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Thing to know before going to Buenos Aires (Volume V)

Venture yourself outside Palermo

Of course Palermo neighbourhood is trendy, hipster, violated by graffiti and the mecca for all travellers. But Buenos Aires is much more than just Palermo, so become a conquistador and sail unknown waters. For the last years, Villa Crespo has grown in popularity thanks to those beatniks who didn’t want to be part of the mainstream routes. Ilatina is part of the Latin America’s 50 best restaurants (all you need to know), Sarkis owns a majestic corner with the best Armenian food in town –pop in early because is always extremely busy. Mind-blowing brunches at Malvón. Bai Fu doesn’t have a web neither Facebook page, but yes incredible Chinese food. Don Zoilo is an old school parrilla just for locals. For wine lovers, La Cava Jufré is the anti-mainstream wine palace and 878 bar is an enchanted place for cocktails or a romantic adventure.

Off the beaten track: take a bus to Belgrano ‘R’ (residential) and get stunned with its majestic old mansions, snap some pictures around Avenida Melián –my favourite street since I have memory– and your Instagram followers will be mostly delighted. For the courageous ones, jump into the Mitre train line and hop off in San Isidro station, a gorgeous area to get lost during sunny days. If you are lucky enough, you might experience Puertas Abiertas, an event where artists around the area open their inspirational groovy properties to public. Le Coq Dore is a family-run petit restaurant, a jewel.

All you need to know about chinos

We call ‘chinos’ to those drugstores run by Chinese families, and believe me when I say you can find a ‘chino’ anywhere you walk around Buenos Aires. They are open from Monday to Monday, extremely handy when something is missing at home and a sanctuary for wine-deals. A real sanctuary. I worked several years for the wine industry and won’t get into details to explain why you can find mysterious deals, just remember ‘chinos’ is a synonym for great affordable wine.

Buses are tricky

Buenos Aires tends to be hectic and disorganised when it comes to public transportation. Timetables are inexistent, so learning to tame it needs patience because there are 138 different bus lines going around the city –yes, 138. I’ve been using buses my entire life and I still look puzzled when I have to reach a place I’ve never been before. Standing in the middle of the street, trying to figure out what Google maps is suggesting. The bright side is you can get anywhere you desire around the city just by bus and is insanely cheap. Your survival kit needs these two things: a SUBE travel card and comollego mobile app (available in English). Now you are ready to go out and tame the city!

Uber

Buenos Aires is a car-dependant city, which explains our unsexy traffic hours. Basically there are more cars than parking lots, so you can imagine the result of that equation. Since Uber arrived, taxi driver union have been fighting and demonstrating against the Tiran. City government says is illegal and unfair for the taxi community but the funny thing is Uber works properly –ironic land.

[pleasedontbelame]

Medium Bloody Well

Published in · Talent Implied 2016 Author · Pablo Tognetti Editor · Aaron Chapman

Public holiday. Australia Day. I still don’t know what it means. Maybe they’re celebrating the day they gained independence from Great Britain. Maybe they’re celebrating being part of the Commonwealth or maybe they’re celebrating not having that ugly, foggy British weather. Something like that. A public holiday that doesn’t allow us to breathe properly. The heat making love to the humidity and vice versa. A second hand orgy. Every tiny movement makes me sweat. Not moving makes me sweat as well. The seven-minute walk from the tram to the restaurant becomes an agitating adventure.

        Today I have a big section to take care of. Two round tables of seven people, two standard tables of four people and two big tables of eight people each. An impossible section on a busy night for one human being but it’s lunchtime and we don’t expect so many guests. Maybe eating Italian isn’t the most patriotic way to spend Australia Day.

Slowly the guests start building an imaginary line next to the entrance. Punctual and here punctual means arriving before your booking. In my South American homeland punctuality is a word that tends to be more lax and senseless. Arriving late isn’t a sin.

I pretend I’m busy while waiting for our part-time model/hostess to seat guests at one of my tables. I check the stations where we keep side plates, wine glasses, entrée and main cutlery, dessert and minuscule teaspoons, Tabasco, share plates and everything else we need to reset tables in a wink. I know they’re in order. Checked them ten minutes ago but I do anyway because pretending you’re busy is always a wise strategy. Always.

        Before feeling useless I decide to help a friend with a demanding table. Not because I want employee of the month, just because a gorgeous brunette has caught my attention. Unexpectedly five Asians march to one of my round tables. Maybe a family. One of them acts and looks like the big brother and the other three are around fourteen years old. Undefined sexualities. I welcome them and they choose how and where they’re going to sit. Every table always has a leader. Mark my words. As a waiter, I need to identify that leader as soon as possible because they’ll be the key figure, the sensei. The big brother assumes the role quickly pointing at the menu. The family beside him absorbed by the Milky Way and its gravitational emptiness.

Usually Asian people tend to share plates. That means all the different dishes are displayed in the centre of the table. ‘As it comes,’ they say. And they don’t mind using those side plates for their meals. They grab a bit from here and a bit from there. Everything is going to end up on those unpleasant, tiny plates. A plate that will become art by the end of the meal. They tend to eat everything at the same time: pizza, pasta, salads, sides, desserts. They don’t divide the meal into sections or give a shit about the concepts of entrée, mains or desserts. It’s all part of the moment where they fight fiercely to put food on their tiny plates. I only need three moments of interaction with Asian tables. Tap their order into the system. Run the food. Print the bill. Ciao. All while smiling occasionally.

Cucina Vivo doesn’t want to be Hungry Jack’s. That’s why guests wait for their orders. To wait, such a lovely and charming concept but not everyone can embrace the idea. Waiting gives my Asian family time to connect with each other. Time to interact and feel alive. Time they use to check their phones, getting lost in those shallow screens. Five humans. Five phones. Each of them trapped in their own galaxy, for endless minutes. Makes me feel uncomfortable even though I’m not sitting there. At times they shyly stare because they want to know how long the food is going to take. They expect me to understand that silent look. Want me to approach the table and say the food is coming. And it’s always coming. I’ve learnt never to give any kind of specification about time. Never measure time unless you want to end up going wild and punching a guest. If you do, guests will constantly watch their watches. We don’t want that. Always guarantee the food is coming or being plated. No one is actually going to check if you’re lying or not. In this particular case I don’t approach the table to give them a meal status. Asians tend to be patient and in general don’t complain. I let them be.

While pouring the red sparkling Moscato bottle I realise one of the underage kids is not actually underage. All the food starts to appear at the same time. One pizza margherita, one pizza cicca, two spaghetti carbonara, one gnocchi, one fettuccine bolognese, one cape grim, one Caesar salad and one arugula e pere salad. I glimpse arms moving from one place to another. Deep silences. Mystical concentration. No smiles. Side plates full of food suddenly empty and then full again. And again. Different aromas fighting to be the protagonist. Art. Louvre. Bill please. ‘Would you like a copy?’ Ciao and one final lesson, apparently the word tip doesn’t have a fucking translation.

Worst-case scenario working at an Italian restaurant is taking care of Italian guests. It doesn’t matter which city they come from, which latitude and longitude, they’re going to stab your patience to death. Maybe, as an Argentinian, I can identify with that sort of annoying attitude. Most of the time we don’t realise we’re tiring customers. Sometimes we’re rude and impolite, even when we’re asking for salt and pepper.

        The first thing I learnt from Italians is that the menu is an item without any sort of value. Or sense. Or utility. The menu’s existence is ephemeral simply because Italians are going to ask for something that hasn’t been printed on it. A printed menu means the executive chef went through infinite alternatives before having the final version in his hands. Endless hours of trial and error blending different ingredients, recipes and always keeping in mind the restaurant celebrates Mediterranean cuisine. All effort is put on hold with Italians.

‘Pablo, the chefs are Italian right?’ Roberto, the head of the table asks me while sipping his white pussy wine – this is why he abandoned Rome. Classic question. I pretend to pay attention. My eyes wander around my section. Busy night at the restaurant and Roberto is having dinner with a stunning sculptural blonde. I don’t dare ask if she’s his wife, lover or escort.

‘Of course they’re Italian my friend.’ The truth is not all of them have the same passport. Just a few are Italian. My answer aims to comfort him. Roberto and his sex worker are going to have the pizza of the day, the four smelliest cheeses I’m able to sell. It would be wonderful if Italians could comprehend that Cucina Vivo is a restaurant and not their grandma’s house. That house where you just open the cupboard and find whatever you’re looking for. If you need parmigiano from a small fishing town with a picturesque sea view, it’s going to be in that cupboard. If you need black olives which rested in a gloomy humid corner for nine years, they’re going to be in that cupboard too. And if you need more rainy-season Vietnamese chilli, you’re also going to find it in the bloody cupboard but you’re not going to find grandma’s cupboard in every single restaurant you decide to visit. The food offerings are limited. A concept Italians don’t understand. Or maybe they don’t care at all. Everything involves technical specifications with them.

I like when food becomes an important issue. I love food and consider myself a non-professional critic. Most of the time I just want Italians to understand they’re not architects. They’re not designing the next mansion for a Saudi Arabian sultan. They’re just having a meal, in a restaurant, on the Gold Coast. If the mozzarella is not buffalo mozzarella, I can assure you that you’ll survive. The planet will continue in its regular rotational and translational motion. You’re not taking a blind walk through a minefield. You’re just trying to eat a bloody pizza. Roberto seems to be loving his pizza but he complains about some burned spots and because it’s not as ‘foggy’ as it should be. Two objections is a humble victory.

        Italians are emotional and definitely cool. Certainly not all of them. But their loud voices and excessive body language make me feel at home. When they figure out I’m Argentinian we’re going to talk about football, Maradona, Messi and who the best football player in recent history is. Sometimes they just cross themselves, look up to the sky and thank me for Maradona, ‘the hand of God’ and the fact of his existence.

        By the way, there’s one similitude Italians and Asians share, they’re not familiar with the tip. Roberto thanks me for my service and gives me a friendly hug. I kiss the blonde girl in slow motion and walk them to the entrance. My manager gives me a wink and screams in Italian, ‘Gorgeous ass!’ I laugh. Roberto turns back. I pretend to look confused resetting the table.

One of the things I miss from my land, with all my heart, is what we call merienda. I still can’t find an exact translation. It could mean snack, night tea or picnic. But neither represents the real concept. Basically it’s a light meal between five and seven in the afternoon where we have coffee with croissants. If you’re brave enough you’ll have that croissant with ham and melted cheese. Or maybe fresh orange juice with some sort of recently baked pastry. Or a hot chocolate with churros con dulce de leche, similar to the Spanish churro but filled with extra sweet condensed milk.

That’s why we have dinner around ten. All of us familiar with the merienda lifestyle now feel as though something is missing in our existence. Now I understand why guests arrive so early to have dinner at Cucina Vivo. Simply because they’re starving by seven. Merienda doesn’t exist and dinner is the replacement. During the week our kitchen closes at nine and just the pizza oven remains open till ten. I always hear the chef complaining and cursing.

One night, the lady with the hat is the last guest to walk into the restaurant. I wouldn’t say the lady with the hat is actually wearing a hat. I would say she’s wearing a beret, Parisian style. The lady with the beret smiles and contemplates her surroundings. She grabs the menu with total confidence. Most of the time guests drown in the menu, holding it as they would a quantum mechanics book. Quite funny and stupid at the same time. But that’s not the case with the lady with the beret. She closes the menu and waits. I slowly walk to the table. Before opening my mouth, she glances at my name badge and asks, ‘Pablo, which red wine do you recommend?’

I feel like giving her a standing ovation. I remain silent and rush to the bartender Diego, asking him to pour me a sample of Peppoli. My favourite Italian red wine from the Chianti region. Viscous. Spicy. Opaque. Tastes like wet dirt. An excellent blend with pasta or steak. After the first sip the lady with the beret salutes me asking for a bottle. Now I own her trust and dinner and bill. I tap into the system. Antipasto and calamari fritti for entrée. Filetto di manzo and polpette di pollo for mains. Tiramisu to share for dessert.

       The lady is married. Both work in the development of new hotels around the world. In other words they’ve lived in France, Belgium, Peru, Vietnam and Kenya, among other countries I can’t remember. Sixteen years ago the lady with the beret adopted a baby in the Philippines. That grown up baby is now sitting next to her fighting with the calamari.

Listening to these kinds of life stories is music to my ears. Good music. I’m not talking about Taylor Swift or Beyoncé. I’m talking about a John Coltrane, an Albert King, a Jim Morrison.

        Sometimes I believe I have a good eye. Sounds raw but I really feel that way. Once I read Malcolm Gladwell’s book Blink, a wise American writer with an afro who invites us to trust more in our first impressions. Since childhood we’re told a completely different story. But after reading that book I felt more confident listening to my first impressions. To my feelings. Especially when I meet a person for the first time and maybe the last. I feel the woman with the beret is special. Actually she is. While pushing the last bite into her mouth, she moans and theatrically grabs her daughter’s shoulder pretending she needs medical attention.

The night slowly fades away and I’m hanging out at the bar. Just chilling next to a stunning vintage coffee machine. I make eye contact with the lady, her right hand giving me the international sign for an espresso.

‘Diego, a short black from the house please. Strong.’

The tiramisu appears from the kitchen and goes straight to the table. With a surprising timing the espresso is ready too. She gives me the scuba diving sign for ok.

‘What’re your plans after Australia?’ She has assumed I’m not staying. Accurate.

After a long pause, I fire back, ‘Japan is waiting for me.’

She steals my notepad and pen. ‘Come back in ten minutes,’ she both whispers and commands staring at the small canvas. She unleashes the ink.

      The lady with the beret and her daughter are one of the last tables in the restaurant. They seem to enjoy each other’s company. They enjoy food. They enjoy being there. They enjoy without end. When I clear their table I find a juicy tip inside my notepad and handwritten in the bottom “The only people for me are the mad ones. Be mad.”

[pleasedontbelame]

Table for two: Ciao bello

Sometimes you have to play a long time to be able to play like yourself.

Miles Davis

*

I love the decadent pleasures in life. A good conversation, an oaky-spicy glass of wine. I love corks and wine stains. I love nostalgia. I love to know the story behind the other person. I love to write, to listen. I love the small things. I love charming and warm-hearted people. I love accents. I love wanderers. I love adventures. I love those who fight for their passions. I love those who destroy rules and concepts. I love a moving movie. I love music and what it represents. I love to walk on unknown paths, to discover and feel alive. I love different opinions, contagious smiles. I love the aroma of my morning coffee. I love my bookshelf, the restaurants’ menu. I love to try new things. I love to be amazed and mesmerised. I love creators. I love spicy. I love grey hair. Wisdom. Powerful words. I love hedonic cities. I love body language. I love cultures, paradise, citizens of the world. I love warm weather. I love freedom. I love mystery. I love.

*

It’s extremely difficult and challenging to capture beauty in real life stories. Sometimes stories are simple but soaked in wisdom, like a tender piece of lamb marinated with coriander, mint, cinnamon and pepper. Life isn’t simple and we should be glad about it. My love and admiration for stories took me here. Without even noticing I’ve been submerged in Matteo’s existence. Invading his privacy, memories and daily life. A delightful experience with someone I can, now, call my friend. For me, the word ‘friend’ is reserved for just a few and I’m proud to think Matteo is, now, part of my heritage. I’m going to take a bit of him and he’s going to take a bit of me. Humbly because we are the sum of all our experiences, all the cities we’ve visited, all the books we’ve read, all the lovers we’ve had and all the people we’ve met. I don’t dare to summarise an entire existence in just a couple of sentences, but Matteo’s muse in life is simple. Love. How subtle and rare is to find. He’s lived in different parts of the world chasing after a woman’s love. He’s travelled from one city to another thanks to the love he feels for food as a chef. Now he’s casting roots in Australia as a consequence of his love for Setsuko, his wife and mother of two marvellous daughters. Keep loving Matteo. Keep this amazing story rolling.

[pleasedontbelame]

Things to know before going to Buenos Aires (volume IV)

Ice cream kingdom

Sometimes the apprentice defeats the master, Argentinian helados have nothing to envy the Italian gelato. Luckily consumption isn’t attached to warm seasons, ice cream stores function all year round. It’s pretty difficult to find heladerias with bad reputations but if you have a demanding palate, stick to Volta, Tufic and Scannapieco. All of them artisanal. All of them marvellous.

All you need to know about chinos

We call ‘chinos’ to those drugstores run by Chinese families, and believe me when I say you can find a ‘chino’ anywhere you walk around Buenos Aires. They are open from Monday to Monday, extremely handy when something is missing at home and a sanctuary for wine-deals. A real sanctuary. I worked several years for the wine industry and won’t get into details to explain why you can find mysterious deals, just remember ‘chinos’ is a synonym for great affordable wine.

Tango stereotypes

Despite Argentina is globally known for tango, it certainly doesn’t mean people are dancing on the streets or improvising tango figures while waiting for the bus. So don’t be nervous dear traveller, no one will spontaneously invite you to dance while strolling the city. Despite this sad news, plenty of different gems where to enjoy old school tango are spread around the city. Looking for a fancy dinner and pompous live performances? You should visit Esquina Carlos Gardel or Tango Porteño. For those not seduced by bling bling tango, explore Torquato Tasso, Esquina Homero Manzi and Bar Sur –visited by Anthony Bourdain during his Parts Unknown show. And if you wanna taste some traditional milongas, Parakultural and Viruta Tango Club are calling you.

Streetart

During the last few years, Buenos Aires has become a sexy destination for graffiti and street artists around the world. Simply because you don’t require an authorization from local authorities, all you need is the consent of the property owner –easy. Google Street Art Project features more than 400 art pieces around the city, Graffitimundo and BA Street Art organise walking tours that will take you off the beaten track and get the chance know the essence and story behind each mural and artist.

[pleasedontbelame]

Table for two: Café

And so castles made of sand slips into the sea … eventually.

Jimi Hendrix

My turn to pick the place. One of the reasons I’m working in Australia is because I must pay for my daily coffee and I cannot escape the desire for café-crawling. There’s something enigmatic around it. Each place has a different vibe, atmosphere, customers, brightness, view, tables, coffee beans, machines, baristas, aromas, sounds, cups, colours, smiles, music. During the last year I’ve been walking around searching for ‘that’ place where I feel content and inspired and gratified. Every tiny aspect should work in perfect balance. I don’t mind walking time-consuming distances or taking a bus to reach some distant café. The trip becomes as important as the destination. One of my favourites places is down in Burleigh Heads: Canteen Coffee. Although the service is not the best, the stuff often seem sad or depressed or going through some family lost, I find a thrilling atmosphere blowing over there. All the tables are breathing outside. Alive. Inviting me to stay another ten minutes. Ten more minutes that might become a couple more hours. The coffee beans are erotic. The croissants greasy, airy with the perfect aftertaste. One is never enough.

*

Matteo has been in Japan for the last three weeks. I remembered his enthusiasm for the trip. He was longing for that particular magic he could only find there. Food, street markets, beautiful women and the richness of a mystic land. Back in the restaurant, some rumours are flying. One of the things I hate most in working environments: everyone seems to know everything and privacy is not part of the dictionary. Makes my nerves collapse. The pasta machines are murmuring that the big boss is not completely pleased with Matteo. Probably because he has feelings and emotions and a warm soul and he’s a full time human being. For a money-printing kitchen, Matteo is the black sheep. The derailed one. The Che Guevara. The big boss doesn’t need revolutionaries on his cooking lines. He just needs cooks. Simple. I let the rumours burn out …

I know Matteo is back from Tokyo but I’ve had some days off from work. Assignments are consuming and devouring my existence. One Thursday night I’m back on shift and Matteo isn’t there. Unusual because he used to just have Mondays and Tuesdays off. Fucking rumours. Trying my best to act cool and not intrigued by his absence, I’m not planning on asking the big boss because it wouldn’t be the best idea ever. Others chefs don’t know about him. Later I realise they just didn’t want to tell me. First thing after I finish I text my Sous Chef.

All good my friend? I didn’t see you tonight …

Hello Pablo, did you guys miss me? My role has been terminated today …

I knew something strange was going on. How do you feel?

I feel great!!! It’s all meant to be. A great chance to find something awesome.

This place isn’t for you my friend. We both knew it.

That’s right, but I was meant to be there to create a friendship with you.

A new unexpected chapter for Matteo, and for me. I force him to meet up Sunday. Canteen Coffee.

‘Is it OK if I bring my little daughter Sophia?’ Matteo asks that morning.

I know I’m not the best in creating a bond with kids. I find it challenging and hard. Maybe because I’m not used to have kids around, I guess it’s a matter of expertise. But at the same time, I know we are born with that faculty. Some of us just struggle with those situations where we have to connect with younger souls. Some might say it’s easy. For me ‘easy’ is to sum one plus one. I text him back -No problem at all my friend. Beautiful.- He was going to pick me up at the same place as last time. I was late. He was late. We were late.

*

Sophia sitting in the back seat. Shy and lovely. Matteo encouraging her to talk to me, alternating English and Italian. Superb. She didn’t even dare to look at me. Her dad tells me she needs time to gain confidence, but once she feels comfortable, she won’t stop trying to get my attention. I’ve been warned. Warm winter day. Dazzling sun. No humidity. Some opaque clouds painted on the horizon. Without asking for permission, I plug in my ipod and play Albert King. Pure blues in its natural state. Makes me want to share one of my inner dreams with Matteo. Rapt by the horizon I let it out how I’d love to run my own café. A small and hidden one. High quality coffee beans. A hypnotising and sensual coffee machine. Endless hours of vinyls’ sessions. Connecting with customers and listening to stories. My whole reflection in just one limited space. Modest dream. Matteo grins and suggests we should have that place together. Albert King sets the tempo and the mood as we arrive in Burleigh. We drop the car in the first empty space we find. Sophia marking the swiftness of our walk. A strange couple passes by and admires – out loud – her beauty. Matteo dies with pride. Dodging streets we turn left into a peaceful alley. Suddenly we are at the café. Matteo’s impressed and gives me a hug from the side.

One cappuccino for the Sous Chef. One apple juice, toast and butter for Sophia. One mocha for me. We sit down at a refurbished small table that looks like a huge coffer. Sophia takes out her art-kit and begins to draw a psychedelic purple and red sun. We’re talking about past loves. Maybe not the best timing, but we don’t care.

‘Her name was Anna, she was Polish and she was a total …’ Matteo stares at Sophia but she’s deeply submerged in her art. He gets closer to me and finishes his sentence in the lowest pitch possible. ‘She was a total bitch!’

I remember he once told me about the existence of a Polish love. Matteo is the master of loving cultural exchanges. I burn the tip of my tongue with the first sip. ‘Mierda!’ I yell. Matteo smiles while evenly spreading butter on the toast. They met while both were living in Rome and he was dating someone else –irrelevant. An intense year of love and pure Polish coldness. Didn’t work out.

‘She was playing with my feelings, with my mind!’ I can sense some traces of ire in his tone. A sense of incompleteness. Wondering what would have happened. Those ‘if’ questions that once in a while invade our minds and that we have to mute. He shows me her Facebook profile picture. Stunning. Pale features. Radiant brunette with angelic crystal eyes and tender lips. Not difficult to fall in love with. He scrolls until he finds a lovely black and white picture of her and he neatly drops ‘I took this photo.’

Back in Torino, a long time after they broke up, Matteo received a phone call from his Polish love. Speaking in perfect Italian with an untraceable accent. He was paralysed.

‘She didn’t use to speak so well.’ He says gazing at a family walking past our table. Anna told him that she was going to spend one night in Torino and was wondering if they could meet. Matteo answered without hesitation, yes. She paid for a hotel. Stylish. Chic. Room service.

‘It was a flawless night and after that I didn’t see her again. I know she’s married and has a child. That’s all.’ He sighs and gives me the impression he feels some sort of relief. I think we always desired a perfect ending for our relationships. That last night where both know is going to be the end. Where we can close that mental box and move on without hurting each other. Matteo had that last perfect Polish encounter.

I’ve never seen Matteo so cheerful. A new radiant shiny aura. That kitchen at Cucina Vivo was his burden and now he has gained independence. Sometimes uncertainty can be dangerous but erogenous and tempting. It’s not easy to cope with freedom. It’s not easy to write a new chapter, but we have to. We have to learn how to write our own book. Now the Sous Chef is looking for different alternatives. Yesterday he applied to be a food writer for SBS, travelling around Australia, criticising and writing. A full time food-chaser. Like me, he also dreams about having his own business. His own wine bar with a delicate menu – just wine by the glass. Tapas’ style. Where he could connect and chat with each client. Where he could just be himself. Some people are just meant to connect to others. Some people have that enchanting power. Matteo’s one of those people who needs to be filled up by anecdotes and freshness. New horizons. Time to keep walking. Time to discover his own true self.

[pleasedontbelame]

La carta del mes

Carta de lectores publicada en la Rolling Stone allá lejos en marzo del 2013. Me gusta siempre tenerla cerca porque este pequeño texto fue lo que me hizo renunciar a mi trabajo de oficina, mudarme a Australia, estudiar un Máster en Medios y perseguir lo desconocido. Nada mal.

Django se venga por vos - Revista Rolling Stone Argentina

En medio de una fila desordenada de gente inquieta. Todos esperamos lo mismo. Muchos acompañando, otros por genuino interés y otros no sabían por qué habían recibido un mensaje de texto que decía "Nos encontramos a las 21 hs. en la eme dorada frente al cementerio de la Recoleta". Preestreno de Django en Buenos Aires.

Poco tiempo después de los bastardos bateando y marcando cabezas nazis empezaron a correr rumores de lo que se venía. Todo basura, hasta que me encuentro con el primer tráiler. Jamie Foxx deja el piano y a las Raelettes. Decide cabalgar con lentes de sol por una Mississippi años antes de la abolición de la esclavitud. Simpleza y genialidad. Y termina de emocionarme cuando veo escenas de Waltz, DiCaprio y el infinito Samuel L. Jackson.

No importa si te gustó más, o no, que Uma Thurman cortando asiáticos en dos. O si preferís exquisitos diálogos dentro de un galpón. O si te encariñaste con la azafata Jackie. O si lo queres a Pitt hablando un inmortal y pésimo italiano. O si el único pasaje de la Biblia que conoces es uno que no existe -Ezequiel 25:17. Eso se lo dejamos a los que saben. En este caso, simplemente, me quedo con el talento de este tipo que se llama Tarantino.

Unos días después del preestreno recibo la Rolling y me encuentro con la reseña de la peli. Cuatro estrellas. Creo que son sinónimo de "excelente" -habría que revisar la parte inferior de la hoja para estar seguros. Capítulo aparte el soundtrack. Siempre de colección: Primer plano de Foxx sonriente, cabalgado 1858, mientras suena James Brown & 2Pac. Nada más que agregar.

El verano y los 38º grados de térmica me encuentran moviendo la cabeza al son de Anthony Hamilton & Elayna Boynton - Freedom (reciente descubrimiento luego de ahondar en el soundtrack). Momento de lucidez: A nadie le haría mal ser un poco más Quentin. Porque más-de-lo-mismo abunda.

[pleasedontbelame]

Things to know before going to Buenos Aires (volumen III)

Don’t worry about being punctual

Some issues are rather lax and ‘time’ is definitely one of them, simply because we don’t believe in such human-invention. Being on time isn’t part of our dictionary neither vocabulary. And we can always blame on traffic or a spontaneous demonstration or public transport or even Fidel Castro’s death. There’s always a credible excuse so don’t stress about being twenty minutes late (or even half an hour) cause someone else is going to arrive after you. Thumbs up.

Fernet with … Coca Cola

The Italian community brought the elixir to Argentina, how does it taste? Bitter as fuck. It’s a dark mysterious liquid made of numerous unknown herbs. Back in the days used to be a digestive beverage or appetitive but nowadays is mandatory at every bar or nightclub or warm-up party around the city. It has suffered a twist in its preparation though. Grab a glass, drop some ice cubes, pour 1/3 of Fernet and 2/3 of Coca Cola. Drink it. Prepare one more. Get drunk.

Hints to be a local. Always go for Fernet Branca brand, always prepare your beverage with regular Coca Cola –diet lighter versions are not an alternative– and never say ‘no’ if someone invites you one.

Feria de Mataderos

It has an ugly reputation but don’t trust those sinners, cause they are sinners and most probably will end up burning in hell. Buenos Aires is a vast city so it might take around an hour by bus to get into the heart of Mataderos neighbourhood. Take a break from sophisticated-ish areas and experience a street fair organised and visited just by local families. Get lost around gauchos wearing authentic attires, endless stands selling all sorts of memorabilia and folklore music gigs. Search for ‘Con Sabor Argentino’ food stand and try not to fell in love with those empanadas.

[pleasedontbelame]

Table for two: Lunch

‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.’

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

I wake up smiling. Before showering, I play my morning tune. Sun is shining and the weather is sweet, make you wanna move your dancing feet … It’s impossible to say no to a Bob’s morning session. In fact, every human in this world should experience – at least once – getting out of bed with that sweet melody. A mellow mood will linger for the rest of the day. Once the shower is part of the past, my next duty is to quietly march to my nearest café. Compulsory to have my coffee nearby, no more than a five-minute walk. My only real ‘must’ when moving to a new place: my café. I must have the impression my barista’s waiting for me. My barista knows me. My barista knows the perfect temperature of my coffee. My barista doesn’t ask if I’m going to have the coffee there or if I’m going to take it away. My barista doesn’t ask me if I desire a large or small cup. My barista knows I’m going to have a flat white on their premises. Sitting down at a small rustic wooden table with my computer or my book or my magazines or just my music.

Literally, that royal morning, the sun was shining. After so many failed attempts, Matteo was going to cook lunch for me. He was going to pick me up near my house, at a bus station at 10am but between an Argentinian and an Italian, time starts to lose sense and relevance. At 9:50 I text him. I’m going to be twenty minutes late. Instantly he answers back saying he’s going to be a late as well – perfect bouquet. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable around Italians. We are identical when it comes to punctuality. We appreciate similar things in life. We talk out-loud. We have exaggerated body language. We transform a simple conversation into a deep and passionate symposium. We talk about food as if we were members of the Nobel Prize jury. We will never be gratified with our coffees. For some strange reason, we always end up talking about football-fútbol–calcio and remembering the latest ten World Cups. We love to extend – infinitely – a reunion, because there’s always time for one more coffee or one more glass of wine or one more coffee. The day before, Matteo told me he would take care of the food and drinks. My only concern was to enjoy – amen. Without even noticing it, I arrived ten minutes late to the bus station and he picked me up ten minutes late – another perfect blend.

Exquisite temperature. Dazzling breeze. I get into the car and put my window down. Matteo sets the destination in the GPS and slightly accelerates. The Sous Chef was going to cook for me in a remote open-air spot. No restaurants, no menus, no waiters, driving to his favourite place on the Gold Coast. A place where he’s able to connect with nature; where he’s able to unplug himself from the kitchen; where he plays with his daughters; where he isolates from his daily life and unleashes his mind. I just had to lay back and appreciate the ride.

*

While chatting about our past lives, women, experiences and dreams he remembers I was listening to my ipod when he picked me up. I guess those tiny details are the ones which make me not young anymore. An ipod.

‘Play some of your music!’ Matteo urges. The highest compliment I could ever receive. Not so long ago I attended a music festival and was fixated with Gary Clark Jr. A flawless mixture of blues, rock and roars of liberty. I plug in my device and without anaesthesia I set the beast free … when my train pulls in … Matteo stares at me, smiles and raises the volume. Delightful ether. Our destination: Hinze Dam. It’s going to be my first time there and I totally trust his taste. We take a fairy-tale road. Enormous ancient trees on both sides drawing beautiful picturesque shadows along the pavement. The air seems skinny and pure and fresh. The music slowly stabbing my heart. Sunglasses, 70’s attitudes and smiles. The sun caressing my skin. Life passing by.

The GPS reveals we are getting closer. We look like two fugitives exploring the outback, looking for a place to hide. Suddenly we arrive.

‘So, this is the place my friend.’ Matteo sighs. A peaceful area dressed in green. Just a few humans, mostly families with children. Blue sky. Barbecue area. Short thick grass playing between strong immense trees. On the horizon, a huge peak made of stones captures my attention. A beautiful human invention. A beautiful place. Thanks Matteo. I help him to grab all the things from the car and we conquer one table improvising a cleaning kit for the filthy barbecue. First things first, we open a couple of beers. Cheers. Salud. Chin Chin. Once we have the first godsend sip, we start toasting the breads for the bruschettas. I’m trying to create the right setting where he can feel at home. Once I feel he is submerged into his cooking-world I dare to shoot.

‘Are you happy at work?’ Matteo prefers to think before vomiting words or opinions. Thank God but he isn’t entirely prepared for that question while gilding those breads. He contemplates and without gestation and to my surprise says no. For the last couples of weeks I’d had the feeling he was not having fun at work, he wasn’t feeling complete and I totally understand why. Matteo is the genuine traditional Italian chef. He cares about ingredients, flavours, colours, textures, blending, seasoning, cooking, temperature, platting … he cares. He fully compromises himself with every single plate the kitchen delivers. Everything should look balmy and picture-perfect. He intensively stares at every plate searching for something he feels is not in the precise place. The outcome should be spotless – there are no greys. For Matteo, perfection isn’t negotiable. But there are always ‘buts’ in life. Cucina Vivo doesn’t strive for the same kind of perfection. The business-view overcomes the love-for-food. Frankly, I do understand. Having more than three hundred guests in just one night requires a mind for business not food. Matteo was jammed in between his two selves. Trying to find an equilibrium and he was having a rough time. Sometimes working fourteen hours in a twenty-four hour day, waking up, having a coffee and saying to his family “I’ll see you tomorrow” isn’t a life at all.

Italy. Torino. Matteo was seventeen years old and his parents decided to invest all their money in a restaurant. Both architects. They’d enough money to move to Hawaii or the French Polynesia and live the rest of their days drinking coconut water, grilling fresh fish and wearing Panama hats.

‘But it was their egos that forced them to build something for me.’ Matteo mumbles. He didn’t even ask for it and they did it anyway. He remembers by that time he’d finished school and hadn’t been the classic bright student. Young Matteo was completely lost and his dad asked him if he would like to become a chef.

‘That’s kind of cool! Why not?’ Young Matteo replied. Now he jokes out loud when he remembers that moment with his father. His parents decided to buy an already functioning restaurant. A successful business in a beautiful place next to the river. A Godsend place for a teenager who has just finished school. Matteo realises now it wasn’t a smart move. Without any experience they tried to tame a business they didn’t know a damn thing about it. Matteo, who was supposed to have his first encounters with the kitchen, was not even there. Along with his cousin, they were waiters.

‘We didn’t even know what to do or where to put the dockets! It was a complete disaster!’ He laughs serenely while he remembers. His father had an artistic mind and honestly didn’t know how to run a business. They had the restaurant for one and a half years and by the end they were just paying bills. But I can feel Matteo’s enthusiasm recalling an experience that marked his professional career. Food has always been protagonist in his life. The memories linger: helping his family in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, asking the names of different species, his first contact with spiciness, the aromas … his relationship with the kitchen has been always there. Latent.

*

The loafs for the bruschettas are ready. We wander to our table where the rest of the ingredients are waiting for us. Smashed avocado with chords of garlic and chilli. Slow cooked tomatoes and on top, gorgeous balsamic vinegar. While devouring the bruschettas I’m distracted by the dam, mesmerised by that intriguing massive wall. An impressive human creation in the middle of a hypnotising landscape. The bruschettas are simply majestic and the entire scene makes them even more stylish. The Italian recipe: simplicity, noble ingredients, vibrant colours and enchanting flavours. Sounds easy and it’s not. For those who believe cooking isn’t an art, as Jules Winnfield would say: ‘I dare you, I double dare you motherfucker!’ I dare anyone who doesn’t appreciate food as art to prepare me some delights. But I just don’t want to force food into my body, I want to have a slight orgasm while tasting it.

Born in Torino and brought up Christian, my Sous Chef has lived 33 years in this world and now practises Buddhism.

‘There’s no God’s will, it’s just up to you.’ Matteo strikes. His father became a Buddhist a long time ago. ‘I thought he was out of his mind when he started practising and meeting Buddhist people.’

Growing up in Italy, most certainly, means growing up Christian. Easy to understand for an Argentinian. I also grew up Christian. Attending church once a week, every Sunday for one unsexy hour.

Then one arbitrary day in Rome, Matteo was enlightened. Standing in the middle of the Piazza San Pietro he remembers the Pope saying that younger generations shouldn’t use condoms because everything happens for a cause. In that exact moment his mind cracked and Christianity was demystified. He decided to leave religion behind and continued on his own journey.

‘I respect it, if God makes you happy, good for you! But I needed to believe in something.’

I sense he’s being sincere. He isn’t surprised when he realises I’m an atheist. In a way being a Buddhist means you’re a part time atheist. There are no Gods to worship. No Popes. No ‘religion’. There is no hell or heaven. Buddhism has strong philosophical roots and the main pillar is to believe in our personal development as enlightened beings. Is it egocentric? Yes. Do we live in an egocentric era? Yes. Do I think religions are old fashioned and are a true impediment to human evolution? Yes. But If I would have to choose one religion, I’d definitely step into Buddhism. No hesitation.

Don’t misunderstand me, I tell Mateo, I do respect religion. But sometimes I struggle to maintain a fluent conversation with people who adore and idolise a God because every single discussion ends up with ‘it’s God’s will’ or ‘it’s our destiny’ or ‘thanks be to God’. Such a simplistic approach to life. I guess there are different grades of idolatry: Matteo firmly agrees.

A couple of years ago he met an Asian girl living in Sidney. Online dating. She was so gorgeous he booked a ticket and flew down. She was ultra catholic. He felt so out of place that within twenty-four hours he was back home. We laugh. I asked him if he knows that the Pope is Argentinian. He looks puzzled.

‘For me the last Pope was German.’ I laugh and tell him he resigned a couple of years ago.

‘Now they can resign? It’s too hard to be Pope!’ Between laughs we punch the table with heavy fists. Then Matteo takes out a plastic container with fried rice, I explain to him the ‘new’ radical approach of this Pope. His openness to other religions, gay marriage, condoms, blah blah … the topic fades away when he shows me some lovely fresh prawns. Our main. Thanks Buddha.

Fresh silky prawns bought during the sunrise. Salt, pepper and olive oil. We move back to the barbecue to cook them little by little until they gain a biblical golden skin. Already tipsy, we open some more beers. To the prawns Matteo adds coconut milk with garlic, masala and parsley on top – tremendous fragrance. Salud. Chin Chin. Cheers and we attack those prawns without mercy. The Sous Chef is deeply in love and married to Setsuko, a stunning Japanese woman. They have two daughters with a terrific blend of features. A beauty that pains. A future beauty that will destroy Matteo’s jealousy. He loves to take care for them, to protect them and enjoy quality time with them. When I warn him that both girls are going to have so many suitors, he just closes his eyes trying not to imagine the situation. Matteo, my friend, you are going to have a hard time. Mark my words.

I love multi-cultural couples, says a lot about them and the way they tackle their lives. How they challenge their own boundaries, cultures and languages. I was intrigued with his fascination with Asian women.

‘When did you realise?’ I ask taking a sip from my Mexican beer. He remains silent for a while making himself restful.

‘I was 19,’ he says, perfect low pitch tricky tone and shiny eyes. After his family business extinguished, Matteo moved to Ireland, Dublin. He didn’t know why. Living there he met several Italians friends. I would say he used to be a good-catholic dude. A dude who avoided troubles and lived on the bright side of the moon. One night, his best temporary friend convinced him to go to a strip club – his first strip club ever.

‘Let’s go, only for ten minutes!’ His friend convinced him and Matteo found himself in a small underground place in the core of the city. He almost changed his mind when they were told to pay fifty euros just to get inside. They paid and went downstairs. Step after step he was regretting his decision but unexpectedly, he was mesmerised by the interior, not expecting to encounter such a good taste. Perfect illumination. Elegant, extravagant and … the women. He was struggling to breath normally. That precise instant when he decided he wasn’t going to stay just for ten minutes. They sat at the bar and ordered some drinks – classic move. An Asian girl approached him. He was already dripping sweat. She was pure class, pure magnificence and pure ecstasy. Chinese. He shyly ordered a glass of sparkling wine for his goddess but she was a professional in the art of love and made him feel comfortable. After some chitchat and with a rehearsed sensual smile she asked if he would like a private dance. Always an awkward moment. They walked to the room at the back and she explained how everything was going to work.

‘I was in love with her, I wanted to marry her!’ Matteo vigorously exhales. ‘She was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever had in that particular moment of my life. Extraordinary. High-class. Natural beauty. She knew how to talk and how to touch. She made me feel comfortable. I stayed for the whole night. I was a backpacker. I was young.’ His breaking point. The reason why he loves Asian women. The reason why he kept chasing Asian beauty. I love that Setsuko knows this story and, maybe, she should feel grateful for it. An innocent memory that – at the same time – marked those next years of Matteo’s quest. Now they’ve built a family that should be hung in the Louvre. My congratulations.

[pleasedontbelame]

Algunas gemas nórdicas

El Síndrome de Estocolmo, José González, Kimi Räikkönen, ABBA y la sueca de Lanata … supo ser todo mi conocimiento sobre los países nórdicos hasta que los caminos de la vida me llevaron a mudarme a la capital de Finlandia, Helsinki. Un invierno crudo y de tintes melancólicos me dieron la bienvenida. Un invierno de -20º y atardeceres a las 15hs. Un invierno introvertido de mucho café e introspección.

La personalidad nórdica -simplificando- tiende a ser nuestro polo opuesto. Largos silencios que nos incomodan. Un respeto demencial por las normas. Una puntualidad que lastima el ego de cualquiera que se considera puntual. Un minimalismo en su máxima expresión. Y esa personalidad nórdica decanta -cual vino- e inevitablemente se adueña de la música. Acá van 5 gemas que valen la pena.

Mirel Wagner (FIN)

Nacida en Etiopía y criada en Finlandia, a Mirel la descubren en una sesión open-mic por Helsinki. Sin siquiera un demo o compañía discográfica, el boca en boca la lleva a un estudio en donde graba 12 canciones en sólo dos días -9 de ellas en su álbum debut. Un diamante en bruto que hipnotiza con un folk melancólico e intimista. El primer álbum que lleva su nombre juega con una tensión sutílmente frágil de principio a fin. Música atemporal y letras que calan bien hondo.

Gidge (SWE)

Dúo electrónico formado por Jonatan Nilsson y Ludvig Stolterman, nacidos en Umeå, una ciudad de 100 mil habitantes ubicada al norte de Suecia en donde los inviernos son largos y el sol es un privilegio. Autumm Bells y LNLNN son sus dos álbumes a la fecha y ambos una delicia de escuchar. Un tempo surrealista y texturas minimalistas que evocan esos paisajes gélidos del norte.

Amiina (ICE)

Cuarteto femenino de Islandia con melodías cristalinas, cuasi místicas, que reflejan la esencia de una tierra en solitud. Durante 2005 y 2006 estuvieron de tour con Sigur Rós y se sienten esas reminiscencias sonoras, así como una experimentación similar a la de Björk. Su primer álbum Kurr es una oda instrumental en donde juegan con violines, guitarras, teclados, copas, arpas celtas y kalimbas. Un viaje introspectivo a la isla volcánica del norte.

Kakkmaddafakka (NOR)

Indie rock sin escalas desde Bergen, Noruega. Un sonido que no deja de ser nórdico pero con pinceladas a verano. Erlend Øye -alma y corazón de Kings of Convenience y sus melodías celestiales- fue productor de sus dos últimos álbumes Hest y Six Months is a Long Time. Durante 2016 lanzan KMF, un disco que explora sonidos de los 80s, surf rock y reggae buscando anticipar el sol de junio noruego.

Jenny Hval (NOR)

Jenny Hval es pura vanguardia, arte y emociones. Blood Bitch es su sexto álbum y seduce con esa voz plana que por momentos se convierten en suspiros. Poesía, prosa y experimentaciones artísticas en vivo son parte de su habitual repertorio. “Tengo que seguir escribiendo porque todo lo demás está muerto” susurra en The Great Undressing -haciendo referencia a sus años estudiando escritura creativa en Australia. Dale play y subite al viaje.

[pleasedontbelame]

[pleasedontbelame]

Table for two: Entrée

By Pablo Tognetti

The journey is part of the experience – an expression of the seriousness of one’s intent. One doesn’t take the A train to Mecca.

Anthony Bourdain

I was desperately looking for a well-payed job on the Gold Coast. Not as easy as it seems. On the other hand, Australia is a country that doesn’t really allow you to be unemployed. You just need to show a positive, hard-working attitude and you’ll find a job – maybe not your dream job but a job to pay the rent, to pay for my morning cappuccino, my afternoon chai latte, to pay for my hipster-sandwich in some trendy restaurant and to pay my next journey somewhere. A journey, which still doesn’t have a precise destination or fly ticket.

*

I’m deeply in love with food. I dream about food. I am enchanted. One of those people who moans while eating or tasting something new. I don’t know why I wasted the last six years of life working in huge companies in South America that commercialise goods for massive populations. As employees, we’re always told the products will be spread with a view to the country’s sovereignty. The empires endeavour to build and then control. Prosperous corporate kings open their wallets and invest in these kinds of businesses and then wait, anxiously for the benefits to come. Once they receive those benefits, they’ll invest them again in another business and wait for their rewards. The process reminds me of a movie from my childhood The Never Ending Story.

From the bottom of my heart I congratulate all those humans who don’t want, who are not interested in seeing what’s going on. Sometimes I’d like to be one of those humans. I mean it. What’s the purpose of questioning anyway? Sooner or later we’re all going to be hunted by capitalism. I’d like to be the kind of person who just breathes and lives. The kind of person who sails with the current.

But not.

I am full of contradictions. And I feel comfortable with that. Endless questions. Pointless conversations. Revolution – even better if it’s an internal revolution. The uncertainty of knowing we’re betting on something in our lives. That chaotic feeling we get when we’re staring at the unseen. The healthy madness.

This constant search has brought me here, to a country I still don’t know in any great depth, living on the Gold Coast. A place I wouldn’t usually choose to live for more than twenty-four hours. I’ve been living here for several months and my student visa expires next August. Sometimes constant searching means you encounter these kinds of experiences. I choose to be an explorer. Otherwise, I’d lie on my comfortable sofa at home and watch a movie, preferably one that didn’t make me think at all, like attractive guys driving bizarre, fast and furious cars. That’s why I’m living here, as a lost traveller, and I don’t mind if people agree with my reduced-in-price philosophy. In between all my confusion, food drags me down to earth and reminds me of all the pleasure I can treasure in a simple caprese salad or in a five-hour roasted leg of lamb. Clichéd as it sounds; food is my religion – my creed.

Suddenly I find myself working for a restaurant that pretends to be sophisticated. Just like Aldous Huxley masterminded in the Doors of Perception: everything is relative and depends on our perception. What does it mean to be sophisticated? I don’t have a damn clue and I’m not struggling to find out. Tiny detail: I’m a waiter. Simple explanation. The smiley dude who recommends what you should eat; the man who carries the bottle of wine to the table, who shows he has everything under control but he really doesn’t care. The smile, those recommendations and that customer-service attitude. I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit my desire for a tip. However, I prefer an interesting exchange with a non-tipping table, rather than a horrendous night with a tipping one.

I really enjoy breaking-the-ice with people I don’t know. Feels like being in Africa. On a safari, even though I’ve never been on a real one. And throughout that safari I’ve encountered all kinds of people: irritable, shy and outgoing. People who have endless doubts about the menu and life. People who enjoy food and people who don’t. People who complain about everything and so many who possess an indecipherable accent. All of that looks fantastic. Gorgeous. Though I’m not going to deny it. Sometimes I’d like to see a suicide-bomber running straight towards those asshole-tables. But that wouldn’t be right. We all deserve to live. Still, sometimes I’d like to see him running …

The restaurant is Cucina Vivo. Italian food cooked by Italians, Australians, British, Swedish and Koreans. Sophisticated, or something like that. Wood fired pizza. Crusty, smoky, thin and foggy in the middle. Glorious melted mozzarella with exquisite basil on top. A subtle garlic aftertaste that lingers during the whole meal. The Italian way to eat a slide is to fold it and transform the slide into a pizza-sandwich. The pasta is majestic. Gnocchi with mushrooms, truffle oil and chilli. I’m sure it could be my last meal.

*

The Kitchen. The heart of the restaurant. Noisy pan-fries. Big flames roaring and fighting for a leading role. Food angels, dressed in immaculate white, walking from one corner of the kitchen to another. Trollies passing by with the finest greasy Italian cheese and high quality prosciutto. Parmigiano. Buffalo Mozzarella. Pecorino. Reggiano. If you are a food lover, the kitchen is a visual orgy – my daily thrilling dose. Garlic, velvety chilli oil and a hint of truffle floating on the air. In the blurry distance, pastry-chefs preparing panna cotta, tiramisu and homemade ice cream – if you want to have a peaceful and pleasant death, white chocolate with macadamia is the answer. Pasta-priests transform dough into sensual virgin gnocchi. Tender pieces of salmon resting in warm bubbly crystal water.

‘Ciao bello!’ – chef Maurizio screams from behind while he slaps my ass. Impossible not to smile at that delinquent Napolitano and his lazy-sneaky smile. Pizza-chefs vigorously kneading and smashing the huge balls of dough into massive metal tables.

‘It’s going to be a busy night bitches! Are you prepared?’ – Chef de Cuisine gobs shouting to all his prostitutes. I’m standing in his territory and in his kingdom there’s no religion. He’s God and Jesus and the Pope – all at the same time and no one dares contradict his faith.

In the antipasto and salads’ section, a new unnamed chef. Green collar, inexperienced, making his first steps in the culinary world. He looks dazed, confused and sweaty. His whole being contrasting with the agitated atmosphere. He moves in slow motion, his hands becoming clumsier whenever the boss stares at him. Poor peaceful soul. Welcome to hell. Next to the kitchen, a wood fire pizza oven. Opulent. Smoky heavy air that makes your eyes water. The backbone of the entire restaurant. The soul.

*

One hectic afternoon, I felt a new presence in the kitchen. Standing hedonically in the middle of the pass; European features, a slight accent and a one-week beard. His name knitted on his white immaculate Papal vestment. Matteo, the Sous Chef de Cuisine. Bringing a sense of human-touch to the whole hellish unstoppable machinery. Gently pausing the concept of the kitchen as business. Nervously smiling and trying to mimic his presence and blend into that grandiloquent moneymaking kitchen. I don’t need one thousand years of kitchen experience to understand who Matteo is. He’s the second in charge and direct assistant of the Chef de Cuisine. If the big boss is wounded in battle, he’s going to be responsible for the troops. If the big boss decides to bomb the nearest Italian restaurant in order to erase his direct competitors, he’s going to be in charge of pressing the button. But there he is, no bulletproof jacket. No guns. No helmet. Without camouflage. His only weapons sharpened knives and chopping boards. Women would say he’s a handsome guy. Men might say he’s handsome as well. Matteo is a natural beauty. Not complex, just the right balance of ingredients and seasonings. My first impression is that he doesn’t have any problems getting laid and that he’ll certainly have stories to tell.

During his first shift Matteo seems nervous, agitated and overwhelmed by the whole panorama. I don’t blame him. Working for a kitchen isn’t easy. I won’t say it’s as difficult as quantum mechanics but a kitchen is a fast-moving environment that requires snap, moxy and astute decisions. Being a Sous Chef means you have vast experience and are totally aware of what you’ll encounter. You know you need to show confidence to the troops and demonstrate you have everything under control. Such are the perks of being a Sous Chef.

[pleasedontbelame]

Things to know before going to Buenos Aires (volume II)

Text by Pablo Tognetti

Mind your step

Dogs. Dogs everywhere. Guardian dogs. Toy–size dogs. Chubby dogs. Hairy and proudly trimmed. Funny fact: not every owner is keen to pick up their mascots’ faeces so the city turns into a war zone. Unseen explosives are waiting for unaware pedestrians to step on them and boom! So mind your step and give a bad look to those humans not collecting their dogs’ filths. Some day our universe will strike them with furious anger.

Café cortado

Cortado means cut, so a hard translation should be cut-coffee. Basically a short black with few drops of milk. Argentina is well known for steaks and football and malbec, but certainly not for coffee. We drink a lot. We know zero.

During the last decade a beloved green mermaid conquered the city and alternatives were pretty narrow. Fortunately independent cafes and roasters are appearing around Buenos Aires and becoming the true rock-stars. Coffee Town has become the heart and soul of San Telmo market, Felix Felicis & Co owns the perfect corner to chill and people watch. If you are brave enough to stroll around the city centre then visit Negro or the elegant Shelter. A gem you cannot miss is Café Tortoni, founded in 1858, has served coffee to immortals such as Jorge Luis Borges and Carlos Gardel. Sit down and get high with history.

Avoid Caminito

Caminito means tiny path, so expect that, a tiny walking path. One of the most overrated tourist attractions around the city. Of course you’ll find lame travel blogs and online magazines describing La Boca Caminito as an unforgettable place, but here is the brutal truth, Caminito is absolutely forgettable. Unless you wanna buy second-hand souvenirs, take a photo with a Maradona alike imitator, walk by a putrid river or devour an overpriced chorizo. The whole neighbourhood is dodgy and not recommended for a mellow stroll when the sun goes down. If you are spending just a few days in Buenos Aires, please don’t waste your precious time and aim for more interesting places.

Queues culture

Looking for a logical explanation might be a waste of vital time. You just need to acknowledge this land deeply loves queues, it seems Argentinians developed some sort of primal sexual fetish for them. Queues are an important part of daily life and you need to embrace them. Argies without queues might feel disoriented, lost and confused. Actually being a professional queuer could be a full-time job, people get paid just to stand in lines and reserve a place for someone else. So just merge and queue, unless you wanna be left behind.

[pleasedontbelame]

Seis cosas que aprendí en Nápoles

Foto y texto por Pablo Tognetti

Retiro es Napoli Centrale

Muy probablemente nuestra entrañable estación Retiro se haya inspirado en el glamour de la estación central de Nápoles. Hasta me imagino a @lacalurivero con un poncho rosa soltando girasoles al aire. El tren llega sorpresivamente puntual (inclusive 5 minutos antes) y los pasajeros que oficiamos de ganado saltamos a los andenes. Camino hacia donde la gente está esperando familiares y la sensación de seguridad que me había regalado Roma desaparece. Borrachos a los gritos, grupos de adolescentes fumando faso y mirando a la gente que pasa, el personal de seguridad escoltando a una mujer enojada fuera de la estación y caras poco confiables que te persiguen ofreciendo transporte. Retiro.

El ex semidiós

Nápoles es una ciudad pasional en donde los grises no son parte de la norma. Blanco o negro. Mozzarella de búfala o nada. Y es extremadamente fácil ir de un extremo al otro, o por lo menos así lo fue para nuestro Pipita Higuaín. Supo ser un semidiós pero hoy es el innombrable y te podes limpiar el c*lo con su cara -literal. Sólo hace falta parar por una sfogliatella (un enviado del señor en forma de hojaldre) y caminar por Via dei Tribunali para ver la cara del Pipita en rollos de papel higiénico, colgados por doquier y a un precio sumamente accesible, inclusive hay 2x1. A más de un amigo le encantaría tener un buen stock de los rollos-pipita.

Antes de morir ...

Debería ser obligatorio probar la graffa antes de dejar este mundo. Una bomba de grasa y azúcar que sólo trae felicidad a quien la elige. Hay cientos de lugares por Nápoles que la preparan pero Chalet Ciro es el templo por varias razones: 1) Siempre hay cola y eso es bueno. 2) Hay un pantalla que te muestra en vivo cómo las preparan y flotan en aceite. 3) Te obligan a agregarle helado encima. 4) Está abierto hasta las 3 am. Todo lo que está bien en la vida en un sólo lugar.

La pizza napolitana te arruina la existencia

Sabía que podía suceder y pensé que estaba mentalmente y espiritualmente preparado -pero no lo estaba. Quiero aclarar que amo con devoción la pizza porteña y los que me conocen saben que no miento. Caminar de pizzería en pizzería por Buenos Aires e inducirme un coma de queso sería mi último deseo en vida. Pero me siento obligado a decir que tuve un momento de iluminación con la pizza en Nápoles. Me volví creyente. La frescura del tomate, el aroma de la albahaca, la mozzarella angelicalmente derretida y la masa sutilmente quemada en los lugares indicados te hablan directo al corazón. Mi existencia está completamente arruinada.

Lo obvio

Sigo asombrado con la devoción eterna del pueblo napolitano para con Maradona. Es un amor incondicional y sin importar lo que diga o haga, a dios no se los cuestiona. Basta sólo con agudizar el oído para darse cuenta que sigue siendo tema de debate por las calles. La gente frena su marcha y se amontona frente a un televisor que transmite una entrevista o los mejores goles con la casaca del Napoli. Los chicos jugando a la pelota gritan Dieeeego Dieeeego mientras gambetean. Posters de Maradona -cual santuarios del Gauchito Gil- son fáciles de ver por las ventanas de las casas. Y cuando digo que soy argentino, miran al cielo agradeciendo un santo milagro. Una devoción sin fin que sólo se entiende (o no) caminando por Nápoles.

El barrio español es la fruta prohibida

Los napolitanos te recomiendan una sola cosa con respecto al Quartieri Spagnoli: no vayas. Ropa colgando cual feria americana, enjambre de scooters y bocinas en todas las direcciones posibles, hombres vistiendo conjuntos deportivos muy 90s y brillo-bien-brillante, gente mayor escuchando radio en la vereda, dueños de negocios fumando en la puerta. Un caos que parece haber encontrado su orden y funciona de excusa perfecta para observar al foráneo. Recorro y me siento constantemente bajo la lupa, siento que me siguen y se van pasando la voz de cuadra en cuadra. Buscando una historia que contar me fuerzo a seguir caminando hasta que un señor de unos 73 años se acerca y me insiste a que vuelva a la calle principal (fuera del barrio). Le hago caso. Camino a la calle principal, me saco la mochila y veo que el fondo está colgando cual trapo viejo. Al parecer está de moda hacer un tajo con algún elemento cortante y llevarse todo lo que caiga del bolso. Sólo se llevaron una bufanda y papel higiénico con la cara del Pipita.

PD: Hay un hombre en la foto con la vida perfecta.

[pleasedontbelame]

Things to know before going to Buenos Aires (volume I)

Photo by some lucky bastard back in 1986 Text by Pablo Tognetti

A definition of porteños for beginners

Porteños are the ones born and raised in Buenos Aires and we don’t have lots of fans around the country, not even outside Argentina. Porteños own a distinctive Spanish accent ��I would say a cocky one. Porteños walk fast, determined, as if they were on a Victoria’s Secret runway. Porteños are loud and demanding and infinitely proud to be from the-greatest-city-in-the-world. Uruguayans say they can tell if we are porteños (or not) just by the way we walk … but let’s say stereotypes are horrendous, so I invite you to make your own experience. Trust me, we are not as bad as it sounds!

Repeat after me: a-sa-do

Dear vegetarian, Buenos Aires won’t discriminate you –that much. Just be aware asados (aka barbecues) are the most transcendental and important social event for Argies, and yes, we are talking about an animal corpse resting on a grill. Life is too short not to be seduced by a medium rare godsend steak, so if you are not a vegetarian follow these instructions: Nuestra Parrilla is a takeaway cave in San Telmo –always packed but totally worth it. Parrilla Secretito is the right place to sit down for long hours and experience a traditional Argie asado. What if you wake up in the middle of the night craving for a steak or a chorizo? No problem, Lo de Charly is the one and only 24-hour parrilla in Buenos Aires and most probably in the world.

Cheese coma

European-immigration-wave to Argentina took place during the late 19th and early 20th century. Most of them were Italians and Spanish, so it’s completely common for us to own a Spanish name blended with an Italian surname (not vice versa). Italian folklore and cuisine are so strong that Argentina should be an Italian province in South America. Undoubtedly the country embraced a similar commitment for pizza. ‘Which is the best pizzeria’ is a national debate and might end up in a vigorous verbal discussion. Just for the record: Argentinian pizza is pretty cheesy and greasy and non crusty and not recommended by doctors. High probabilities of experiencing a cheese coma or permanent brain damage.

If you are an adventure seeker, there are heaps of traditional pizzerias you should visit. El Cuartito opened during 1934 and still owns the same oven and staff. La Guitarrita looks like a football sanctuary and Angelin invented what they’ve called pizza canchera –impossible to tackle unless you sit down at a table with famished Vikings. Siamo nel Forno is the only place where you can have a real Napolitano experience around Buenos Aires and your getaway from cheese excesses.