I Finally Understand Why My Grandad Insists on Eating Steak and Potatoes.

Here are some pictures! Yay! From my trip to San Telmo! Yay!

San Telmo is a grungier (marginally) part of the city whose low rent attracts backpackers, foreigners and young people. It is most famous for the transvestites that inhabit its parks at night and its Sunday antique/whatever market. I got pictures of one of those things.




Most of the Market runs up and around this street called la Defensa. There are some portions where it is indoors. This is the most picturesque, says me.

The structure is way old, from the late 1700s, I think. Could be earlier. Formerly a residence, now a little market. There was a couple tango shops and some leather stores. One of which was selling a large orange and black number. Where they found the orange cow, I dunno.


It was raining that day, so all my photos will be plagued by ugly skies and blurs resulting from shutter-speeds that are too long. But you all demanded photos, therefore, I delivered.



Here is a blurry picture of shoes, for my sister, and others who are interested in such things.

I asked about shoes in my size. To his credit, when the guy heard my size, he didn't shout, whistle or do anything else that I've come to expect of shoe service people.

I actually get my satisfaction when they try to suppress the reaction. His eyebrows shot up, for just a a millisecond, and his mouth opened slightly. There may have been a slight rock to his body.

Apparently, in Argentine, I am a 47.

He said, though, there is a store in town where I can get such things, he gave me a tango magazine with an advertisement in it. More shoe adventures at a later date.


This is a picture of clothing.

It would have been even cooler looking if the day weren't so blah.

At any rate, all of the clothing there seemed indigenous/gaucho inspired and nothing that I would have ever worn in public.




Such as in the following picture.







As you can see, extremely furry. It is my opinion that clothing of this sort went out of style sometime in the late neolithic.

Of course, I know nothing about fashion, does anyone want an entire sheep coat? I'll go back and get you one.

I did see a pretty sweet store that sold these pinstriped purple pants. I am unsure if it was for males, though. I have that problem a lot here.

No picture of that though, my camera had died by that point.





Here are the antiques, or antee-cues as my dad would say. These look like junk, and they probably are, but other places sold some extremely expensive junk. I was after some lights and some pocket watches that were supposed to go for several thousand pesos.

Seeing how sweet looking some of these lighters from the 30's and 40's were makes me wonder if my granddad owns such a thing. Apparently, such things fetch a pretty penny, too.

Not pictured, but common, old colorful seltzer bottles. I have some pictures, but they're inexcusably bad. I'll be back there some sunnier day along with a camera with batteries.

Oh, ok, I'll do it anyway. Here.

















Okay, so, I said something about a steak dinner. Here is the place that fed me gratuitously

I will take whoever comes to visit me to this place.

It happened like this:

I stomped around looking for this place with my lonely planet book. After much walking away from the center of the market, I found it.

I entered, took note of the totally acceptable decor and sat down. Someplace, my waiter confirmed that I was "solito" which is like solo, but with a diminutive suffix.

I looked over the menu, bewildered by a variety of non-steak options. I had the impression that a parrilla would have basically only steak. That is the wrong impression.

The waiter came back, asked if I was having trouble deciphering the menu. I told him that I was doing okay reading it, but I just wanted a mix of as many different types of steak as possible.

He asked me a few questions which I answered in ways that proved both my hungry and desire to try variety. This is the point where my waiter's personality emerged. He said to me "Dejalo en mis manos" leave it in my hands.

It was a good place to leave it. He passionately suggested to me the various options of beef and what he would select and why. He asked me if I wanted it prepared X which meant well done, or jugoso which literally means juicy. He upturned his hands and rubbed his thumbs to his fingertips in that distinctly foody/Italian way.

This guy's waiter-force crossed language and cultural barriers. Jessica would have enjoyed this. He had a smoky/rich baritone voice that comes straight from Argentine TV advertisements for chocolate.

He asked me what I wanted to drink he suggested vino. I said that I was not a big fan (I used the word aficionado, I think he took this to mean connoisseur) of wine but that I would like to try so Malbec, something for which Argentina is known. I asked him if it was possible to buy just a cup. Through a little extra communication, he expressed to me that it as not possible, but that he would do it anyway.

He then fetched an enormous glass, slightly smaller than my head. I assumed that this was one of those huge glasses that was filled only slightly in order to demonstrate their fanciness. I was mistaken. I think what actually happened is that I bought half a bottle of wine.

The meal began. A delicious and immense salad composed entirely of some delicious green leaf covered with a half-pound of cheese and a deluge of balsamic vinegar.

Then came the meat and potatoes. I didn't remember ordering potatoes. It didn't matter, they were delicious.

Ah, but this steak. It was truly exquisite. I cut a piece, quite tender, though not the spoon slice-able material I'd heard of. It's flavor is much lighter than any steak I've had in memory. Also, a quantity unheard of. Something like 4 steaks were on my plate.

Its was complemented with these two sauces on a separate plate. One, a mixture of cut onions and peppers a lot like mexican salsa without the spicy kick, the other a much finer mix of small grainy bits.

The wine? I tried all that wine-tasting fanciness with the swishing it about and breathing inward in order to excite the flavor. It was, as I began, totally drinkable and largely devoid of nasty alcohol taste. However, the little sips I was doing were not diminishing the quantity of libation in my goblet. By the end of the steak, I was still not near done and I noticed that the glass got wider as it went. It became rather a challenge to drink the stuff, which was a little more powerful than the grape juice rating I'd given it before.

Retrospectively, I may have been a sheet or two to the wind, remembering a certain way that the visual world seemed to lag behind my head as it turned. I remember being grateful of the Argentine habit of letting you sit for great lengths between course. I was in no hurry to move or eat more. I reiterate, it was a lot of wine.

I mopped up the remnants of the steak with the bread and the waiter returned joking "Oh you didn't like it" he then asked about dessert. Something in me said my said no, but my mouth said yes. Tiramisu with ice cream and strawberries. It too was gigantic. And contained another serving of alcohol? Poor me.

So there is my foody epic along with some pictures. You may commence to being envious now.