EricMBloggie

Just as the asparagus risotto finished up, I seared a couple of big scallops to ride along with the creamy rice to dinner.The risotto recipe and techniques comes from Mark Bittman’s show “The Best Recipes in the World.” The video which accompanies the recipe shows Mario Batali demo-ing how to cook perfect risotto, while Bittman offers color commentary.  I’m definitely a convert to Batali’s less stirring method.  Instead of using stock, I used the water I blanched the asparagus in, which was seasoned with salt and a garlic clove.

MB featured a couple of scallop treatments on his blog the other day, which brought me to the seafood counter at DiBruno’s.  Boy, scallops sure are expensive at just under $20/lb.  Four big ones cost about $12.

I missed the mark by about 10-15%.  The asparagus tips were a little too al dente, the rice just past al dente, and the scallops a pinch underseasoned.  Next time, I think I’ll nail it.   If I can afford the scallops.


SundayWe awoke late, having been up too long partying. It was a lazy day for everyone. The entire family gathered once again for a late lunch, after which we said goodbye to Christina, Dave, Kelly, and Marina, who had a flight to catch.

The soccer game started just before dark, a small match between the USA and Argentina. Juan and I tried our best to keep up with Rudy and Consalo. The goals were the small space between the legs of a lawn chair, and a large old tree took up a chunk of the midfield. I was dead tired within minutes, but we pressed on, eventually joined by Roberto. He played for their team for some time, eventually switching to ours. There was plenty of pushing and elbowing going on to make it competitive, but not too much to get in the way of joking around. After the game, we talked at dinner table, hydrating and panting, soaked in sweat. (more…)

This is a great article from Vanity Fair about Monsanto’s genetically modified seeds, cows with added hormones, and the history of the company behind fun chemicals such as Agent Orange.   I don’t think Erin Brockovich would approve of this mega-corporation’s behavior.

Day Four
Juan is stirred awake by the family eating breakfast. I join him out there ten minutes later. Am I dead? Did I sleep? I feel like hell. We recount the stories of the night and get some big laughs. The day is a hungover blur at the beach. I read, dip in the water, avoid the sun, and nod off here and there. We are not cut out for this lifestyle. I run again with Rudy and Sophie, this time hurting my foot. Juan and I limp around the town looking for antacid. Now we look like a seventy year old gay couple.

Dinner is amazing. We go to a new place, which features asado on the parilla, similar to family meal we had the first day. They bring out little metal chafing dishes filled with chorizo, pork belly, sweet breads, and their special sweet blood sausage. This blood sausage was terrific in taste and texture, and I can’t wait to find and cook some sweet breads (thymus gland) when I get back home. The bold Malbec red wine went perfectly with the simply seasoned meat. They provided little dishes of chimichurri, a sauce made of parsley, olive oil, garlic, and other stuff I’ll look up later. I’ll make that as well, but everyone agreed that theirs had way too much garlic. A couple salads preceded another chafing dish filled with beef ribs, steak, and chicken breast. The most remarkable piece was the chicken, salted well, with the skin crunchy and the meat moist. I had a traditional Argentinian dessert called ‘Martin Fierro,’ named after a folk legend, which is a jelly made from the fruit quince and cheese. Juan likes it better with apples, and I think I’d agree. When I get back, I plan on making this with quince, slices of green apple, thin slices of good aged cheddar, and maybe some nuts. I learned some more Spanish, mostly dealing with food, and it’s getting easier to understand their conversations without translation. Juan was trying to explain something, and asked Pili, how to say ’spicy’ in Spanish. I responded with the answer, picante. I wasn’t the one who was supposed to know that. Funny stuff. Dinner ended around one in the morning.

Juan and I were too destroyed from last night, so instead of going to the casino with his mom and grandma, we went to sleep.

Day Five
We spend half of the day at the beach, then leave for Buenos Aires. On the way to the ferry, we stop at a beautiful place where you can see Punta del Este in the distance.

El Don’s driving skills are a sight to behold. I am still alive, despite almost killing multiple drivers and pedestrians. He commands the center lane of a two lane highway–right on the white stripes. Christina, Pili, and Dave sit in the back seat alternating between making fun and clutching each other for dear life. I watch other drivers swerve around and meander the lanes with only slightly more precision, and it’s no doubt the girl is dead in the accident we pass.

Thankfully, I sleep most of the way to the ferry, relying on the smidgen of battery life left in the iPod to block out the grim reality of the drive. It sounds melodramatic, but you weren’t there. Try imagine the commotion when we narrowly missed the exit, popped up on the raised lane divider, and wondered if we were going to have to stop to fix a flat. Luckily, the tire was undamaged. We had a fine ferry trip and returned to the house in Buenos Aires.

Juan and I were in no shape to go out, both of us on the brink of succumbing to small pox, dysentery, or typhoid. We called it a night, saving energy for our big weekend.

Day Six
Juan and I wake up late, overeat at breakfast, and take a remise– a sort of trusted private taxi– to Recoleta. The shops are affluent beyond our means, but we find cafes at which to stop and have coffee, tea, wine, and empanadas. The cemetery where Evita is buried is a marble apartment complex for the dead, where I’m sure the stray cats turn to Hell-Demon Lions at night. We stop by a church where Good Friday services are in progress and feel out of place among the monotonous chanting, both of us non-religious guys. The weather is perfect on our walk through the craft market, where gypsies, hippies, and artists peddle wares that I have no interest in buying. A cool breeze quickly turns into a harsh wind, kicking up dust in swirls. We turn to see the end of the world approaching. In no time, a beautiful day turns rainy, windy, blue skies giving way to mean, dark clouds. Not to worry, though. We wait under an awning, and the remise picks us up a half hour later.

Another long, gratifying night was under way, Juan and I ready again for an extended party. We drove to Puerto Madero for a tango show. The remaining seats off to the side of the main stage were obstructed by a big column, so we upgraded to the balcony seats, overlooking the besuited diners below. As always, there was various kinds of ham, cheese, and wine at arms reach.

Tango is full of emotion, at times so charged with sexuality you can feel the tension in the audience, then switching to deep romance, and stinging sadness. Tango is all of the highs and lows of love, the music tinged with sadness. The show was inspiring– I’d love to take lessons. We might, since one of the dancers gave Juan and I her card after the show. She teaches during the week. After the show, which was geared more towards tourists, veering away from tradition in favor of pizazz, we hit up a local tango spot in center city.

The club was a dance floor surrounded by tables with a bar at the back. Most of the clientèle was pushing sixty, but a few twenty and thirty somethings were cuttin’ rug as well. It’s a pleasure to watch the dancers. I wish we had this in America. Oddly, between each set of four or five songs, the dance floor would clear out and Elvis’ “Hound Dog” would play. It was always “Hound Dog.”

We left the club and walked to the main branch of Saverio, Juan’s uncle Roberto’s ice cream shop and factory. I had two scoops of peach. And another coffee, which is the only way to fuel these long nights.

Rudy drove Juan and I to find a dance club, before he took Sofia and Consalo home. We tried a couple, but they were closed, since most city dwellers were at the beach for the long weekend. We pulled up next to a store, where a couple of unsavory gentlemen stood. Consalo made a half-hearted attempt to tell Rudy to keep driving. These guys didn’t look like they were handing out Meals-on-Wheels during the weekend. One faced the store, which I think he was pissing on, and the other seemed startled that we were stopping. Rudy asked him something about the clubs. I peered at his right hand. Were those brass knuckles? I’m pretty sure, unless he had a lot of big, connected rings, that they were. Brass Knuckle Guy pointed Rudy in a direction, and we were off, joking about them for the next ten minutes. Finally, we found an active club.

The main room pulsed electronic dance music, the second and third rooms were outside, overlooking the river and played Latin stuff. Juan and I danced and talked with a group of girls for a long time. They might have thought my name was Martin “El Challenger” Fierro. Close enough. We left the club at around 4, 5, or 6. Without a watch, it’s hard to tell. A taxi brought us back home, where we struggled with the locks before finally getting to sleep.

We eat a light breakfast of cookies, bread, and cereal, and we’re off to the beach. It’s only two blocks away. We run into the water, which is colder than expected, but refreshing. What can I say, it’s the beach? They sell corn on the cob with butter and salt. The kernels are huge, juicy, and full of corn-itude. We walked for miles along the beach with Juan’s uncle Rudy, his kids, Sofia and Consalo, and Oriana, joking around the whole way. Rudy has a boundless supply of energy, and emanates warmth. He can tell a story with a single expression. The first day, when doling out the meat at the asado, he walked around asking, “Pig? Cow? Mother fucker?” Hilarious in a perfect Foreign Guy accent. He is in a perpetual good mood, which is contagious.

Lunch-Dinner is a mix of salads, ham (constantly present), cheese, tomatoes, and other odds and ends. Later on, I checked out an ice cream shop, flirted with the ice cream server in broken Spanish (where is the party where I dance and drink?) I need to learn more Spanish for proper flirtation. The ice cream couldn’t hold a candle to Saverio’s. Then I returned to the apartment. Juan was worried that I had gotten killed or drowned.

Juan, Rudy, Sofia and I went for a run around the peninsula. The 5km run was surprisingly easy to get through, and just beautiful. The moon, the water, the stars, and the perfect weather. Oh, the lame poetry that could be written!

The whole family went out to an Italian restaurant. After appetizers of bruschetta and margherita pizza came my entree of Spaghetti alla Puntanesca. It’s similar to the Chicken Provencal I made with anchovy, olives, capers (again, these were milder and bigger than Trader Joes’) and tomato sauce. This was Italian food done very well– let’s say it beat the Olive Garden (When You’re Here, You’re Upset!) They asked if I wanted it spicy, to which I said yes. ‘Spicy’ in Argentina sometimes means cracked black pepper, because it was mild as a lamb sleeping in a meadow. We were the loud ones in the restaurant once again, and dinner was a lot of fun. Roberto got the whole table going with stories about a group they call “The Breakers,” one of whom is Juan’s uncle, Pablo. He could barely get through the story, he was laughing so hard, which is quite a sight to see. He looks so serious when he’s just sitting there, and when he laughs it’s the complete opposite. His littlest daughter, Delfina, walks around the table doing what Juan and I call “her job.” She taps, hits, or pokes everyone as she walks by, around and around and around. It’s a lot of work, but she puts the hours in, and– end of the day– it’s rewarding. Kelly keeps her company. They’re bonding well, despite the language barrier.

The Long Night Out
We returned from dinner around 1am. Juan and I started preparing for the long night out. Coffee and scotch were consumed in large volumes as family members passed old photos around the group. The highlight was the surprise in Oriana’s face every time another photo of her father Roberto came out with a different girl he was dating. That’s not my mom, that isn’t either, that definitely isn’t my mom!

Juan and I rushed out into the night at 3am, laughing, enjoying the weather. We should have paid attention to where we were going. We wandered the streets, trying to find a familiar landmark. We soldiered on, finding the Italian restaurant, gaining our bearings, we ended up at a pool hall.

The locals looked at us like we were sweethearts on honeymoon. We ordered some whiskey and sat at a booth. Eventually, we struck up a conversation with the girls playing pool. I can’t really call my part “conversation” so much as a word or two and a smile. Me llamo “Challenger.” Before you know it, the Challenger had played and lost a couple of games of pool. But I lost them loudly and with much fanfare. When Juan was asked why we were yelling so much, he said, ¨Because it’s The Challenger!!” We left for the popular bars.

It must have been five in the morning by the time we got to the next bars. We sat with a table of girls who worked there, but weren’t on the clock. One of them spoke English. Their Way-Too-Drunk Co-worker Julia brought plates of chicken fingers and fries and free drinks. We talked about nothing until they were ready to leave. The night was somehow still going.

We met a very tall English-speaking Norweigan looking for cocaine. I hope he found what he was looking for. We also met a set of stoners from Montevideo, the beach town near the ferry. They were the last standing of their friends, who were scattered amongst the tables in various states of drunkenness. They were exceptionally nice, and told us all about the sexiness of the women during the peak season of Punta del Esta, which is the first two weeks of January. We greeted the sunrise with our stoner buddies, then trekked home.

We watched the sun rise over the giant hand sculpture on the beach, then went to sleep around seven in the morning.

Brunch is mostly yesterday’s dinner with some new parts and pieces. And then the ice cream shows up again. I ate too much again.

Juan and I taxi to the Buquebus, a ferry, where we meet up with the family. It’s a big boat with Amtrak style seating and parking for the cars underneath. It’s a three hour ride to Uruguay, and then two more in the car until we get to Punta del Este. El Don’s driving is erratic, like everyone else’s in the country. I try to sleep to pass the time, but that doesn’t work. I wish I had taken more of the sleeping pills. They’ve made the six hour journey to Punta del Este multiple times a year for as long as they can remember, so it’s perfectly normal. Not for us. “Hey, guy’s let jet out to the beach…in London.”They use the word ‘apartment’ to explain our accommodations, but it’s a mistranslation. Two-thirds of a floor of a high rise overlooking the beach, with five bedrooms, multiple bathrooms, and balconies is more than just an apartment. Juan and I share a little side room with enough space for the two little beds, one of which rolls out from under the other, and our bags.

Time to go out to dinner! The Yacht Club Restaurant is empty save for a couple at a nearby table. It isn’t long before appetizers start rolling out: fried fish nuggets, fried calamari, octopus sauteed in butter, amazingly fresh langoustines, bread & butter, red wine, another calamari dish all precede the Fish with Brown Butter and Capers. The fish is a fresh and haddock-like, and the capers are bigger than the ones we’re used to and mild. The dinner is filled with laughter and a mix of languages. I gain a nickname: Challenger. I can eat and eat until I explode. Get it? Juan is Columbia. We must be bothering the couple at the table next to us, because we’re a loud bunch. I can’t understand the story Roberto is telling about Juan’s uncle Pablo, but watching him crack up trying to tell it is enough to make me burst out laughing. There is plenty of red wine and a ridiculous amount of food. I feel at home with Juan’s family, and we’re really starting to get to know each other. Sandra, Roberto’s wife, helps me decode the menu. Their youngest kids, Delfina and Marlena are too young for English, but I’m counting on funny faces and smiles to win them over. It’s slowly working. Their oldest daughter, Orianna, is 12. She knows a little bit of English, but she’s shy, and content to talk with Sofia. I don’t expect a twelve year old girl to have much to say to me anyways. I don’t keep up on ‘Hannah Montana.’ Is that what they watch? I’m not sure.

After the meal, we go out to the bars with Juan’s eighteen year old cousin, Sophia. She has studied English for about nine years, so I can switch back to my native tongue. It’s relaxing. Or maybe it’s the glass of whiskey that’s relaxing. Both the Irish pub and the place with the jazz players are pretty dead. The bartender tells me things get busy around three in the morning. We turn in at about 2:45am. The party hasn’t even started yet, but we’re beat from a day of traveling. Tomorrow, we say, we’re not coming home until it’s light out.