Tattoo You

We start the day late-ish. It seems that this is the way porteños live their days, as well – stores in Buenos Aires typically don’t open until noon and it’s not a problem that we have our lunch in the heart of Palermo Soho at a staggering 4 PM.

We find a lovely, modern restaurant called "Mott" off of El Salvador. We settle into their over-sized, open-air seating, and we're surrounded by stores selling leather handbags, fancy boutiques filled with frothy dresses and expensive shoes, and everything reminiscent of a New York’s shopper’s Soho.

Mott is open to the street, providing plenty of opportunity for people watching. Klover orders a pumpkin salad of some kind and I order a tuna sandwich. We receive pretty spectacular versions – her salad is as big as a serving tray and could feed four. It includes slices of roasted squash with cheese on top and plenty of pumpkin seeds and spinach. My sandwich is as big as a salad plate. It’s on some sort of earthy disc of bread and includes a menagerie of sweet plum tomatoes, large leaves of romaine lettuce, and a side of roasted potatoes and a small cup of carrot slaw. Klover orders a slushy, icy cappuccino and I order a lemonada that – blessedly – is also icy and refreshing. 

After, we wander the shops of Palermo Soho. It’s spring in Buenos Aires, so the colors of all the clothes are bright and floral and beachy. After visiting a few spots, we grow discouraged. The clothes in this area of town aren’t that cheap, and the styles really don’t suit us. Klover admits that she’s thrifty and why shop if it’s not coming from her favorite uber-boutique (which shall remain nameless) or a vintage shopping spree? Me, I’m willing to pay for the occasionally overpriced pair of Rag ‘n Bone boots or that Marc by Marc Jacobs bag, but these fixtures are typically set within a smattering of cheap Urban Outfitters basics or coupled with a vintage dress I've had in my closet since I was an undergrad. Also, I’m not a big fan of color – I prefer the subdued, and someone has to look closely to see that my ensemble actually includes a risky flourish or two.

Looking at the porteños, we see their fashion is somewhat different than what we're used to in San Francisco. The women, contrary to rumor, are beautiful. They have long, waist-length hair, and they’re typically petite, with tight skinny jeans, small slim-fitting tank tops that hug the sort of curves a pre-teen would flaunt, and odd-shaped Jesus sandals. Their faces are smooth, golden, and almost make-up free. These, of course, are the women I found fashionable. On the other end are the women dressed like hoochie mamas. These women are wearing big honkin’ heels and have the sort of nails and glitter eye shadow you’d find in a bordello.

After an hour or so of wandering the boutiques that reflect fashion that would only suit life in San Francisco’s Marina, we head to the mall off of Santa Fe. Here we find a Starbucks, a Zara, and a multitude of unheard of South American chains. In a bath store, we wander, and I’m surprised to hear Jack Johnson singing Christmas carols, evidence that – despite Argentina’s spring weather – we’re heading into Christmas. But we’re still unsatisfied with our shopping finds. We realize we really need to head to the vintage stores and forget about spring clothes every shop seems to be hawking our way. And this sort of shopping will have to wait for another day.

Until then, we need to nap and regroup. On the way home, we stop off at the grocery store and spend too long contemplating dulce con leche, cookies, and strange hams at the meat counter. We have to drag ourselves away though we leave with a few odd treasures.  

Back at home (Klover announces, "I love our house!"), I get a few emails from Scott about the upcoming Pavement show (and a possible dinner with the band and long-time friend and booker, Boche) along with a brief report on the insanity that is Sao Paulo. It's weird to think that Scott and company are in South America - so close - and will be in Buenos Aires in a few days. Particularly odd when I consider how Scott was once my travel companion and we used to envision trips to places like Argentina. But not anymore. So far away and so long ago - another life, actually. But there's still this odd shorthand between us, someone out there in the world who used to be family and knew me well who really doesn't know me at all any more.

Both Klover and I read a bit during our little siesta, and I crack a cheeseball book about a woman from Seattle who loses her job and finds out her fiancé is cheating on her, prompting her to chuck it all and start a new life; of course, she ends up moving to Buenos Aires for six months where she opens herself up to different possibilities blablabla (and we can only begin to imagine what sort of muy guapo dude she finds in her travels). 

For some reason, Klover thinks this book belongs on my reading list, and I see her humor. Sort of (um, I did not lose my job when I was living in Seattle!). I find it pretty funny that this novel is somehow on everyone’s Buenos Aires reading list and I can’t believe I’ve read beyond page five, but it is fun. Sort of. And with our incredibly enthralling reading and a delicious nap (as Klover says), we wake up late. Again. The sun has set and our view on our little veranda is shadowy as we make a mad rush through the streets of town, our cab driver blasting Lady Gaga, to make our dinner reservation at Tegui – a hot and relatively new restaurant in Palermo by up-and-coming "hotshot German Martitegui," who’s big on the Buenos Aires food scene.

Regrettably, our Time Out doesn’t tell us just how fancy Tegui is, so we’re a bit shocked to find our hostess dressed like Wednesday from The Adams Family and an interior that matches my imaginings of Gary Danko’s (it was a $$$ restaurant, which suggests fancy, though maybe not quite THIS fancy). Either way, we’re in, and fortunately we’re wearing dresses that don’t make us look too much like tourists. Also, Klover is immediately enamored with Tegui when our waiter comes to our table with our menus.

We’ll call him “B” since this was the letter embroidered on the back of his white chef’s jacket/shirt. He looks like a taller, sweeter, but no less handsome Gael Garcia Bernal – his eyes are a hazy sort of blue, he has a bruised front tooth, and his hair shows a subtle spark of new wave theatrics and the remains of bed head. He speaks sweet English though we keep attempting to respond in castellones. As he explains the menu, he smiles shyly and brings his face so close to ours that we can actually see his eyelashes in the dim light. Thus, Klover and I embark on a three-hour crush with our waiter and Klover tries to convince B that we’re the best table in the house.

This is Klover’s goal wherever we go – she wants to charm and win the prize of being every waiter’s favorite guest. Therefore, she’s very approving of my efforts to engage B when we order the chef’s menu (this includes six courses of the chef’s choice) and I ask B, “Sin sesos, por favor?” B chuckles  and looks at me with mischief in his eyes and says, “No brains?” And both Klover and I nod vigorously. No, we don’t want brains in our pigeon, as one of the menu items suggests, and when B heads to the kitchen with our order, Klover announces, “I LOVE it. So glad you said that.”

Once each of the dishes begin flowing to the table, Klover tells me, “This is not only a snowflake; this is a flurry!” True – and possibly one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Also, every waiter is incredibly handsome and hugely flirtatious. One waiter, who might be the sommelier (Time Out indicates that Tegui’s sommelier is clueless and “doesn’t know his pinot noir from a pina colada”), is particularly attentive. He’s cute, too - wearing high-top leather Nikes, his hair is set in an 80’s pompadour/mullet similar to the one Tom Cruise sported in Cocktail, and we’re not sure if this is supposed to be an ironic or sincere embracing of the eighties. Also, we like the way that every time he stops at our table he looks at us knowingly, with one eyebrow lifted and a curl to his lip, a suggestion or an invitation in his eyes.

With all the flirting, Klover is convinced we’ve made it; we’re the favorite table of the night. This can only be confirmed by looking around and seeing that almost everyone else in the house is of dowager age or a guy (and no doubt more than willing to eat sesos), and not half as entertaining as we deem ourselves to be. We’re further enamored by B when we witness the way he sets our plates in front of us – he stands directly behind us, almost as if he’s about to spoon us, and brings a plate down in front of us, so close that his forearm is at sightline and I can see the surprise of a somewhat industrial, heavy-line tattoo peek out from the sleeve of his shirt. Klover fesses up that she can smell his skin though I won’t go that far. I’m tasting and smelling each delicious morsel of food in front of me.

The food is spectacular – ceviche, fois gras, fresh spring asparagus spears dressed in creamy dressing. Tomato ice cream and cheesy mini-pastry cornucopias. Medium rare lamb nuggets, bacon-wrapped bass, and some sort of savory foam. And TWO desserts, including a deconstructed peach pie with some sort of licorice sauce lining the plate and a molten chocolate cake with a side of amaretto ice cream.

When we receive our tea, we’re given a mini-macaroon on a lovely little plate of perfect proportion. “Do they really go out and buy these little plates for these macaroons!?!” Klover exclaims. Of course, we can’t eat another bite, so Klover coyly asks B to wrap up the macaroon to go. “Para va?” she says, batting her eyelashes. B is clearly charmed, coming a tad closer as Klover explains that she wants him to "wrap it up…with a bow...to go."

B returns with an elaborate tin-foil concoction of a wrapping job, and though it’s time we ask for our check, we miss the opportunity and B disappears. He’s gone so long we begin to miss him. So long that we finish our tea and the businessmen at the table next to us invite us to join them for drinks. But we’re tired and it’s 1:30 AM and Klover is trying to concoct a way to get B’s name out of him and we really just want to head home.

When B finally returns, Klover asks him, “Where have you been?” adding a slight pout. Of course, B is good and, eating this up, he gestures sadly to the glasses on a tray in front of him, suggesting he’s been slaving aways washing glasses (or making them?), but looks at us with a glint in his eye and says, “So sorry. I will never leave you again.”

But we must leave B. The cab is waiting outside, so we pay our bill, say sweet goodbyes to B and Tom Cruise, and allow Wednesday to rush us out the door. We’ve eaten so much and we walk achingly into our building and our elevator. Not long after getting home, we’re asleep and dreaming of boys with hyacinth eyes and punk rock tattoos. And this morning Klover tells me while she was asleep, she finally got the chance to ask B his name. 

"Alejandro, Alejandro!"