Butter, Sugar, and Happiness in Argentina

"Life is so brief that we should not glance either too far backwards or forwards... therefore study how to fix our happiness in our glass and in our plate." - Grimod de la Reyniere

Una medialuna at La Biela, Buenos Aires
Our first morning in BA, I ordered a medialuna -- sweeter than a croissant but just as buttery.

Pan de leche relleno con dulche de leche at the Alvear Palace Hotel, Buenos Aires.
Beautiful trays of pastries and confectionery await you at breakfast. Resisting is futile.

Tiny alfajores flavored with honey from Nuss, Clos de Chacras & Mendoza
We bought a dozen. I sneaked one at at time out of the paper bag....

A spoonful of dulce de leche, La Salamandra, Buenos Aires
Some of the best we tasted. Enjoy it at the cafe or buy a jar to take home....or both. 

I Went to Buenos Aires and Came Back with a Buddha

It's funny what we do when we return from a trip.

Door to door, the trip home was nineteen hours. And it involved a gruesome overnight flight. I should have gone to bed and stayed there.

But, a few hours later, I was at yoga class. 75 minutes of flow yoga sounded just right.

The next day, I painted my nails Sugar Daddy pink and found a place on my desk for Buddha.

Yes, Buddha. I went to Buenos Aires and came back with a small, gold-plated laughing Buddha. He's chubby and has skinny eyebrows. Perfect.

You see, Buddha is hot in Palermo. I mean, Buddha is always popular.

But, right now, Buddha is everywhere.

He's on the bar at Green Bamboo...

In shop windows...

And on a small stand by the Jardin Botanico. This Buddha came home with me.

And after 19 hours, he's well-traveled too. 

What the Portenos Do

They love.

They cook.

They explore.

They entertain.

And they always make time for coffee.

Like Soho but Better

Back in Buenos Aires, we head for Palermo Soho.

Every café has high ceilings inside and sidewalk seating. The trees are leafy, many of the streets are cobblestone, and the boutique shops are filled with leather purses and knit sweaters. Summer is fading and autumn is beginning, but you wouldn’t know it. The weather is gorgeous and the small streets are bustling with shoppers and strollers.

Every city’s Soho has sushi bars and boutiques. But this Soho is housed in a mix of modern buildings and beautiful, aging houses brought into the 21st century with bright colors and graffiti.

We catch glimpses of rooftop terraces and inner courtyards. We pass under a portico – hung with ivy and heavy wrought iron lanterns – to find Tealosophy and Paul. 

What Paul sells is a lifestyle: black and white photographs of Buenos Aires, candles and soaps, bamboo furniture, and distressed kitchen wares  that you’re really meant to look at, not use. I buy two silver mate straws. I don’t even drink mate.

At the guesthouse, I open my windows. I could step over the windowsill and be in the garden. We are the only ones staying here – lucky us – so I go outside (using the door, not the window) and I lay down a towel. I flow through forty-five minutes of yoga. It’s dusk: my silhouette reflects in the glass doors leading to the living room and my shadow is thrown across the courtyard. I stop only to brush away a few mosquitoes and to make dinner plans. Tonight, we’re eating Vietnamese. 

An Evening at 1884

In Argentina, chef and food TV star Francis Mallmann is a demi-god.

Mendoza is home to one of Mallmann’s restaurants, 1884, and it’s said that some tourists come to the area only to eat at the restaurant.

After all of the hype, I expected 1884 to take itself very, very seriously.

But it is fun and playful and the crowd is lively, wearing everything from polo shirts and jeans to silk cocktail dresses. Our waitress – with a dangerously high side ponytail, black ankle boots, and a red and black striped tie – bops around happily. The lovely hostesses sprint on high heels between the outdoor grill and the dining room, bearing large platters.

Completely out of character, I order the grilled pork ribs with a sweet potato cake and cherry tomatoes seasoned with marjoram. It’s right out of the “shock and awe” playbook: It’s supposed to be impressive only because it’s a huge piece of meat.  The winner for me is absolutely my appetizer: a salad of charred carrots, arugula, goat cheese, and garlic chips. Around the table, we agree that the appetizers are much more creative than the entrees. Big servings of meat can only get you so far and we’ve already seen plenty of that in Buenos Aires.

We're sitting near an open door and, between courses, we slip out to the patio. The garden is lit by candlelight and by the grill. 

Couples mingle with wine glasses before sitting down to dinner and leggy brunettes in gladiator sandals vamp for the camera. On the other end of the courtyard, the cooks hustle to fill orders and to flip steaks, as clouds of smoke rise from the stovetop.  

  

Mallmann may have disappointed with the meat, but he succeeds in creating a great show. 

The Romance of the Vines

Mendoza is a totally different creature. At the airport, we are distracted by posters warning against the threat of dengue fever and others posting the conversion rate for Chilean pesos. We are much closer to Santiago, Chile than we are to Buenos Aires.

The sun is hot, there are mountains in the distance, and there is white wine shampoo in the hotel bathroom. Every terrace with a little shade feels like a vacation.

We drive several hours into the Valle de Uco to visit the vineyards Salentein and O. Fournier. On the way, I fall asleep and only occasionally open my eyes, so my impressions of the drive are simple: rows of sun-baked vines on dusty earth, blue shadows of mountains far off, and jazz music.

Another day, we drive about forty-five minutes to the Alta Vista vineyard. Gwen, a tiny redhead from New Jersey, shows us the cellars and pours us four wines to taste: the Premium Torrontes 2010, the Atemporal Blend 2007, the Terroir Selection Malbec 2007, and the Single Vineyard Temis Malbec 2007. Gwen tells us that the Torrontes is known as the liar: "Sweet in your nose, dry in your mouth." I taste pear.

The single vinyard wines are elegant and we buy the Temis and the Serenade, along with several bars of Salgado chocolate. My pick is the Esmeraldas, a dark chocolate from Ecuador with 70% cacao. We walk under the portico and down the lavender-lined path, stopping to steal a few grapes.

Back in the car, I open the chocolate, breaking off small pieces. For Alta Vista and for Salgado, it's all about terroir. The philosophy of terroir holds that everything unique about one place - climate, soil, topography - is reflected in the product.

And I have to agree: Place makes a difference. I taste the tannins of the Temis and creamy, dark chocolate.

Arguing with the British

For the most part, we spend our time drinking coffee at La Biela, wandering through the barrios, and eating late dinners at parrillas (restaurants serving grilled meat). It's dreamy and warm and life is extremely good in Recoleta.

But the political undercurrents of this place do break into our consciousness. President Kirchner has again made the claim that the Falkland Islands should be returned to Argentina. My first reaction is "Good luck with that" but I guess that every Argentinian president must give it a try, at least to maintain popular support if for no other reason.

One evening, as we hurtle through the streets in a taxi, we see a large group of noisy and emotional demonstrators -- The cab driver believes that the crowd is marching to the British Embassy.

At the U2 concert in La Plata on Sunday evening, Bono takes a break between songs to rhapsodize about the similarities between the Irish and the Argentine. He says, "When we are not arguing with God, we argue with the British." I look around, waiting for the reaction. There's a moment pause as the translators hurry and then flash up the Spanish on the Jumbotron. And then -- the crowd cheers and claps.

The Last Days of March

March 30th

I involuntarily fall asleep after lunch. When I wake up a few hours later, I stumble around -- my hip flexors are stiff and sore from the overnight flight. I pull aside the gauzy white curtain, not knowing what time of day it is. The evening is here and the sky is shot through with symmetrical bands of pink, blue, and gold. The architecture is totally, utterly confusing.

I want a cocktail and a steak. Luckily, here in Buenos Aires, I can get both very easily.

March 31st

At La Biela, a well-known cafe in the Recoleta neighborhood, two metal pitchers of hot coffee and milk are brought to our table. The atmosphere can only be described as drowsy -- it's all cigarette smoke and sunlight breaking through palm fronds, while an accordionist plays on the street corner. In spite of the eighty-degree weather, the waiters wear starched white button-downs, black pants, and green aprons -- aren't they hot? Every time I blow on the cafe con leche to cool it down, my aviators fog up.

At 12:30pm, it's social hour. There's hugging and kissing and countless cafecitos (espressos) are delivered to the regulars.