The next day we all woke up around one fighting mean hangovers. I decided that what better way to cure alcohol-induced gastric distress than a full and complete assault on the lower intestine with Argentina's flagship dish, the parilla. A parilla is literally the metal on which meat is grilled. As a dish, it is every single type of meat that has ever been identified by man. There is chicken, different parts of the cow, regular sausage, and the always appetizing blood sausage, the only meat that has the texture of a mashed potato. We went downstairs and headed into the small, working class diner next to my apartment building. I eat there regularly and have come to know the owner, Raymond, very well. A man of European heritage in his late-fifties with a moustache and close-cropped grey hair, he's kind of like a sweeter, more avuncular version of Adolf Hitler. Except without any of the obvious character flaws.
Raymond brought us two full parillas and we proceeded to shamelessly shovel grilled meat in our faces until it looked like the world was going to stop spinning on its axis. After the marathon session we left Raymond's in a daze. For my part it felt like I was having an out of body experience. Although I hadn't been physically raped, I felt the combination of shame and sickness that usually accompanies one being violated. We stumbled up to my place and proceeded to pass out wherever there was space. For the next few hours I was haunted by dreams of meat shaped people with sausage arms punching me in the stomach over and over again.
That night we opted for sushi, because more steaks in such a short amount of time would have caused a collective explosion of our lower intestines that could only be compared to a supernova. We went to a really nice bar and sushi spot on the edge of downtown called Gran Bar Danzon. I first went to the place in 2005 and have been going back ever since. The food is good, the bartenders are great, the atmosphere is nice and dark, and there are only a handful of North Americans on any given night. One of the main reasons Danzon continues to be such a great place to go is because it is not listed on the nightlife page of the the worst travel website in the world: Argentinastravel.com
When I say "worst website in the world", I think I really mean it. I know that websites created by evangelical lunatics listing the home addresses of all the abortion doctors in the country are bad, but this one can't be any worse. The people who created Argentinastravel.com should be dragged through the streets of Palermo Soho ("the hippest barrio in B.A.!") and have the shit kicked out of them. It sounds harsh, I know, but then again, they're contributing more than anyone to fucking up this city and turning it into the next Cancun. Need proof? When some idiot "staff writer" from New York posts an article that reads "Get Mexican Food in BA at
the California Burrito Company!" it makes me want to buy a rifle and murder people in the street. The California Burrito Company is a fast-food restaurant in centro that tastes exactly like what it is -- an unbelievably shitty knockoff of Chipotle. Forget authentic Mexican food, it's some of the worst food, period. Ever. In the history of food.
Another example hit particularly close to home that night after we left Danzon. I had been hearing rumblings about a new bar in Palermo (does anything in this city happen anywhere other than fucking Palermo?!!) called 878. I had seen it on the nightlife information page of Argentinastravel.com so I was understandably nervous. However, a few other people I knew talked up the bar so I decided to give the antichrist website the benefit of the doubt. Me and the guys were now off to the new bar that the site raves: "beyond cool, 878 is currently in vogue as the city's hippest, formerly underground nightspot." And with a recommendation like that, how could one not love it?
Fairly easily, as it turns out. The entrance to the bar is in Argentina but once inside you're in the East Village. Other than the bartender, who I'm not even really sure was a local, there was not one native Argentine in the entire place. It was filled with vegan hipsters, bankers, students and other morons, all from the good old US of A. We stayed for one sad round of Heinekens before making our escape to the Shamrock (hey Argentinastravel, you don't like the Shamrock? Good, then I'll continue to fucking go there). On the cab ride away from the worst bar in the city (if only because of the clientele) I couldn't shake the thought that all the listings in the nightlife section of that website seem to be written by an idiot 22-year-old with no mind of their own. It's almost like they're deciding which bars and clubs are cool based on someone telling them which bars and clubs are cool, rather than forming their own opinions. Later I looked on the site and discovered that the nightlife section is, in point of fact, written by an idiot 22-year-old. From this I can extrapolate that the rest of my theory is sound: this person does not have a mind of their own. I don't really blame the kid, though. People in their early twenties are easily led and tend to go with the flow. I blame a bullshit website that doesn't pay professionals, instead opting for college students that, on top of being terrible writers, are willing to work for free.
After a few drinks at yet another pub-themed bar, the guys decided they wanted to check out one of the many "hooker bars" they had heard so much about. Since prostitution is legal in this country there are clubs all over the city that are packed with ladies of the night eager to ply their trade (You can take a look at my very first posting if you want to see some of the ways gentlemen from my native country like to have fun with them). It's a very different dynamic than it is back in the US. For example, when I lived in downtown LA I would run across various prostitutes eager to suck a dick in order to get some quick cash and score classy drugs like crack or methamphetamine. In Argentina most of the girls turn to prostitution in order to support their children, as is common in third-world countries. Drugs are a problem for some in BA, but not the destructive motivation that it is back home.
We went to a bar by the cemetery called the newport. It's like going into a regular bar back home with one subtle difference, every woman inside is a hooker (actually, maybe it's not so different from back home). That's right, you can buy pussy mere feet from where Evita Peron and heroes of the Falklands war are buried. We sat and drank with a few of the girls and got to know them over the course of an hour or so. Some of them were immigrants from Paraguay but many were locals. I saw the same things in Cuba, Tijuana and various other Latin American cities: girls who couldn't make any money any other way so they had to resort to this. I guess I like the prostitutes here because I come from a city where everyone is a hooker. And by everyone, I mean everyone.
Hollywood is filled with people who have come from other cities looking to sell every ideal they've ever held for a guest-spot on 24. For some they achieve this by being actual prostitutes, like the girl who sucks a PA's dick for a SAG voucher, or Ryan Seacrest, who attended many of Merv Griffin's gay fuck boy parties before he was famous. Others are just willing to sell everyone and everything they've ever loved for a bit of fame. The weird thing is these same people would come down to Buenos Aires and look down on these women. They'd feel superior to them. I guess it's their inalienable American entitlement that allows them to do it. And they'll continue to do it as long as there is a Los Angeles to live in or a United State to be from. But it doesn't change the reality that there are poor hookers in this city who are worth a thousand aspiring actors and actresses back home. Because they may sell pussy, but they don't sell who they are.
It's always nice to end on a political note. I'll write the last installment later. Right now it's time for me to get drunk.
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