I cannot figure this place out.

I am disappointed in myself.

I speak Spanish, I took a class in Portuguese, I went to Brasil a couple of years ago.

I should have this place figured out by now. Mais, nao.

I cannot understand a thing anyone says to me.

I can barely figure out how shit works here.

I've got a couple of things figured out. At the kilo restaurants, before you enter, you tell the person at the door whether you want the all-inclusive thing (rodizio) or just the buffet. They give you a different ticket depending on which you ask for. If you're getting the buffet, you get your food, go to the weighing station (balancar) with your ticket, and they write down what the buffet costs.

You sit down, a waiter comes by and asks you if you want a drink, or dessert, and if you order any of these things, they mark it off on your ticket. At the end of your meal, you pay at the cashier (caixa), and let the doorperson have it so they let you you.

It took two tries to get this figured out. I would say I had it figured out after the first place we went to, but at the second restaurant I accidentally stole a passionfruit mousse. Oops.

All the buffet places work this way. A lot of the music places work this way, too. We went out for a night of samba at chopperia brazooka last week, and the system was almost the same. There's a cover... they give you a ticket with your name on it, and whatever drinks and snacks you order, they just mark off the tag. hopefully your drunken ass doesn't lost the thing, or they charge you the equivalent of USD100 instead of what you owe.

This is about ALL I've got figured out.

We wento to Porcao last night. Porcao is one of the most expensive, if not the most expensive rodizios in Rio. There are three or so, and the guide book recommends that we go to the one in Flamengo because it has great views. I also happen to live three blocks from a branch of the restaurant at home.

All was well and good until Justin orders a whisky off the booze cart. He orders Johnny Walker Red (hoping that Red was less pricey than the black). Instead of the guy pouring Justin a drink, he comes back with a fresh new unopened bottle and a whole bucket of ice. Of course, I panic, thinking the guy is giving us a whole bottle of Johnny Walker, so I say "Uma botelha- nao!" The guy, sensing my panic, basically tells me to calm down and shows that there is a strip of ruler taped onto the side of the bottle. We could drink as much as we wanted, and he would count the number of doses we took. I was in the moment unconvinced, and tell him to just take it away. He and Justin laugh at me, as I'm sure he's now thinking I'm the overbearing girlfriend who won't let her boyfriend drink. (Turns out that Johnny walker red, even at this expensive place, only costs about $8 a glass.)

Porcao is a great place. The meat was incredible. My favorite resaurant in NYC is Churrascaria Plataforma, but at $60 a person, I only go about once a year. There were a bunch of different cuts of meat at the Rio porcao that they don't have at home, but all of it amazing. There was a server named Rui who, even though we had the little tag up that said "NAO OBRIGADO" meaning "STOP WITH THE FUCKING CARNAGE ALREADY" kept coming by and joking with us about eating more meat. Maybe it was the untoppable giggling from the meat coma I was in, maybe it was because we clearly were from somewhere else. He spoke English in a broken, announcer style with a portuguese accent. He was hilarious. And Justin just couldn't say no to whatever he brought by. Ostrich, chicken hearts, whatever, and even though it was clear we wanted only a little, if anything at all, Rui kept dumping it on our plate. It was 10:30 and the place was starting to clear out. He then says "OK, so you want to see the kitchen??" He brings us into the kitchen, and the next thing we know we've got skewers of meat in out hands and they're holding my purse and taking pictures of us. Amazing place.

By the way, if you go, ignore your guide book. You just DO NOT walk here. There is no clear sign to get there, there is no walking path. The valet and taxi drivers are waiting outside, and they looked at us like we were nuts when we started walking away.

There's so much I can't figure out. There's a billion busses, and even though I've tried asking the bus driver and the attendant where we get off, we (or, more likely, they) are always wrong. We tried to go to the "city of samba" museum, and even though we asked a guy where to get off, and listened, we wound up, literally, outside of Rio. We took a wrong bus from Porcao last night, and even though it said "Copacabana," we missed it and wound up at the terminal stop at the end of Ipanema. Completely confused, we got off the bus and the next bus says it's going to "Cidade da Deus" which is the dangerous favela documented in the Brazilian film that became popular all over. We didn't take that bus, and eventually found our way back.

Even though it seems that I can't get a handle on how anything is done, the people here are really patient and understanding. No one has yelled, or rolled their eyes, or told us to hurry up, or get out of their way. It would be a lot more helpful if they spoke Portuguese a hell of a lot slower, but they speak really fast and don't speak too much English.

We've got two more weeks. It just might take us that long.

Don't even get me started on the busses.

Puerto Rico

I was a bit ashamed to tell people that I was going to Puerto Rico.

I went to the Bahamas once. I desperately needed to get away from it all, so I booked a 3-day, last-minute trip to the Bahamas. A day and a half "away from it all," and I couldn't wait to return.

I hate the idea of a resort. When I go somewhere new, I want to see what it's really like to be there. I want to know it people, taste its food, speak its language, learn its dance.

To sit on a beach chair in a cookie-cutter resort that looks the same as any other resort in any other country, drinking a margarita, cuba libre, mai tai or any other of the wanna-be "traditional" umbrella drinks ubiquitous to these places... it's just not my style.

I am a snob. I realize this.

Justin and I arrive in Old San Juan at sunset. Perfect timing. My bag is the first to roll off the conveyer belt at the airport and we take a very reasonable $20 cab ride to Da House Hotel, the Hotel just above and to the right of OSJ's Nuyorican cafe. It's lovely, albeit loud at night, and very reasonably priced. OSJ has some of the most bright, gorgeous, clean, and best preserved Spanish colonial architecture I have ever seen. It's full of tourists, but most of them are from cruise ships and only during the day. It's full of Puerto Ricans as well.

We ask the girl at the reception desk for a restaurant that was still open, as during the week all seems to close pretty early. She directs us to Cafe Puerto Rico, which quickly became our favorite place in town. Reasonably priced and reliably good, we both had our first mofongo overdose.

Mofongo is the result of fried green plantains being mashed and fried again with chicharrones (pork skin.) It's molded into one shape or another, often in a pilon (a large wooden pestle) , topped with some form of stewed protein. I had the bacalao, Justin had the chicken. Light it is not. But it was delicious.

I couldn't handle the tres leches cake I so desperately wanted to eat at the end of the meal, but there was room for coffee. I order a cortado, an espresso with a dollop of milk, and Justin orders a "regular coffee." He's temporarily bothered that instead of a coffee cup, the waiter brings him a tiny espresso cup. I say, knowingly, "just drink it."

Justin is so overwhelmed by the amazingly rich and deep flavor of this coffee that he can't help bursting forth with accolades to the bartender. "This is the best cup of coffee I have ever had!!" It was genuine and hilarious.

We went back twice, and by the third visit, we just walked in and the waiter said "black coffee??" Five days in Puerto Rico and we were already regulars.

After two days making friends in Old San Juan (actually, despite my grasp of the Spanish language, it was Justin who made all the friends... every time I left him alone for three minutes there was someone else he befriended... big blue eyes + mad guitar skillz + gift of gab = loads of attention) we moved to Condado, a more beachy community. It wasn't too much to speak of... wealthier, resortier, but I had points that got us a free hotel room for three days, so it was a great option.

We got a rental car and drove about an hour out to Luquillo beach. It's known for its kioscos, a line of food stalls outside a beach. I wanted ceviche, and Justin wanted some fried meat things (Puerto Rico has a wide array of fried meat things). The guy at one of the food stalls told us that there was very quiet and free beach access right behind the kioscos, and that if we needed a bathroom we could use theirs. I'm really glad we took his advice. There was practically no one on the beach. And of course, we bought food and drinks from him, so it was a very symbiotic relationship. I'd never been on a beach that was so empty before. At 80 degrees, it was too cold and windy for the Puerto Ricans to go to the beach, we were told.

We didn't have a lot of luck as far as nightlife... we got lost going to one place, were dissatisfied with the live salsa at another, got the date confused for a third. I remembered that my friend Timeka told us to go to the club at El San Juan hotel, so we wound up there.

It was fantastic. The El San Juan Hotel was what you want Las Vegas to be. It's beautiful, glamorous, and everyone is dressed to the nines. The first blackjack table we walked past had a $100 minimum bet. Needless to say, we didn't.

Club Brava was two floors full of tourists, both Puerto Rican and otherwise, but the $20 cover ensured a level of class, surprising considering the preponderance of stripper poles waiting for drunk girls to mount. (I didn't, surprisingly.) We danced to reggaeton and hip hop for as long as my thighs could tolerate. It was a great club.

We didn't wind up doing most of the things recommended to us. We managed to walk past the castillo, and that was the only "sight" we saw. We're not so into nature, so we skipped El Yunque, Puerto Rico's rainforest. Nor did we swim in the bioluminescent bay.

But, we did meet some really nice people, take in some sun, listen to some music (mostly Justin's) and eat till I wanted to pass out. Puerto Rico is really nice, and isn't just some resort. It doesn't scream "Caribbean" to me. It just screams "Puerto Rico!" trilling its r's all the way. No resort for me, thankfully, and I enjoyed a vacation I could be proud to tell people about.

Although I did have one drink with an umbrella in it. Shhh... don't tell anyone.

Durian

My friend Michelle is Singaporean. She LOVES durian.

Durian is a green, spiky-exterior large (slightly bigger than your head) fruit. The spiky outside is nature's way of screaming at you "DON'T EAT ME.'

And many people don't... when you cut away the thick outer shell, a sweet, yet musty, moldy odor fills the air. There are signs in airports in hotels that forbid the fruit, it smells so bad. My friend Amanda had a "stinky food" party once, and, as she tells it, someone brought durian and the house smelled for days. Many Asian people can't get enough of the stuff, describing it as "fragrant," while many others describe it as "pungent."

Michelle and I are in Chinatown a couple of years ago, and she convinces me to taste the stuff in the form of a shake at some Vietnamese restaurant we were passing by. In her very excited way, she giggles and shreiks "durian!! get the durian!!"

The shake reeks. It smells like old socks. I have no idea how anything that smells this bad could taste good. I don't breathe in. I take a sip.

It tastes exactly as it smells. It's vile. I pass it off to Michelle, and although she admits it isn't very good (how can there be a season for something that smells like a gym locker at its best?!?) but she drinks it anyway.

Fast forward to yesterday. I'm in Asia. It's durian season. It's time to revisit the beast.

I had hoped to try it with Mattias, Nao, and Tonia, as Tonia is a durian lover herself, but the time never came. I'm on Khao San, a seeminly unlikely place for a durian vendor to be, as the ratio of White people to Asians is roughly 100:1, but he's there.

Inside the duiran lies bone-colored pods, resembling a sickly pale foie-gras. Not a lot of actual meat for a fruit that large. The vendor has already shelled the fruit, and has a bunch of styrofoam plastic-wrap coated durian pods.

I look at him with contemplation mixed with fear.

"Durian," I say.
"Yes. Durian."

I pick up the package and smell it. It's not THAT bad. Nor is it GOOD. But I expected to recoil from the odor. Now I'm thinking that Thailand manufactures the strongest, least-porous saran wrap in the planet. That, or Thailand has some kind of "Durian light" and it's the newest tourist scam. Make 'em think they like durian.

I buy it.

It's nighttime, and I want to take a video of this, so I bring it to the hotel, wrap it tightly in the plastic bag, and hope that the aircon is enough to not make it rot and stink up the joint further.

First thing in the morning, I march down to the open cafe of my hotel and sit nearest the street. I fear the smell, that I will disturb everyone and the smell won't leave the hotel all day. I place the package neatly before me, and one of the staffers bring me my coffee.

"DURIAN!," she proclaims, laughing and smiling. She's pleased with me. I tell her that I must try it, but I don't think I'll like it. She sits with the other workers, and I can feel their gaze burning into my back.

I open the package. Smell is no worse, no better. The pods are off white, and have a thin edible ever-so-slightly wrinkled membrane that to me, makes them look like testicles. Oblong testicles. The waitress brings me a knife and fork. Now I can classily eat my durian and puke.

I carve into it and accidentally split the brittle pit in half. I peel back the membrane to reveal a creamy, cheesecake-like consistency.

Good idea, I think to myself. Think of it as cheesecake. Camembert cheesecake. Mikxed with bad-quality brie. That'll help.

I take a bite.

The first was the hardest. It tasted like it smelled. I didn't want to immediately spit it out, but I didn't like it.

On the second bite, I remembered not to inhale. It was better.

I'm now thinking that this, mixed with sweetened condensed or coconut milk, might actually make a good shake, if the durian were fresh. (Michelle agreed.)

Three bites, and I let myself off the hook. I gave a full report to the waitresses at the bar, still laughing, and gave one of them my untouched pod as a gift. She put her arm around me and gave me a tight squeeze.

As much as I did not like it, nor feel the need to ever prove myself by eating it again, in any form, I do feel the need to say that it was 1000 times better than the chopped liver I at at my sister's engagement party.

That shit was foul.

Lauging at Whitey

bun bo Hue


My last boyfriend was Filipino-American.

His family is about as Filipino as Filipino can get, from what I understand.

One Christmas, I went to his family's house, and there was all this traditional Filipino food for dinner. I love all of it, with the exception of Dinuguan, a pork-blood and liver stew, which many Filipinos can't even bear to eat.

One of his elderly relations followed me around, would point to a dish and say "did you eat that?" and I would proudly proclaim, "yes!" Then he said "you know what that is?" and I would say something like "pancit canton!" And he laughed his ass off. Over and over again, once for each dish he pointed to.

Rik assured me that it was because Filipinos have some kind of national insecurity about thier food; that they can't really imagine that other people would like it.

Really, it's just Lauging at Whitey.

And I have no issue with this. It's good for me.

White people have been making people who aren't feel like shit about their shin, their looks, their food, pretty much EVERYTHING for, well, EVER.

So if my payback is that I get snickered at, charged an extra (and still affordable) 20,000 Dong to get into a national park, then as far as I'm concerned, I'm getting off easy.

Serves me right.

I can't tell you how much Laughing at Whitey is going on in Vietnam.

I walked into a Bun Bo locals-only joint today and ordered a bowl. It's a fantastically delicious version of the noodle soup pho that vietnam is famous for. I'm the only white person in that place, and the pre-teen girl keeps turning around and giggling at me. The young boys are running towards me and away.

Everywhere I go to eat I'm looked at with puzzlement. And giggles.

Laura has an awful sunburn. The women at the market are LITERALLY pointing and laughing.

I'm trying my best to represent, by eating my way through vietnam, picking places that have the largest Vietnamese:American ratio I can find. And by that, I mean, if there ain't no Whitey I'm eating there. When I'm done, I'm as gracious with my poorly prounounced Kam on I can muster.

And I'm more than happy to take my razzing.

Last Day in Hanoi

I'm sick.

I get a sinus infection every time I travel, and at least once during the year. Luckily, I figure it out right away. Even more luckily, I've learned that if you walk into any pharmacy in any country, write down the word "amoxicillin" on a piece of paper, hand it to the pharmacist, they are more than happy to oblige. Vietnam is no different, and at a cost of 5o cents for a week's dosage, it makes me want to get about 10 for the next 5 years' worth of infections.
suddenly happy that I couldn't get last night's train out of Hanoi,

I decide the wise thing to do is rest, so I keep the hostel bed for another day, even though I am leaving tonight. At $7.50 a night decisions like these are easy.

Turns out I am a fast healer, so I don't use the dorm bed at all, but I decide to walk around Hanoi one more day.

I go to the highly recommended Cha Ca La Vong, #14 on the street of the same name, for a local specialty called Cha Ca. The woman at the restaurant brings you a sheet of paper that says "This restaurant only serves one dish: grilled fish. 90,000 Dong not including drink." This is a spurge at about $5. They bring you individual bowls of noodles, peanuts, fish sauce with chili, greens. Then they bring an individual hibachi with a pot of boiling seasoned oil on top, into which someone pours in a huge pile of greens, onions, dill.

He motions towards me what to do, but I missed it. I pour the noodles into the pot, and this young English boy yells out to him mom, "she's doing it wrong!" She's embarassed and he's now hiding his face and crying. I was thrilled, because I had a feeling I was totally doing it wrong, which I told him, but he wanted no more to do with me. So the woman continues to tell me that they put the fish on top and then I spoon it out onto the noodles. So I wait.

And wait.

They must have thought I was a total idiot.

The fish, already grilled and cut up, was already in the boiling oil. 1 point for the kid, 0 points for mom.

Anyway, it was delicious. Herby, oily, lemony, delicious.

Restaurants of Note in Buenos Aires

Gran Bar Danzon: I’ve now eaten here three times in the last 4 months. The food is spectacular, the setting glorious. It’s a little medeival inside, with candles and dark silver walls, perfect dark lighting, a gorgeous wine bar (if you’re into that). The perfectly grilled langostines were served with an amazing cauliflower puree (so much better than it sounds). The stewed veal entrée in a malbec red wine reduction was some of the best stewed meat I’ve ever eaten, and the dulce de leche souflee was, according to Mark (a big food nerd) one of the best three desserts he’d ever eaten. Great prices. Make a reservation.

Desnivel: This is the best bang for your buck, if you can deal with harried waiters known for their obnoxious and inattentive behavior (although the one I had on the 3rd try was quite nice). It’s no-frills, but some of the cheapest and most delicious parillada restaurants we ate at. The area in the back is nicer than that in the front. It’s packed all the time, especially on Sunday when San Telmo has its market. Provoleta, a round hunk of provolone cheese coated in flour, grilled, and topped with olive oil and oregano is delicous. They’ll tell you to get the lomo, the prized Argentine tenderloin, and it’s the most tender bu the least flavorful. It’s served in a sauce, and the sauce is OK, but it destroys the potatoes that accompany it. And papas noisette, little formed and fried balls of potato… not so good. We had the asaso de tira (beef ribs) and they were short on meat, heavy on fat, but very flavorful and delicious. We tried to order the butterflied bife de chorizo (a popular cut) just to taste it (we saw some girl devour it earlier in the week) but the waiter absolutely refused, telling us it was way too much meat. He was right, and it was very kind of him to spare our wallets and arteries like that.

La Cabrera (Norte): Holy crap. Gorgeous restaurant, cozy and intimate. La Cabrera was totally booked, so we were sent down the street to La Cabrera Norte, the new restaurant they had to open up to keep up with demand. We asked the waiter if the bife de chorizo was large enough to share, and he said “yeah, sure.” This thing was HUGE. Perfectly cooked. And it came with about 11 little dishes with accompaniments, like mashed potatoes, both regular and sweet, green beans, onions in wine; like the kimchee you get with every korean meal. There were also a number of very unnecessary sauces to accompany your meat if you chose. We ordered almond and parmesan-stuffed olives as an appetizer, and there were about 30 of them. The bread was delicious, there were free sopressata-provolone appetizers; that with the along with the huge bowl of french fries I superflously ordered (they actually were soggy, anyway)… we hardly made a dent. And the whole meal didn’t top USD$30. I think we had dessert. I can’t really remember. La Cabrera is a must.

Trendy restaurants in Palermo Viejo. There are a number of trendy restaurants in even trendier Palermo Viejo that all have the same idea going on… gorgeous, split level, loft-like spaces, option of eating inside or out, at sofas or tables, very reasonable three-course weekday lunch menus. The food is not traditional argentine, but tries (and sometimes succeeds) to be inventive. We ate at Janio, Mott, Cluny, Bar Uriarte. There are more, and they’re blocks apart. We preferred them in that order, and I believe that they all had prices that were close, with Bar Uriarte’s lunch menu topping out at about USD$15 per person. The atmosphere is nice, the service is excellent, the food ranges from good to great, no one rushes you to leave. All in all, the best way to eat a non-meat-orgy meal.

Happening: It wasn’t. Recommended to me by this guy Marcelo, who is Argentine. It’s in Puerto Madero (I think there are others). Beautiful restaurant, nice waitstaff. On the night we arrived, there was no one there practically, but it was during the winter vacation where I think lots of locals are skiing in Bariloche. The meat arrives very overcooked, and although we didn’t ask for it done rare, they never asked. When I asked the waiter why no one asks how we want meat cooked in BA, he said, “It’s generally served medium well, or someone will ask you. Why, was it not?” No, it wasn’t. And the crema catalana had a crust you needed a drill to get through, The custard, when you finally got to it, was overcooked.

Te Mataré Ramirez: It means “I will kill you Ramirez.” It was without a doubt, the WORST MEAL I HAVE EVER HAD IN A RESTAURANT IN MY LIFE.

It’s billed as an eclectic, erotic-themed restaurant. The menus have long, poetic, entendre-filled names and descriptions that take you a good 20 minutes to read and decipher… it would probably be more like 15 if the lighting weren’t so bad you could hardly read the menu or see the food. There ware names like "I surrendered to a deliciously vulgar pleasure," which I barely understand in English, much less Spanish. There was a floor show where people had puppets doing very naughty things. Humorous, and possibly funnier than that, as my Spanish is mostly academic and not too colloquial.

We weren’t too hungry, thank god, because we only had to suffer through two entreés, as opposed to that and a couple of appetizers. Mark ordered the duck confit. I don’t know much about duck confit but it was a scary shade of pink and Mark said it tasted like undercooked pork. I had the veal, which was served shredded, in a timbale, was dry as hell and had no flavor whatsoever. Then thin jus that accompanied it didn’t help. There was a smathering of cannelini beans, probably out of the can, vinegared, and A SOLITARY 2 INCH PIECE OF PICKLED CELERY. It was god awful. And at about USD$25 an entrée, by far the most expensive meal we had.

We left angry, and ready to kill Ramirez, wherever he might be.

Awesome Things to Eat in Bahia

And yes, I have eaten all of these things. The food is very rich, very delicious, usually very affordable. I've eaten Bahian food every day, for every meal, just about, and I am not remotely sick of it and do not have a hankering for ANYTHING from back home.

Acai na tigela: acai is a huge amazonian blueberry-like fruit that they serve freezing cold, in a bowl, with granola and bananas. I ate it for breakfast, but they eat it all day long. Very refreshing and nutritious (although they load it with sugar, so who knows?)

Empada: I love anything in a crust. Uma empada is anything in a crust. They are a bit dry, but I like them that way. Besides, the brazilians seem to like slathering it with ketchup and/or mayo, which is just gross in any country.

Coxinha: A fist-sized teardrop-shaped fried thing stuffed with (dry) chicken.

Acaraje and abara: Black-eyed pea mash, fried (acaraje, the better of the two) or boiled (abara), served by a Baian women in traditional white dress and turban. They split it up the middle, and fill it with vatapa, a shrimp and dende-oil paste. They cost anywhere from 1 to 4 reals, depending on the neighborhood and if you want it com or sem shrimp. Order it spicy (picante) or not. note: The shrimp are heads-off but shells-on, which horrified the young brit at the hostel. He couldn't imagine why anyone would eat shells, as pulling the shells off the shrimp was the whole point of it all. Silly boy.

Sorvete: Brazilian ice cream. My personal opinion: the hierarchy of ice cream goes something like this: Italian gelato is the big winner, with Spanish gelado coming in a close second. Brazilian ice cream is a tie with Argentine, depending on whether you prefer exotic fruits (Brazil) or crazy dulce de leche flavors (argentina.) American ice cream lags far behind, unless you consider Chinatown ice cream factory ice cream. Flavors I've had: milho verde (sweet corn. It's buttery!), coco, graviola (also known as soursop or guanabana), maracuja (passionfruit, the brazilian passion), banana carmelada, amendoim crocante (chunky peanut butter,) the ubiquitous tiramisu. My favorite to try was cupuacu, some Brazilian fruit Sean didn't like, but told me I had to try it. I asked for it at the ice-cream place, and the asked "Are you sure? You should try it first." He was right. It was odd.

Comida a kilo: You know those buffets they have by the pound in Korean delis? Same thing, except in a restaurant. And all the food is Brazilian. Costs anywhere from 1.30 per 100 grams and up, depending on the day and the neighborhood. My favorite way to eat here. Fast, cheap, and you can have a little of this, a little of that... Perfect for the harried or the indecisive. Oh, you weigh it first, then you eat (don't lose the ticket!!) then you pay. Weird. There's one called O Quilombo on Avenide Sete de Setembro that's pretty good and one called "Komida a Kilo" on Largo de Carmo (right around the corner from my hostel) that is good, cheap, and has a couple of tables overlooking the bay.

Stuff from the corn cart: All over, there are guys selling corn (milho) from a cart. They sell ears of corn, sweet and delicious I've heard, except that I can't eat corn on the cob because of my fake tooth. Also from the cart, there are two types of corn product. One looks like a tamale, it's a sweet corn pudding wrapped in a corn husk. The other is some corn-flavored tapicoa (?) thing, chewier in texture, wrapped in a banana leaf. Both are delicious. I have no idea what they're called. They'll ask you if you want it for now (agora), in which case they'll slice it open for you.

Dessert: Eat it. Whatever it is, it is bound to be good. Budim (flan) made wither from milk or from sweet corn. Moist cakes made from tapioca, covered with sweetened condensed milk. Casadinhos are balls made of two kinds of sweetened condensed milk, condensed further, rolled in sugar. Get the smallest one possible. They're tooth-rotting sweet. Sonhos (Donuts) the size of sandwiches. Share with a friend. Or make one.

Places and things I recommend

Private Tango Lessons
Ramiro Rosenvasser and Luciana Brillantino (they speak English!)
ramirorosenvasser@gmail.com
lulabrillantino@hotmail.com

Ramiro and Luciana were so nice. They came to my hostel to teach, so that I didn't have to try to find them. They tailored the lesson to my ability, not the other way around. Bonus: both of them very pleasing to the eye.

Restaurants

• Janio Malbria 1805, corner of Costa Rica, Palermo Viejo. Has an outdoor patio, one of the few without umbrellas, important for us stupid americans who want to eat and bask in the hot afternoon sun at the same time. Inside is big, pretty, and spins nice music. Inexpensive midweek "menu del dia," three courses for about 30 pesos.
• Gran Bar Danzon Libertad 1161, Centro. Delicious. Pretty. Make a reservation. Same owner as Bar Uriate, and Sucre, which was highly recommended to me by the porteno in the seat next to me on the ride down.
• El Palacio de la Papa Frita three locations. Basic food at a good price. Marcelo's favorite. The potatoes are puffy. Craziness.
• Desnivel Defensa 855, San Telmo. Bad service. Casual atmosphere. Great meat at a ridiculously low price.

Online Restaurant Guide to Buenos Aires: Oleoguide

Tango Shoes (more I found at this address)
The street called Suipacha has a block it calls the "Tango Street". The strange thing about buying tango shoes is that many of them are either made to order, so when you walk in, first they ask you your size and bring you what they've got. They might not have it, and they might not be able to get it. A couple of places quoted me US$50 to ship to the US, but that's 1/2 the cost of the shoe. If you have limited time in BA, shop early.

• Centro Artesanal del Tango, - Suipacha 256 -- 4326-5377
• Darcos, Suipacha
• Flabella, Suipacha 263
• Scarpe Mahara, Suipacha 332. Small selection, not so unique or elegant, but maybe better for beginner or older dancer.
• Comme il Faut, Arenales 1239 #3M. Hands down, the best looking and most unique shoes. Called the "Manolo Blahniks" of tango shoes. Start here, buy something. Everything else is inferior.
• Bailarin Porteno - Suipacha 251
• Tango Brujo, Esmeralda 754. Pretty store. Carries copies of the tango city guide.
• Victorio, Montevideo 224

Shoe Stores

• Angls, Arenales 1602 (Centro)
• Paruolo, Honduras 4785 (Palermo)
• Pepe Cantero, Costa Rica 4522 (Palermo)
• Viviana Valdez, Talcahuano 1184. Nicest people. Got a cute little pair of handmade, tan leather kitten heels with brown scalloped trim here.
• Josefina Ferroni, Armenia 1471
• Lola Narsh, Arenales 1130

Clothing Stores

• Fiorini Wichimachki, Gurruchaga 1532 (Palermo). Cutest little dresses, lots of reverse stitching.
• Complot (various stores) Punky, but in a good way. Very cheap.
  
• Del Plata Leather, Suipacha 909 (centro). Nice people, not pushy at all. Made my gorgeous leather pants in a day. Lots of unexpected and pretty colors. cuerosdelplata@yahoo.com.ar
• Maria Aversa, El Salvador 4580 (Palermo)
• Del Plata Cueros, Suipacha 909, Microcentro. Leather!!
  

Yarn
There are about three blocks filled with yarn stores. Mostly wools and acrylics. Yarns are priced to sell by the kilo, mostly, so start thinking metric, if you don't already. I wish I remember the cross street to start at. Anyway, there's a "Scalabrini Ortiz" subte stop, and it's not too far of a walk.

• Milana, Scalabrini Ortiz 1062 (My favorite.)
• Moussa, Scalabrini Ortiz 973
• Arte Natural, Scalabrini Ortiz 1019. Not a yarn store, actually. They make and sell buttons, closures, toggles, etc. cut from wood.

Oh, the SHAME.

I am an ugly American.

I ate at McDonalds.

I NEVER eat at McDonalds. And nothing burns my ass more than seeing Americans come to Europe, where the food is delightful and fresh and local, and they run straight to coporate America to eat HORSESHIT.

But let me 'splain. I finally get it. I was in Como, which is small-town Italy. The only American chain here is McDonalds and Jean-Louis David salon (?!?) If you aren't going to eat at a sit-down restaurant, which is expensive and takes a long time, you have a couple of options. There are cafeterias, which serve the 4 P's: pizza, pasta, panini, or piadine (glorified quesadillas.) These options start at about 4€, and the cafeteria also has a cover charge per person, which is anywhere from 1 - 2.50€ per person. Also expensive. The panini and pizza (here in Como, VERY thin crust) are great, but really, you can't eat that three times a day.

There's also the bakeries, which did serve me up some mean focaccia by the kg (rosemary and potato. Yum) and a sfolliatella.

But the McDonalds is open until midnight, even in this sleepy little town, and is very cheap. FULL of Italians. Less than 4€ for their biggest burger, the Big 'n Tasty. And as much as I'd like to admit, it was true to its name. Big, AND Tasty. I have to say, I ate it as quickly as I could, so my karma would not catch up to me.

House of Mofongo

Rik and I are somewhat adventurous eaters. Rik more so than me, as I won't touch anything that can be classified as "innard" in any form.

I guess we're foodies, but I'm not too interested in going to "nice" (read: overpriced) restaurants where I have to watch my vulgar mouth and feel bad for the underpaid busboy whose sole job it is to pick up my crisp linen napkin every time I drop it on the floor.

I prefer the "ethnic" eatery... the one that's got plastic tablecloths and it's food lilke your momma would cook.

We've got a number of like-minded foodie friends... so I get this in the mail from my friend Brendan, who lives up in Washington Heights...



The best part, that's not quite clear, is that Brendan folded up a menu and mailed it to me index-card size. No note. Just the suggestion that we partake in myriad mofongo.

Mofongo is a dish of mashed green plantains. It's a dense, tasty, starch. Often mixed with chicharrones, deep fried pork cracklin'. Just what I love, light summer eatin' !!