Tonight I had my writers’ group again, and this time we met over in Palermo Viejo (“old” Palermo, which is, in all, a really huge neighborhood divided into sections within sections). It’s a good ways from my apartment, but a nice walk, so I left early and stopped to get dinner just a few blocks from the host’s apartment.
I walked into the place and sat down at a little table near the bar. It was pretty empty because it was kind of early. (I am a big fan of uncrowded restaurants here, as the wait staff tend to not want to stab you when it takes you 15 or 20 minutes to order water and a tostado.) Anyway, the waitress handed me a menu and I read through the whole thing with my Spanish-English dictionary to practice, and to piece together the meals I didn’t quite recognize, and eventually decided on some sort of beef (surprise, surprise) sandwich with many exciting-sounding ingredients.
The waitress came back and when I ordered it, she explained that all they were serving was empanadas. Just empanadas. Only empanadas. Why the hell would you give someone a menu if all you were serving that night was empanadas?
So, I had two empanadas and they were INCREDIBLE. Spicy beef and cheese and hot flakey, doughy goodness. So, so good. No wonder it’s all they serve now. And, just for the sake of true understanding, I had these two enormous empanadas and a big glass of red wine for the equivalent of $4 American. Unbelievable. Lovely, lovely meal.
Update: My stomach is currently in violent opposition to my love for that meal. I’m not saying it was the empanadas. I’m just saying that something isn’t right.