dispatches from argentina

(1) Argentina is famous for its beef. The Pampas region of central AR is vast enough for hordes of cattle to roam freely and eat natural grass. The result is meat that is healthier, more tender, and insanely delicious.

Weird, then, that the country known for its world-class beef is so nonchalant about preparing it. Order a steak in a restaurant, and the waiter won´t ask you how you want it cooked. If you fail to ask for rare (jugoso), the default temperature is medium-well. When you eat at a buffet (tenedor libre) and thus have no control over how your food is cooked, you find yourself sawing through tough, brown pieces of the finest beef you´ll ever throw down the hatch.

Strikes me as ###### up, is all.

(2) Surprisingly, the most embarrassing thing to happen to me- so far- did not involve a word of my astonishingly stilted Spanish. Upon returning one night to our Buenos Aires hostel, Sam and I decided to roll up to the rooftop bar and play a game of pool before going to bed. As Sam ordered beer, I racked the balls, then saundered to the bathroom in hopes that Sam would break. Being a noodle-armed choirboy, I´m famously unable to break a ####### rack so that more than 4 goddamned balls actually go anywhere. Anyway, Sam was still lingering at the bar when I returned, and he told me to break while he waited for his change.

I surveyed the scene: there were only two people at the bar, an Eastern European couple old enough for their appearance at a youth hostel to arouse suspicion, if not outright contempt, in some of their fellow boarders. So #### these guys if they laugh at me. I casually place the cue ball on the table, bend over, and prepare for the worst.

Which happens. In a misguided effort to get more power behind my shot, I straighten my back as I shoot, which pulls the cue up just enough to scrape the top of the ball, sending it a total of perhaps 3 feet, in a trajectory safely to the right of the triangle of balls waiting patiently across the table.

Sam, charitably, suggests that I try again. Focusing with all my might, I manage to fire the cue ball straight into the rack, successfully spraying the usual 4 balls weakly around the table, leaving the other 11 as stationary as a no-legged dog.

Nursing my last milliliter of dignity (there are no ounces in Argentina), I casually look down to grab my beer. Upon doing so, I notice that my fly has been wide open throughout the entire sad episode.