I would like to issue an unreserved apology to Gavin, who recently suffered a crisis of confidence on re-reading my Sunnyvale column. I’ve been assured that his hissy-fit had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he is getting older while his girlfriend is getting younger.
After some not-so-successful negotiation on the wording, I would like to rephrase the offending sentence to clarify that Robert Downey Junior is the hottest man on the planet only “after the South African deity” that is Gavin.
As Gavin, himself, so aptly put it: “Fancy preferring a cocaine-addicted midget to the incarnation of Balder the Beautiful.”
Indeed, Gavin. What was I thinking?
I can merely thank you for your shrewd observation and hope that this small gesture makes up in some way for the “calumnies and insults” you have suffered. And the food vouchers are in the post.
Poilin
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Buenos Aires: Probably the Worst Meal in the World, Ever
On Janella’s last night in Buenos Aires, we decided we’d slap on the makeup and go scare the locals by hitting the town for dinner. Little did we know at the time, however, that our fun and memorable evening would be kicked into the realm of the totally unforgettable for another reason entirely – probably the worst meal either of us had ever eaten, ever.
Just to put this in context. I’ve had people at street markets in Asia feed me grasshoppers on a stick (crunchy and hideous). A street chef in Beijing offered to cook me a kitten. I was served a chicken’s head in Florence that caused the woman at the next table to faint. I’ve eaten unrecognisable delicacies in indescribable places. I’ve been poisoned in joints from Jakarta to Jutland. But not one of these culinary nightmares held a candle to this particular repast in terms of sheer bloody awfulness.
The restaurant itself was spectacular, an old townhouse in Palermo Soho on Costa Rica, called Lélé La Troya. The decor was funky meets shabby chic, with chandeliers set against vibrant colours and enormous gilded mirrors, tables interspersed with sofas and coffee tables, big French doors leading onto Juliet balconies and just enough plush fabric to make it feel sumptuous, but not brothel. We liked it immediately, not least when we were shown straight to a table.
Never ignore the warning signs
Maybe the fact that we hadn’t needed a booking should have been a sign, but we figured we were eating early by Argentine standards (we rolled up just before 11pm) and put the easy availability down to our non-Latin mealtime clocks and insipient charm. What’s more, a number of people staying at the guest house had raved about this place, saying we had to try it before we left town. And the restaurant wasn’t empty by any means, so we thought we’d give it a go.
I was so hungry, I could have eaten a small horse, so pretty much any half-decent meal would have made me happy. Janella, though, had had what she described as the best meal she’d ever eaten the night before, so her palate was craving perfection. We took the edge off our hunger and expectations with an excellent bottle of Rutini sauvignon blanc, while we perused the considerable menu. We then took off our clothes and stood on our heads trying to attract the attention of a waiter. But that got us nowhere, so we redressed and waited. And waited.
Finally, a very sweet if somewhat harassed young chap appeared and we clamped him to the table so he couldn’t run away without our order. Shortly after we unleashed him, he reappeared, this time with only a little prompting, carrying a basket of bread thingies and an astonishingly good tapenade that would have tasted like a sate sauce, had sate sauce been made of fruit.
The food of love
We were impressed. If this was an indication of gastronomic delights to come, we’d made a good choice. It was at this point, though, that we observed that nobody in the restaurant appeared to be eating. At least, not the food. Two nigh-on horizontal couples on sofas were devouring each other (apparently, serious making out in public is de rigeur) and everyone else seemed only to be drinking wine. This should have been another sign of culinary things to come, in all likeliness, but we were on our second bottle of wine at that point, so we didn’t really care.
The starters eventually arrived. I had ordered what I thought was supposed to be a light and fluffy Argentine twist on Mexican tortilla chips with guacamole. What I got was three-day old cold chunks of fried potato with something green, which might have been guacamole, except that it tasted solely of lemon, and something white, which wasn’t exactly sour cream. It might have been yoghurt. But, maybe not. And all this served on a bed of three-day-old lettuce. Or maybe it was grass.
Janella, meanwhile, was pushing what was supposed to be a morcilla salad (a bit like black pudding) around her plate, wondering what exactly to do with it. We’d expected to get a big plate of greens, with the local blood sausage crumbled over it, sprinkled with chunks of apple and walnut. She got a handful of limp lettuce, half an apple and two not-very-well-cooked sausages. Uh, yeah.
We pretty much left our plates untouched and figured it was probably just as well, as the main courses looked to be fairly substantial (one couple had stopped snogging long enough to eat). We also agreed it had been a good thing that we hadn’t opted for a sofa table, as the sofas appeared designed to throw any diners thereupon actually onto of each other – and though we were becoming fast friends, that might have been just a touch too much too soon, to put it mildly.
Chef alert
Eventually, we had to turn our gaze from the live soft-porn show to the main course. Mistake. It immediately became apparent that the waiter’s favourite and recommended dish on the menu – pork with cashew nuts (hey, it wasn’t my choice) – was decidedly off. I mean, really off. E-coli and salmonella off. We smelled it long before it reached the table. The chef actually agreed with us when we sent it back. Shame he didn’t notice beforehand. But, then again, Argentina is a beef, not pork country. So maybe he didn’t know. Yeah.
I felt much more secure, therefore, in my choice of fillet of beef, wrapped in filo with spinach and mushrooms. I mean, you can’t screw up a steak in Argentina, surely? Well, apparently so. The parcel resembled a steak wrapped in Pampers. The pastry was uncooked, the spinach undrained, the meat unseasoned and the whole thing a great, big, sodden mess. It was horrible.
When the waiter finally dared to hover near the table again, we cornered him. We gently suggested that the chef might want to sneak out by the back door. We told him it was the worst meal we had ever had and demanded liqueur coffees to kill the taste. Which they did, thankfully.
In true Argentine fashion, though, they still brought us the bill. At least they had the decency to not charge us for the pork – though bad cooking wasn’t a sufficient reason not to charge us for the rest of it, apparently. Still, we had a great time. Leave the food out of the equation and it’s a cool place.
Glutton for punishment
I actually went back to the restaurant a few days ago, dragged reluctantly by my hosts and another couple of fellow guests, in a bid to convince me that the food wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. This time, I shied away from anything I thought the kitchen might screw up and ordered a plate of spaghetti with a parmesan and walnut sauce. This, I have to admit, was very good. But was it enough to make me want to go back there again? Nah. Next time, I’ll just grab a waiter and bags a sofa.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
Just to put this in context. I’ve had people at street markets in Asia feed me grasshoppers on a stick (crunchy and hideous). A street chef in Beijing offered to cook me a kitten. I was served a chicken’s head in Florence that caused the woman at the next table to faint. I’ve eaten unrecognisable delicacies in indescribable places. I’ve been poisoned in joints from Jakarta to Jutland. But not one of these culinary nightmares held a candle to this particular repast in terms of sheer bloody awfulness.
The restaurant itself was spectacular, an old townhouse in Palermo Soho on Costa Rica, called Lélé La Troya. The decor was funky meets shabby chic, with chandeliers set against vibrant colours and enormous gilded mirrors, tables interspersed with sofas and coffee tables, big French doors leading onto Juliet balconies and just enough plush fabric to make it feel sumptuous, but not brothel. We liked it immediately, not least when we were shown straight to a table.
Never ignore the warning signs
Maybe the fact that we hadn’t needed a booking should have been a sign, but we figured we were eating early by Argentine standards (we rolled up just before 11pm) and put the easy availability down to our non-Latin mealtime clocks and insipient charm. What’s more, a number of people staying at the guest house had raved about this place, saying we had to try it before we left town. And the restaurant wasn’t empty by any means, so we thought we’d give it a go.
I was so hungry, I could have eaten a small horse, so pretty much any half-decent meal would have made me happy. Janella, though, had had what she described as the best meal she’d ever eaten the night before, so her palate was craving perfection. We took the edge off our hunger and expectations with an excellent bottle of Rutini sauvignon blanc, while we perused the considerable menu. We then took off our clothes and stood on our heads trying to attract the attention of a waiter. But that got us nowhere, so we redressed and waited. And waited.
Finally, a very sweet if somewhat harassed young chap appeared and we clamped him to the table so he couldn’t run away without our order. Shortly after we unleashed him, he reappeared, this time with only a little prompting, carrying a basket of bread thingies and an astonishingly good tapenade that would have tasted like a sate sauce, had sate sauce been made of fruit.
The food of love
We were impressed. If this was an indication of gastronomic delights to come, we’d made a good choice. It was at this point, though, that we observed that nobody in the restaurant appeared to be eating. At least, not the food. Two nigh-on horizontal couples on sofas were devouring each other (apparently, serious making out in public is de rigeur) and everyone else seemed only to be drinking wine. This should have been another sign of culinary things to come, in all likeliness, but we were on our second bottle of wine at that point, so we didn’t really care.
The starters eventually arrived. I had ordered what I thought was supposed to be a light and fluffy Argentine twist on Mexican tortilla chips with guacamole. What I got was three-day old cold chunks of fried potato with something green, which might have been guacamole, except that it tasted solely of lemon, and something white, which wasn’t exactly sour cream. It might have been yoghurt. But, maybe not. And all this served on a bed of three-day-old lettuce. Or maybe it was grass.
Janella, meanwhile, was pushing what was supposed to be a morcilla salad (a bit like black pudding) around her plate, wondering what exactly to do with it. We’d expected to get a big plate of greens, with the local blood sausage crumbled over it, sprinkled with chunks of apple and walnut. She got a handful of limp lettuce, half an apple and two not-very-well-cooked sausages. Uh, yeah.
We pretty much left our plates untouched and figured it was probably just as well, as the main courses looked to be fairly substantial (one couple had stopped snogging long enough to eat). We also agreed it had been a good thing that we hadn’t opted for a sofa table, as the sofas appeared designed to throw any diners thereupon actually onto of each other – and though we were becoming fast friends, that might have been just a touch too much too soon, to put it mildly.
Chef alert
Eventually, we had to turn our gaze from the live soft-porn show to the main course. Mistake. It immediately became apparent that the waiter’s favourite and recommended dish on the menu – pork with cashew nuts (hey, it wasn’t my choice) – was decidedly off. I mean, really off. E-coli and salmonella off. We smelled it long before it reached the table. The chef actually agreed with us when we sent it back. Shame he didn’t notice beforehand. But, then again, Argentina is a beef, not pork country. So maybe he didn’t know. Yeah.
I felt much more secure, therefore, in my choice of fillet of beef, wrapped in filo with spinach and mushrooms. I mean, you can’t screw up a steak in Argentina, surely? Well, apparently so. The parcel resembled a steak wrapped in Pampers. The pastry was uncooked, the spinach undrained, the meat unseasoned and the whole thing a great, big, sodden mess. It was horrible.
When the waiter finally dared to hover near the table again, we cornered him. We gently suggested that the chef might want to sneak out by the back door. We told him it was the worst meal we had ever had and demanded liqueur coffees to kill the taste. Which they did, thankfully.
In true Argentine fashion, though, they still brought us the bill. At least they had the decency to not charge us for the pork – though bad cooking wasn’t a sufficient reason not to charge us for the rest of it, apparently. Still, we had a great time. Leave the food out of the equation and it’s a cool place.
Glutton for punishment
I actually went back to the restaurant a few days ago, dragged reluctantly by my hosts and another couple of fellow guests, in a bid to convince me that the food wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. This time, I shied away from anything I thought the kitchen might screw up and ordered a plate of spaghetti with a parmesan and walnut sauce. This, I have to admit, was very good. But was it enough to make me want to go back there again? Nah. Next time, I’ll just grab a waiter and bags a sofa.
© Poilin Breathnach 2009
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