Buenos Aires

For a city I have inhabited for the last eleven weeks, I have had curiously little to say about Buenos Aires. Maybe that's because I can't quite make up my mind. I will atone for that now by saying everything there is to say, and more, in one post....

It is a city of sharp contrasts. At times European in character and appearance, yet defiantly South American too. Lavish and luxuriant, but poor and destitute. Beautiful on one hand, ugly on the other. Like all big cities, it feels crowded and polluted. People don't look that happy, though if you manage to engage with them you normally find that they are. Their character reveals itself in different ways.

Ten years ago, the Argentine Peso and the US Dollar were worth the same. Now they're about 4 to 1. In the economic crisis of the 90s and early 2000s, Argentineans had their life savings devalued by around 80%. In the heart of the crisis, the streets were full of cartoneros - guys pushing big wheeled carts around, sifting through rubbish looking for anything recyclable or reusable. There are still plenty of them about.

On every subway train, someone is selling something. They make their sales pitch to the whole carriage, then walk up and down leaving their wares on people's laps, before collecting them again, and hopefully making the odd sale. Can you imagine this in London? It's impossible. Here, no one would dream of stealing from someone trying to make a living in this way.

You can't walk two blocks without being offered a pair of socks. Or having an extensive range of bootlegged DVDs to peruse. Or having a splat tomato demonstrated to you, or tripping over a couple of hundred mate gourds, fake Ray-Bans or mobile phone covers. But no one is really trying to rip you off - just selling something for a fair price.

Professional dog walking is a mainstream industry

There's still daylight robbery of course, but it's perpetrated less by pickpockets or muggers as by the swanky boutiques and hotels of Recoleta and Palermo. Across the railway lines from Recoleta, where top European brands peddle their overpriced luxury goods whilst mothers and babies beg outside, is villa 31, what we might call a shantytown.

There are plenty of villas miserias (literally miserable towns) dotted around the city. Villa 31 is the most central, right next to the main Retiro bus station. Little brick rooms are stacked up on top of one another, and look like shoeboxes made of lego. It's a good job the Aires are Buenos, because they look like they could blow away at any minute. The streets are dirty and dusty. That two blocks away tourists are forking out hundreds of dollars for Gucci handbags is a lost irony.

One of the poorest central neighbourhoods is La Boca - the mouth of the river. Tourists flood down here to the caminito - a paved street crammed with bars and third rate restaurants - to photograph the colourful houses and watch tango displays. There's proper history here of course - the area was home to Italian immigrants, who decorated their homes with paint left over from their boats. Sadly, it just feels like a tourist trap now. A ring of police make sure you don't get mugged for two blocks, while the festering poverty of the rest of the area is left to its own devices beyond. I still managed to take this picture just to prove that I had actually been to Buenos Aires.

El caminito, La Boca

A little further north from La Boca is Puerto Madero, Buenos Aires' newest and most modern barrio. Swanky restaurants line the old dock, and beyond, glitzy high-rise apartment blocks and hotels reach for the sky. The architecture is fantastic - modern, dynamic and inspiring. It is the aspirational side of the city, and a glimpse of what it is capable of. Walk through all of that and you hit the costanera, where the carritas flog choripan to the normal people. I like it along here - in the shadows of the high-rises, a little bit of the real Buenos Aires.

Puerto Madero Hilton

High-rise

Carritas de la costanera

Downtown is pretty snide. In the way that Oxford Circus to Tottenham Court Road is pretty snide. Away from the tourists, money changers, cheap tat shops and bogus electrical retailers, there are a few nice areas.

Tourists - you have been warned

Plaza de Mayo is the centre of town, and home of permanent protesters and war veterans. During the dirty war the famous madres de plaza de mayo congregated here to protest against the disappearance of their sons under the military government. Their symbol of a white shoal is painted all over the ground in tribute to their remarkable courage.

Plaza de mayo

A few blocks south of the centre is San Telmo, my favourite neighbourhood. The narrow cobbled streets still bear the remnants of the old tram tracks. Crumbling buildings, traditional cafes and antique shops sit side by side. It was, and still is, one of the poorest barrios, but its cultural wealth draws in the tourists. It has a slightly edgy, real feel to it. Graffiti and murals hang off every wall. It's the kind of place where novels are set. And written.

San Telmo

Every Sunday San Telmo throbs with a huge feria, or street market. The usual rubbish nestles in amongst antiques, paintings, photographs, handmade toys and clothes, whilst the tourists rub shoulders with the porteños. Impromptu tango shows erupt all over the place, kids display their accordion playing skills and little old men break hearts with their gentle guitar strumming.

Other parts of town, most notably Palermo, where I have been living, feel a lot more European. At its best, the city can be very stylish - a bookstore in an old theatre, a giant flower sculpture with petals that open and close with the light. Colourful, wild buses that never quite go where you expect them to. The streets buzz with activity, not to mention traffic. At its worst it can be filthy, stinking and claustrophobic.

El Ateneo

Floralis Genérica

Colectivo

In amongst all the mayhem, dog turds and contradictions, are a few little sanctuaries. They mostly take the form of cafes, where one can while away the hours sipping occasionally bearable coffee and watching the world go by. It's hard to imagine the place without them, and you kind of know the other people are in there for the same reason; to take refuge.

Towards the end of the 15-hour flight from London, the Captain announced that we would shortly be arriving in "Beautiful Buenos Aires." At times, I can see his point, at others, less so. Part of the city's appeal is this paradox - you need to constantly shift your perspective in order to see it as a whole. If you stay still, it will grow old on you quickly and lose its charm. Keep moving then - for me that means leaving of course. Tomorrow. Like all good things in life that we take for granted, I know I'm going to miss it once it's gone.

Busy doing nothing

My little trip to Uruguay was great fun. I love it there. Reading some other travel blogs, I stumbled across a couple who had taken a similar route to me, and they were shit canning the place because "there wasn't anything to do." Why do people travel? In search of things to do, or something more? I didn't "do" a great deal in Uruguay. I went to one museum. I walked a lot, took a lot of pictures. Drank coffee, ate, a lot. Slept. Want stuff to do? - go somewhere else. I hear Disneyland Paris is nice this time of year. You like museums? Galleries? Theatre? Pubs, bars? Save yourself the airfare - Britain is full of them.

Uruguay's not. It's full of quiet little towns, that are full of quiet, dignified people going about their daily lives. There are no outstanding natural features, historic monuments or ruins. If you need any of those things, or other distractions, then it's probably not for you.

Since my trip was a training exercise in travelling, what did I learn? I learnt that ATM cards, when they don't work, are totally worthless compared to good old fashioned US Dollars. I learnt that cockroaches are a non-lethal hazard to be expected in the coming months. I learnt that bus travel isn't actually that bad, but that they crank the aircon up so you need hundreds of layers despite the fact that it is blisteringly hot outside. I learnt that I actually quite like moving about. What others might be bold enough to call travelling.

The journey back last Friday was a long one with a lot of legs. The most interesting of them was the catamaran across the Tigre delta. Most interesting of that, other than the screaming little brats that filled the top deck, was the approach to Tigre, where the waters are dotted with boats in various stages of decay, disrepair and submersion.

It's pretty funny watching the toffs of Buenos Aires dodging these old shipwrecks in their speed boats. In fact it neatly sums up a lot of the contrasts and contradictions of the city. Other places, they might try and clear the old stuff out of the way. Not here - they work around it. They let nature take its course. The city, the landscape or - in this case - the river, will eventually assimilate the things that are dying in its midst. Meanwhile life goes on around. Me - I'm heading home, to spend one more week "doing" nothing, before home moves on once more.

Polo - hardest game in the world

A couple of years back, in the middle of my efforts to extract myself from my bookmaking business, I made a list of things I was going to do with the time I was buying. I've been working my way through it slowly enough. Some things on it will never happen, like running a marathon. Riding a horse was languishing near the never gonna happen pile too, until Sunday.

My friends Will and Katie have been in town for the last week, and they wanted a polo lesson. I've never ridden a horse before in my life. But worse than this, I am an incurable chicken. I'm afraid of getting on a horse. Why wouldn't I be? I spent eight years watching them race around fields, coldly calculating what they were likely to do, and more often than not watching them do the exact opposite. If you're gambling, you can mitigate these irregularities by choosing when to bet, and how much. If you're sitting on the bastard's back when he changes his mind....well. No thanks. And with a polo mallet in one hand? Don't make me laugh.

The pros make it look easy. Which it is. Not.

Early signs are encouraging. Fernando, our instructor, is 34 and only learnt to ride at 30. We watch some pros practice for a while, then saddle up. Not helped by the 24 hour old hangover that is still lingering around, I haul my sorry ass onto the back of Gran Oso, my mount for the afternoon. Gran Oso, as in Big Bear. After alarmingly brief instruction on how to control a horse, we are walking the length of the field. Old Gran Oso is pretty languid. Big Bear - like Gentle Ben, I guess? The others walk on ahead, Grand Oso and I take things steady. I decide he needs to get on with it, but the whip, my heels, and my Spanish fail to elicit a response.

Team Polo Sport

At the end of the field, we stop for further tuition. We are all calm and still. Katie has handled a horse before, no dramas there. Sabrina too, though she looks a little higher up and her creature keeps eating grass in defiance. I'm not sure about the semantics, but presumably the difference between a pony and a horse is principally one concerning height. Will is a big lad, his mount (pony?) less so. In fact I think he may be scratching the turf with his heels.

Will atop his remarkable shrunken horse

After more walking, Gran Oso and I begin to form a bit of a bond. He's still ignoring the whip though, so old Fernando gives him a few cracks to bring him into a trot. Now I know why it's called a trot. I shit myself with fear. We must be doing all of five miles an hour, but I am convinced he is either going to bolt, rear or maybe I will just crush my balls on the saddle. I yank the reigns and the big bugger slows down in his own time.

Man and beast in perfect harmony

After a brief interval to assess the damage and begin understanding why John Wayne walked the way he did, I remount, polo mallet in hand. Since I was using my right hand to cling on for dear life before, things are now a lot more interesting. Firstly, Gran Oso stops listening to me. The little shit. We are standing, perfectly still, listening to Fernando explaining how to hit the ball (unlikely) when he decides to start reversing. I push his neck. He backs up a little more. Oso, tranquilo.

Fernando is slightly irritated by my interruption. Disculpa. The fucker's off again. He won't stay still. ¡Oso! ¡Para! Left. Right. Doesn't matter. He's just not interested. I study him for a moment. I think he has some kind of skin complaint you know. There are bits of it flaking off his neck, the poor guy. It is round about this time that Sabrina informs me that his name may actually be Granoso and not Gran Oso. Granoso means spotty. But not in a nice sense - as in acne ridden. Great. Not so much Gentle Ben as the spotty little brat who used to feed him.

Katie in 'action'



Sabri looking every inch the professional

Granoso perseveres with the theme of completely ignoring my commands. At one point, he decides we need to pop back to the farm for something, and I reluctantly follow. Fernando implores me to assert my authority but I am completely powerless. The rest of the afternoon passes in a haze of disobedience, punctuated only by my frustrated pleas. ¿Qué pasa? ¡Oso! ¿Qué es tu problema? Every ¡Vamos! and kick of the heel earns the old cold shoulder, and eventually I give up. It later transpires that I have been calling him cabello (the name of my old street - meaning hair) instead of caballo (horse) for most of the afternoon. I can only assume that this is motivating his defiance.

Granoso and I bossing the game from the middle

The 'match' that crowns the afternoon is a laughable affair. Katie has the riding skills but hasn't grasped the rules, so keeps crossing the line of the ball. Will rides rather like you might imagine a gorilla would ride a cat, but his ball skills are good, thanks mainly to the fact that he is only about eighteen inches off the ground. Sabrina can ride, but can't reach the ground, unless her horse has planted himself to it in order to eat more grass, which happens fairly regularly. Old crater face and I are playing a sort of holding role - I hold his reins; he holds me in contempt. We flirt our way around a wide circumference of the action with little purpose, occasionally catching sight of the ball.

Eventually, as the shadows lengthen and the buttock muscles contract, we sidle our way back to the ranch. The horses get hosed down and we sip a cerzeva whilst comparing insect bites, muscle cramps and exaggerating our achievements. I quietly reflect upon another tick beside the list. Next time I think I'll just have horse riding lessons. I'm sure the mallet was the root of the problem - interfering with the primeval signals Gran Oso and I were sending one another. I mean, why confuse the issue? And polo? It doesn't get any more bourgeoise than that does it? Hardly my style at all. Nope. Not my bag. Tried it - yeah, it was fun, with a decent horse, I could have been useful. How long's a marathon these days? Still just the twenty six is it? Oh, go on then, might as well give it a....

Nuestros Caballos

Polo is a big deal in Argentina. A little too late we realised we'd missed the chance to watch a proper polo match as part of a week long celebration of Argentine horses in town. We settled for second best and went to the Nuestros Cabellos show in Palermo to watch some arena polo and remind ourselves what horse shit smells like.

They kept punting the ball out of the arena, and the confined space seemed to severely restrict the movement of the game, not that I know anything about polo. Instead I sneaked off to take some pictures that didn't require four digits of ISO.

Milonga

I'm sure there are a lot of people who come to Argentina, watch glitzy tango shows, and go home happy. I'd probably be one of them. Except after the life-changing meal at Cabaña Las Lilas, we went to a Milonga at Confitería Ideal.

Unlike the tourist shows that charge 200 pesos to watch accomplished dancers flaunt their moves, a milonga is an open floor for people to come along and dance. We don't partake, because we can't tango. Those that do, can. But they are not experts or professionals, just normal people.

I quickly realise something about Argentine tango. It is etched on the faces. The odd couples. Tall and short, fat and thin, young and old. Straight and crooked, quick footed and infirm. They clutch one another tightly, their expressions a fusion of thoughtless concentration and unparalleled joy. It's etched on mine too now, and it's not just the gin and tonic. There is just something beautiful going on.

They wear all sorts of clothes. Some are smart little old men in their Sunday best, another is in his AC Milan tracksuit. I watch him leave the dancefloor and he can't actually walk properly. But it doesn't stop him from dancing, because this is not physical. It is not two bodies walking together embraced and entwined. It is two people. And judging by some of them, they've been doing it together for a very long time.

For a few short intervals, the floor clears and we are treated to a couple of professional dancers. They are mesmerisingly good. The graceful economy of their steps, their embrace. The feet kick up between the legs and they turn and move and you don't even hear the music, just see it. It's almost as though the most beautiful thing is what is not happening, and it starts me thinking.

Were our lives a dance, what would they look like? A sweeping elegant tango in a glitzy tourist trap? A slow but loving shuffle of an old couple who have danced together for sixty years? Or a lurching drunk hamming up a moonwalk at his best friend's wedding? Learn to tango, and I might just learn to live a little better too.

Cabaña las Lilas

So many times on this trip have I walked into a restaurant with a tingle of anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, I am about to experience something special. Getting out of the cab I turned to Jon and said I had a good feeling. I instantly regretted doing so. I'd said, or thought it, too many times. I needn't have worried.

Cabaña Las Lilas is a big place. A lot of tables, a lot of waiters. A plate arrives with assorted hors d'oeuvres. Bread too. A little plate between two of assorted savouries to accompany the cup of excellent vegetable soup. I barely noticed these things arrive, the waiters floated around the table without ever really disturbing us. When the hors d'oeuvres were finished, another plate appeared in their place.

We shared an entrada of mollejas (sweetbreads). They were the finest I have eaten in Buenos Aires, and I have eaten a lot. What more can you say? Our mains followed; a rib of beef, kobe ojo de bife (ribeye) and suckling pig. They were all exceptionally good. We needed something more, so topped up with kobe bife de chorizo (sirloin). If you wanted to be especially critical, it might have been a little over salted. But really, even if it was, it couldn't detract from the fact that it was unbelievably juicy, tender and dripping with flavour. Delectable. Maybe that's what happens when you have your own private ranch to supply your meat.

We followed all this up with assorted desserts. A plate of baked fruits was the highlight. I felt I needed something more. A little palette cleanser. Maybe a gin and tonic? A glass of something bubbly perhaps? (Earning a reprimand from Marco for wanting anything acidic). Then I realised what I wanted. Of all the drinks in the world, surely nothing could crown this meal more than a grappa. We ask the waiter if they have any. He explains that they are just about to bring us grappa and limoncello. Every table gets it after their meal. I fight back the tears. This place is heaven.

Food is one thing. Service is another. Throughout the meal, we were looked after impeccably, but without intrusion. At one point, I watched the head waiter walk past our table. He discreetly scanned us as we ate. In how many restaurants would he have stopped and asked us if everything was ok? Nearly all of them. What did he do? He walked right on by. He knew he didn't need to ask.

With coffee came a tray of petit fours. When one of them ran out and we asked for more, another tray, twice the size, arrived in its place. Of course after so many things to please the soul, the coffee couldn't possibly hold up its end of the bargain, and especially not in a town where the standard is so low. But it did. The best coffee I've had in Buenos Aires, to add to the best everything else.

Maybe that's it now - the search is over. I've found a restaurant I truly, truly love, right here. The kind of place that will lift you effortlessly from the deepest depression just by the very thought of dining there. Not that I need lifting anymore.

El Superclasico

Football is kind of a big deal round here. And the biggest deal of all is Boca Juniors v River Plate - possibly the biggest game in club football and No 1 on the Observer's list of sporting events to see before you die.

Tickets are hard to come by for gringos, and much is made of the mortal danger you are in if you attempt to go on your own. Tours are organised with tickets changing hands for a 2000% mark up. If you want to go, you have no choice. And I want to go.

It's been a nice sunny week in Buenos Aires and I've been out and about most days. It hadn't even occurred to me that it might rain yesterday, but rain it did. I popped back for an extra cotton jacket to throw over my shorts and t-shirt, it was raining that much. A raincoat would have been a better idea.

There's a conspicuous band of assorted gringos waiting for the bus outside McDonalds, and we chat about football on our way to the game. The rain hammers on the windows. We get out about five blocks from La Bombanera, Boca's colourful stadium that resembles a stack of orange crates. The queue isn't moving, and the rain isn't stopping. Guys are selling bin bags for ten pesos, an even bigger mark up than the tickets. I have to buy one of these too. After about an hour of this, we finally come within range of the stadium itself.

I say within range of the stadium, I mean within range of the River fans. From the top of the stands they are spitting and throwing piss onto the assembled masses. Worse thing is, I decided a few weeks ago that River would be my equipo in Argentina. It would be pointless telling them that now. Mercifully I avoid the piss, and any spit is washed away instantly by the lashing rain.

We're too late for a decent spot in the stands, so armed with a couple of overpriced choripanes we loiter about at the back. We can see the pitch, and soak up the atmosphere. We're covered from the rain, have wrung out our clothes and are out of sight of the piss chuckers. A team of guys spend the hour before kick off re-painting the white lines. Their efforts are in vain as the rain washes them away within minutes. They press on regardless.

The atmosphere when the teams come out is electric. Chanting, stamping, singing, balloon waving, paper throwing, flare lighting madness. The stands above are shaking and moving a few feet or so as the fans jump and sing. I even throw a few bits of paper myself and try to work out what tense they are singing in. I think it's the imperative. I hear the word puta a lot.

The pitch is a joke; completely waterlogged. The referee agrees and stops the 'match' after ten minutes. Great.

Cocina Mediterránea

My first course at Gato Dumas, Tartas, Pizzas y Empanadas, was good fun, and we were making authentic Argentinian food. But the teaching wasn’t especially sophisticated, and I couldn’t understand a bloody thing. I didn’t really come to Argentina to learn about Mediterranean food, but last week, that’s what I had.

There were only five of us in the class, and in a different kitchen, we were right in front of the action. Taking the class was Ezequiel - a very good chef and an excellent teacher. He speaks a bit of English, but more importantly speaks clearly, so I could understand most of what he said.

Ezequiel

Each day we cook three courses, and each plate is very carefully thought out and balanced. Day one, we make filo vegetable rolls with balsamic reduction, papardelle with pancetta and chocolate fondant. The filo pastel is really good, as is the fondant, though the recipe doesn’t top the Gordon Ramsey one from the F-Word that I’ve always used.

Pastel de espinaca, feta y almendras

On Tuesday we knocked up Moussaka. I have no hesitation is saying it is the best moussaka I have ever tasted. Carefully arranged in a terracotta dish lined with the thinnest slices of aubergine, it is deliciously moist and succulent. For dessert we make baklava, one of my favourite things in the world. We also knock up a pretty good dish of chicken couscous.

Pechuga de ave con cous cous de frutos secos

My teammates and I

Next up, a rocket salad with goat's cheese. To follow, grilled tuna, but we use bonito (also Spanish for ‘cute’) instead. It’s served with confit fennel, creamy potato cake and garnished with tapenade and saffron infused oil. For dessert we have fruit kebabs with an awesome marsala foam.

Ensalada de rucola con queso de cabra

Bonito grillado con tapenade y torta de papas

Brochette de frutas con espuma de Marsala

Lastly, fried mozzarella, lamb chops and citrus fruits with honey and caramel shards. A great lesson in balancing dishes, plates and presentation. The lamb (undercooked for my liking) is paired with a cabbage and pancetta and a beautiful stuffed tomato. There's nothing too crazy about the other dishes - the cheese needed plenty of salsa, and the dessert spoke for itself.

Queso frito con salsa pomodoro

Costillas de cerdero

Cítricos con miel con sorbete de límon

I certainly didn't come to Argentina to learn about Mediterranean food, but it turned out to be a great reminder that you can learn a lot with great recipes and a good teacher, anywhere in the world. It was nice back in a kitchen, and a timely reminder of what my intentions were for the months ahead. I think I’d said something about learning how to cook…