SIZE DOESN'T MATTER

goodbye dinner

RIO GRANDE: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7
The Argentine Pumas whipped France in the opening match of the Rugby World Cup and I am giving a barbecue tonight for all the guests at the Hotel Argentino. My intention is to give a barbecue tomorrow night. Wires have become crossed. No matter…Or the matter is out of my hands.
Javier takes me shopping. I suggest ten chickens. Javier says five. These aren’t battery-bred half-water English chickens from Tesco supermarket. These are Catholic Mission raised Tierra del Fuego chickens. No water, all flesh, size of a mini-turkey. Around US$4 a bird.
Next comes Tierra del Fuego beef: nine and a half kilos of skirt at US$1.30 a kilo.
I select a kilo of strawberries and fresh cream for the ladies.
Yes, Argentine strawberries are BIG.
Argentine apples and pears are the size of a small melon.
Pick big back home and you eat fruit without taste (eat fruit in The US and none of it has taste).
Not so in Argentina. Best apples I have ever tasted. Good pears. Superb strawberries. Yum Yum Yum!

HOPPITY HOPPITY HOP

kitchen corner with Javier


RIO GRANDE: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6
I walk alone to the bank. The bank is two blocks uphill the far side of the six-lane Avenida San Martin. I use the crutches at the intersections and to lean on a couple of times while taking a short rest. A security guard beckons me to the head of the queue at the cash machine. From the bank, I take a cab on a shopping spree: two pairs of boxer shorts and a big holdall, shampoo and a couple of throwaway razors.
The ankle is fine. However, the instep hurts as the tendons restretch.
What more can I write from the kitchen at the Hotel Argentino?

UNDESERVED REWARD

RIO GRANDE: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5
Pepe visits in the evening. He declares the bone fully healed. I am to have an x-ray taken tomorrow. I must start exercises at the weekend.
"Don’t be obsessive with the exercises," Pepe warns as he demonstrates - dumb advice to give an obsessive.
My healed bone is Pepe’s victory, proof that he was correct in his argument with Doctor Lopez. I am rewarded with dinner at the Posado de los Sauces, Rio Grande's most expensive restaurant (though I don’t see the menu). Food is unquestionably the best. They serve fish. Fresh fish. Fish that has never seen the inside of a freezer!
Pepe orders for me Black Hake, a south Atlantic fish caught on long line deep down (1500 metres). The fish is perfectly grilled, the steamed vegetables are crisp, wine (a ten-year-old red) is divine.
The other guests?
Estancia owners, visiting foreign businessmen, upper echelon oil employees.
Pale skinned? Yes, of course.

VILE FOOD

RIO GRANDE: TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4
We made it to the fake Chinese tonight. Why did we make it to the fake Chinese? What possible reason exists? Unless in a competition to discover the worst food in the world?
All you can eat from a buffet for US$7.
The food? Fried everything in a batter designed to retain oil. Even the empanadas are fried. Press with a knife and oil spurts. Some dishes are recognisable: whitebait, squid. Others require a guess. Are those oil-dripping wraps of semi-burnt batter meant to be Spring rolls?
Were I to notify the Union of Chinese Chefs International, they would send an assassin.
Prawns?
Don’t be silly.

FAKE CHINESE

RIO GRANDE: MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
No x-rays. Pepe says that an x-ray delays healing by up to two weeks. I must walk with the aid of crutches for a few days. I can leave for Chile on Saturday. Tonight we celebrate. Prawns are essential. Javier drives. The Chinese restaurant is closed. It was closed last week at midday.
"Chinese work three-hundred and sixty-five days in the year," declares Javier. "These aren't proper Chinese."
We go to the corner Chilean for a choice of meat, meat or meat - and drink beer.

CAST OFF

RIO GRANDE: MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
Pepe finds me lying on my bed. He has a steak knife, scissors and newspaper. He bangs my cast a couple if times. "Any pain?"
"Not on the broken side," I reply.
Pepe is uninterested in pain on the unbroken side. He saws the cast, splits it and taps the broken bone. "Pain?"
"No," I say.
"Stand," says Pepe.
I stand.
"Any pain?"
"No," I say.
Pepe gives me a bear hug. No more cast. He wraps the leg in an elastic bandage.
I thank him.
He says, "Thank yourself," and taps his temple. "You did the curing. Cure comes from the head."
If so, Pepe governed my thoughts with his energy and determination. He gave me belief.

KITCHEN CORNER

sweet maginale at work


RIO GRANDE: MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
Observations from the corner by the old iron kitchen range:

1) Modern marginales (those who were called hippies in my youth) carry mobile phones.

2) Most music is conducive to thought. Rap is an exception; the aggressive beat is too intrusive.

I HATE ARGENTINES - THEY MAKE ME WEEP

doctor and novio


RIO GRANDE: MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 4
I am a manic depressive. I have learnt tricks that snap the mental circle. Skiing works. Ski a black run, reach the bottom, ski it again. An hour and your only worry is whether your legs will hold up. Right now I can't ski. I can't even travel and a depression has threatened over the past couple of days. I sit in my corner. A young doctor and her novio enter the kitchen. They give me a gift-wrapped packet. The packet contains CDs of Tango and the Misa Criolla and a beautifully illustrated edition of the great poem of Argentina's gauchos, Martin Fierro. The edition includes the English translation and a dictionary of gaucho slang.
I am overwhelmed by generosity and thoughtfulness.
The doctor holds me in her arms while I weep.
Damn these Argentines.

NON EVENT

RIO GRANDE: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
I am satiated with meat. I lie on my bed and do leg exercises. A cab was to collect me. No cab has arrived. I have been uninvited to the meeting of academics. I may be to blame. I ran a dummy run on one of the organisers.
I said that my knowledge of Argentina was very limited.
1) Are people suffering from hunger?
2) Is the independence and integrity of the judicial system assured?
3) Is the Government clean of corruption?
All else is a distraction, a Roman Circus...

BIRTHDAY PARTY

RIO GRANDE: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
For his birthday, the ex-future is our guest for lunch at the Hotel Argentino. What I can I write of an Argentine birthday lunch? Heaps of barbecued beef are immense rather than merely large. We eat a cake, we drink toasts and we sing the Spanish version of Happy Birthday.

DANGER IN GOOD INTENTIONS

RIO GRANDE: FRIDAY, AUGUST 31
I haven’t shaved since the accident. Wooly is the image. I need sprucing. Javier drives me to a hairdresser who works in her front room. The hairdresser is in Spain for three months. Her replacement is an overweight teenager.
Retreating would hurt the girl’s feelings and might hurt Javier’s feelings. I have been equally imprisoned in church on the southern leg of this journey. Enter during a service, the priest remarks an unfamiliar face. Leave, he may obsess into the night. Did he fail to save a soul from eternal damnation? I have knelt and stood through three masses in succession in a city of many Hispanic Colonial churches. How can I deny a teenage hairdresser?
The beard first: the girl approaches with an electric trimmer. Zip and a bald patch marks my right cheek.
I made the same mistake ten years ago when trimming Jed’s hair. Jed remains unforgiving. I am more liberal. I say, "That isn’t quite what I imagined."
The girl says, "This is the first time I’ve cut a beard."
Her tone suggests I am to blame.
The bald patch is too wide to hide. Shaving my cheeks is the only option. I reach for the clippers.
The girl is forlorn. She is already severely overweight. I imagine her going on an eating jag. She says, "Can I cut your hair?"
"A very light trim. Very light," I ensist.
The girl is nervous. Snip go the scissors. Blood drips from a gash in her palm. She emits a small screech and vanishes in search of a bandage.
Javier and I muffle hysteric laughter.
Javier produces a cold beer – a true friend.
All is well…Though I look a little strange. Or not that strange. There is a similarity to my father-in-law!