WHERE THE FOOD WAS FUNNY
Before the whole world was grounded for our own good, Buenos Aires was a popular choice for South Africans in search of a pocket-friendly destination. Seventeen years ago, when the rand was stronger, travelling to Argentina’s capital was a downright bargain.
That’s the main reason I picked it as the locale for my 21st birthday celebration with my parents and boyfriend. The others were the city’s dramatic history (hello Evita), the shopping (hello leather jackets) and the architecture. I’ve got a thing for photographing stately old buildings. I’d also seen snaps of a quirky neighbourhood called La Boca, which looked like a page from a child’s colouring book come to life.
Oh, and did I mention the food? I’d heard rumblings that the Argentines were as serious about their red meat as South Africans are. Happily, this rumour proved to be true and we feasted on skirt and spider steaks — exotic cuts of meat unheard of at home back then. I soon developed a dangerous addiction to empanadas, little crescent-moon-shaped pies crammed with savoury fillings. Delicious.
I’d expected to fill my plate with meat, meat and more meat, but I was surprised to discover that authentic Italian food was plentiful in the South American city. Apparently, it’s all thanks to the influx of Italian immigrants in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I was thrilled; after all, I love pasta so much that I married an Italian. He’s the same boyfriend who accompanied me to Argentina.
As both Spanish and Italian have Latin roots, and Google Translate didn’t exist, my boyfriend’s dual language skills came in handy when deciphering some of the more mysterious items on restaurant menus, like noquis (gnocchi) and helado (gelato).
One item that needed no translation was pizza, my dad’s favourite. He ordered one for lunch as we sat around a wonky table on a cobbled square in San Telmo, the city’s oldest neighbourhood. Our waitress brought out our order, placing an empty plate in front of my father. She returned with a pizza — an average large by South African standards — and put it on the empty table next to ours.
We looked at each other, bemused. It turns out her intention was to stand by throughout the meal to deliver the pizza to him, slice by slice, with a cake lifter.
“Not to worry, thanks,” my dad said. “You can just give me the whole pizza. I’m going to eat all of it anyway.”
The look of horror on the waitress’ face was meme-worthy. She was so flabbergasted by this request that her excellent English failed her. We watched, somewhat concerned, as she started miming furiously shovelling something into her mouth with both hands. Eventually she blurted out, “You, you Garfield!”
Aha, got it: apparently eating an entire “family-size” pizza by yourself is akin to committing one of the seven deadly sins in Argentina.
The next night, “Garfield” treated us to dinner at a modern river-side restaurant in Puerto Madero. My boyfriend was trying to figure out what ingredients were in a salad my mom fancied, when he got stumped by the word zanahorias.
He asked our waiter, but after a few minutes of polite conversation they still couldn’t find common ground. The waiter helpfully mimed holding something in front of his mouth and crunching down on it. He repeated the action again and again.
“Celery. It’s got to be celery,” I insisted, enjoying this game of suppertime charades.
“No, cucumber,” guessed Garfield.
The waiter thought for a moment before he triumphantly declared, “Bunny, it’s a bunny.”
Rabbit? A bit unusual but not impossible, we agreed, clearly still looking puzzled.
Exasperated, the waiter tried again, “It’s a bunny, it’s a Bugs Bunny.” Aha, got it: carrots.
Who needs Google Translate when you’ve got cartoon characters?
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