Your first is NOT always the best!
Whoever knew so much shit could go down at a dinner party?
We go to one dinner party and next thing we know we're all using, we have dark suspicions about our neighbour and his love life, and the legendary Beast of Apartment 59 has taken on mythological proportions in our minds.
On Saturday Joe (Leo) (whoever) the landlord invited us to his apartment for a dinner party. Another guy he rents a place to, an elderly chap from Manchester, was going back to the Green and Pleasant Lands for a few weeks and the dinner party was a little chau to him.
We had no idea who would be going or what language would be spoken or really what we were getting ourselves in to, which was exactly why we were looking forward to it. I was even prepared to be served meat - the Dinner Club are excellent about ensuring that I have vegetarian dishes at dinner parties, but as this was a man I'd spoken to for all of ten minutes in my entire life, I didn't really feel comfortable demanding he create an entire special dish for me, the lone vegetarian in all of Argentina. Fortunately my days of attending fancy functions as a reporter had left me with a few tricks up my sleeve, including the old cut-the-meat-up-and-move-it-around-your-plate-so-it-looks-like-you-ate trick, which I fully intended to employ that night.
We arrived, we sat, we ate olives and eggplants (well, Rebecca and I chowed down on them, everyone else seemed to be watching us in a mild kind of horror). The other guests included Joe's business partner and best friend since he was ten, Jorge, and Jorge's wife, Voihweaovinawe (I didn't actually catch her name properly and none of us can remember it now), and The Chap from Manchester. Joe's cat, Homi (sp?) watched us quietly while his two parakeets screeched from the corner. Florencia, we learned, had been banished to the dog-sitter's for the evening. "She's not good at dinner parties," Joe explained carefully as Jorge snickered. By the end of the night enough stories of Florencia's - um - energy - had been told that we completely understood Joe's reservations at having her present. (The story of her causing Police cars and a roadblock to be set up outside his dear little mother's house was my favourite, but I won't go into all that now.)
Conversation flowed between Spanish and English (and a few awkward silences), with Rebecca and I simultaneously delighted (at how much we could understand them saying) and alarmed (at how we immediately turned into Mentally Challenged People every time we opened our mouths). Impressively Robyn was also able to follow along with much of the Spanish.
In Spanish they explained to us that we would be eating "lentajes". Lentils?? I thought. It's too good to be true. There's no way there's no meat involved here. Be careful, I thought, the lentils might have meat in them. "Be careful, I think the lentils might have meat in them!" Rebecca whispered to me. "Thanks!" I whispered back.
Sure enough, it was a lentil STEW. Complete with large chunks of dead animal swirled around in it. I stared down at it in masked horror. Blast! My plans had been foiled! I would have to wing it ... Gingerly, I scooped a spoonful of what I hoped was pure lentils and started chewing - just in time for Jorge to ask, in Spanish, "Is there rabbit in this one?"
Please tell me I translated that wrong, please tell me I translated that wrong, I thought desperately ... No no, I had it right. Fortunately Joe replied no, but I was already turning purple from trying not to choke. Thank god I'd made such a pig of myself earlier with the olives and eggplant, I thought. It was time to employ Vegetarian Faced with Meat Dish Tactic No. 2: make a show of eating, eat as much as you can, and then announce that you must've pigged out too much on the appetisers and can't eat another bite. You sacrifice your dignity by reminding strangers of what a cerdita you are, but at least you don't have to eat the flesh.
As I was waging my own little war on the lentajes (which everyone else was devouring with mucho gusto), laughing at stories of Florencia (I can't wait to see this dog again, she's such a monster) the doorbell rang. Enter Gepetto (not his real name, it's a long story), a kid who looked to be around our age and was warmly welcomed by the Chap from Manchester (who is in Buenos Aires on his retirment pension, has an earring, and practically ran to the door to let Gepetto in before monopolising conversation with him the entire night).
I could practically see the wheels in Rebecca's head turning (Robyn was still taking care of her lentils). I was thinking the exact same thing. Who exactly is this kid and what exactly is his relationship with The Chap, who I had already pegged in my mind as one who was still trying to relive his youth?
It may be one of those unsolved mysteries, like the question of Joe's sexuality (just because you live alone and talk to your pets does NOT mean you are gay! Right?)
But I digress. Next thing we knew, Joe was writing down the types of ice creams we like. To our feigned horror (at least, I was feigning it, really it was the best idea I'd ever heard) he announced we were ordering ice cream.
But not from Plums, the heladeria we had been attending faithfully every night (to the point where it was just getting awkward with the geeky boys on the late shift). They were horrified when we told them we've been going to Plums. Apparently Cabanna Tuyu (the heladeria next door) is light-years better.
Robyn and I, convinced that our first (the only one we'd ever had) would always be the best, remained skeptical. Rebecca, on the other hand, had been preaching to us for several days that, like with other things, the first heladeria does always seem good - but that you have no idea how good it can get until you explore other options.
Sure enough, Robyn and I took one taste of Tuyu's wares (which, by the way, you can get delivered, oh the sinful possibilities) and - well. Let's just say it was a good thing we were already sitting down.
It was after 1am by the time we left, stuffed full of ice cream, completely in love with Jorge and Voiwehaogienwa (and their one year old baby, Martin, who Jorge proudly showed off pictures of and whose middle name is Leonardo - after Joe! So cute!), still wondering about Gepetto and the Chap, cursing the fact that we were now addictied to Tuyu (it was like switching from sniffing glue to straight heroin), and with me clutching a little mate that Jorge had presented me with - at least, we THINK he said I could keep it.
We had so much fun that we're inviting them for dinner next week sometime. Any suggestions on what we can make them?
We go to one dinner party and next thing we know we're all using, we have dark suspicions about our neighbour and his love life, and the legendary Beast of Apartment 59 has taken on mythological proportions in our minds.
On Saturday Joe (Leo) (whoever) the landlord invited us to his apartment for a dinner party. Another guy he rents a place to, an elderly chap from Manchester, was going back to the Green and Pleasant Lands for a few weeks and the dinner party was a little chau to him.
We had no idea who would be going or what language would be spoken or really what we were getting ourselves in to, which was exactly why we were looking forward to it. I was even prepared to be served meat - the Dinner Club are excellent about ensuring that I have vegetarian dishes at dinner parties, but as this was a man I'd spoken to for all of ten minutes in my entire life, I didn't really feel comfortable demanding he create an entire special dish for me, the lone vegetarian in all of Argentina. Fortunately my days of attending fancy functions as a reporter had left me with a few tricks up my sleeve, including the old cut-the-meat-up-and-move-it-around-your-plate-so-it-looks-like-you-ate trick, which I fully intended to employ that night.
We arrived, we sat, we ate olives and eggplants (well, Rebecca and I chowed down on them, everyone else seemed to be watching us in a mild kind of horror). The other guests included Joe's business partner and best friend since he was ten, Jorge, and Jorge's wife, Voihweaovinawe (I didn't actually catch her name properly and none of us can remember it now), and The Chap from Manchester. Joe's cat, Homi (sp?) watched us quietly while his two parakeets screeched from the corner. Florencia, we learned, had been banished to the dog-sitter's for the evening. "She's not good at dinner parties," Joe explained carefully as Jorge snickered. By the end of the night enough stories of Florencia's - um - energy - had been told that we completely understood Joe's reservations at having her present. (The story of her causing Police cars and a roadblock to be set up outside his dear little mother's house was my favourite, but I won't go into all that now.)
Conversation flowed between Spanish and English (and a few awkward silences), with Rebecca and I simultaneously delighted (at how much we could understand them saying) and alarmed (at how we immediately turned into Mentally Challenged People every time we opened our mouths). Impressively Robyn was also able to follow along with much of the Spanish.
In Spanish they explained to us that we would be eating "lentajes". Lentils?? I thought. It's too good to be true. There's no way there's no meat involved here. Be careful, I thought, the lentils might have meat in them. "Be careful, I think the lentils might have meat in them!" Rebecca whispered to me. "Thanks!" I whispered back.
Sure enough, it was a lentil STEW. Complete with large chunks of dead animal swirled around in it. I stared down at it in masked horror. Blast! My plans had been foiled! I would have to wing it ... Gingerly, I scooped a spoonful of what I hoped was pure lentils and started chewing - just in time for Jorge to ask, in Spanish, "Is there rabbit in this one?"
Please tell me I translated that wrong, please tell me I translated that wrong, I thought desperately ... No no, I had it right. Fortunately Joe replied no, but I was already turning purple from trying not to choke. Thank god I'd made such a pig of myself earlier with the olives and eggplant, I thought. It was time to employ Vegetarian Faced with Meat Dish Tactic No. 2: make a show of eating, eat as much as you can, and then announce that you must've pigged out too much on the appetisers and can't eat another bite. You sacrifice your dignity by reminding strangers of what a cerdita you are, but at least you don't have to eat the flesh.
As I was waging my own little war on the lentajes (which everyone else was devouring with mucho gusto), laughing at stories of Florencia (I can't wait to see this dog again, she's such a monster) the doorbell rang. Enter Gepetto (not his real name, it's a long story), a kid who looked to be around our age and was warmly welcomed by the Chap from Manchester (who is in Buenos Aires on his retirment pension, has an earring, and practically ran to the door to let Gepetto in before monopolising conversation with him the entire night).
I could practically see the wheels in Rebecca's head turning (Robyn was still taking care of her lentils). I was thinking the exact same thing. Who exactly is this kid and what exactly is his relationship with The Chap, who I had already pegged in my mind as one who was still trying to relive his youth?
It may be one of those unsolved mysteries, like the question of Joe's sexuality (just because you live alone and talk to your pets does NOT mean you are gay! Right?)
But I digress. Next thing we knew, Joe was writing down the types of ice creams we like. To our feigned horror (at least, I was feigning it, really it was the best idea I'd ever heard) he announced we were ordering ice cream.
But not from Plums, the heladeria we had been attending faithfully every night (to the point where it was just getting awkward with the geeky boys on the late shift). They were horrified when we told them we've been going to Plums. Apparently Cabanna Tuyu (the heladeria next door) is light-years better.
Robyn and I, convinced that our first (the only one we'd ever had) would always be the best, remained skeptical. Rebecca, on the other hand, had been preaching to us for several days that, like with other things, the first heladeria does always seem good - but that you have no idea how good it can get until you explore other options.
Sure enough, Robyn and I took one taste of Tuyu's wares (which, by the way, you can get delivered, oh the sinful possibilities) and - well. Let's just say it was a good thing we were already sitting down.
It was after 1am by the time we left, stuffed full of ice cream, completely in love with Jorge and Voiwehaogienwa (and their one year old baby, Martin, who Jorge proudly showed off pictures of and whose middle name is Leonardo - after Joe! So cute!), still wondering about Gepetto and the Chap, cursing the fact that we were now addictied to Tuyu (it was like switching from sniffing glue to straight heroin), and with me clutching a little mate that Jorge had presented me with - at least, we THINK he said I could keep it.
We had so much fun that we're inviting them for dinner next week sometime. Any suggestions on what we can make them?
posted by SarahT at 11:40 am
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