More than one person sought assurance that the food we ate and produced on our trip would be documented. To those people I apologize. Our first dinner in Buenos Aires may disappoint them. Almost twenty four hours after leaving Park Slope, we arrived at Federico^s airy La Boca apartment (which he shares with his cat, Diego) in semicatatonic states. Showers and coffee shocked us awake enough tobuy groceries and set off in search of SIM cards, ice cream, and Evita Peron^s tomb.
Having found two of those things (and having spent a considerable amount of time at a huge phone store waiting in line with a frustrated old Argentine lady only to be told that there was a computer glitch and they could not sell SIM cards at the moment) we had spent the afternoon, evening, and all remaining energy stores downtown and were ready to retire.
As I waited for our tortolini water to boil, Federico offered me a glass of his wine, from a bottle. On the counter next to me sat the rest of our dinner: a box of tomato sauce, a box of wine, and a package of alfajores. “Eso,” said Federico, pointing to our boxed wine, “es prohibido,” that is prohibited. I tried to expalin that usually we enjoy cooking but in our exhaustion we had chosen the most basic meal and thus felt that the most basic wine was fit to accompany it. Appearing satisfied with that heleft me to taste both wines and then to wish I had saved his for last.