to our homelands. We didn't have any idea how restaurants could survive here: only a handful seemed full up, and some of them seem positively deserted. And in this area there are two or three restaurants or bars a block, each one seeming to take food quite seriously and charging outrageously reasonable prices (to a New Yorker, for sure).
It's certainly turned my head around about eating out, something I took only limited pleasure in before. And even with all my griping about dining alone here, it has still been an extraordinary, life-altering experience. Amy, I take back any skepticism I might have expressed over food-ism. (I took a picture of my lunch in Colonia de Sacramento today in your honor.) So when I get back home, I think I'm going to take my chances and try to find something of the same sort of dining experiences I have enjoyed here. So Jennie, Sonia, Amy -- watch out: ¡Aquí viene el foodie!
For me one of the little pleasures of travel is coming back with a pocketful of foreign currency. Given the 'exotic' sorts of trips Kiki and I have taken, we've brought back our fair share of it. And in some cases I think we've brought back monies that either the U.S. or the country we visited forbade us to bring back. It's never been a goal of mine to come back with nothing left over -- what's the fun of that? Rather I sometimes wish I could come back with a complete 'set' of notes and changes from wherever I've been. But that can be just a little spendthrift.
I have always kept my leftover money in little individual envelopes in a top drawer of the steamer trunk. In few cases the currencies have since been severely devalued; in others, particularly in the E.U. countries, simply discontinued. No matter: While the conceit is that I have a 'little something' for the next time I visit a country, it's really just another souvenir, an evocation of a bygone adventure.
NEW YORK -- 
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