I was raised in America. I dined in American. And I even waited tables in America. That being said, I consider myself a reliable spokesman for the American dining mentality. So you can imagine my surprise when after several evenings of going out for Argentine cuisine (steak, pasta, or steak), I came to the realization that these people actually consider eating out some sort of social event, thus rendering the sit, stuff your face, and ditch the place strategy unattainable.
Allow me to expand a bit on this cultural cuisine clash…
A couple years ago, upon one of my first dining experiences in Buenos Aires, two buddies and I strolled down to a local parrilla hoping to get a taste of that legendary beef. Upon entering we were immediately greeted and sent to an available table that was adorned with tablecloth, wine glasses, real napkins (not disposable), and a shining set of silverware for four. So far so good.
But then it took a good five minutes (which is an eternity to my American timeclock) just to get a menu. And I do mean one menu. Not only had I already wasted five minutes of my precious time feigning interest in small talk with my companions, but one menu between three ravaged gringos was to the likes of one banana and three alpha male primates.
When I turned to ask for more, the waiter had vanished, but miraculously so had the glass and silverware of the ghost fourth party. The yin-yang of grace and neglect would prove to be a common theme throughout the evening.
“Maybe they are out of menus,” I thought to myself. After a quick scan around the room with my keenly trained ex-waiter eyes, I spotted the motherload. There was a big fat stack of them right next to the olive oil on the wine shelves. Again, meaningless table banter ensued while I desperately waited my turn for the menu to come round.
It didn’t take long for the three of us to decide: bife de lomo , bife de lomo , and bife de lomo (filet mignon). Meanwhile we casually, yet anxiously, waited for the waiter to come take our order. He passed right by our table several times, but never once did he assume these eager bodies were bursting with hunger.
Finally, after a few simian grunts and hand thrusts, we managed to reel him in and make the order. Still, I couldn’t help imagining how hostile my American manager would have become if this had occurred at his Chili’s-style restaurant:
“Boy, do you understand what you’ve done??!! It’s 30 seconds to greet, 90 seconds to get the drink orders, and where the hell are the courtesy waters with lemon??!!”
”Sir yes sir!”
When the drinks arrived (2 waters and a coke), we were all quite astonished at the level of service and attention to detail displayed by our server. Three perfectly positioned plates. Hiss, hiss, hiss and the bottle caps are off. What’s this? An ice bucket with tongs? Two cubes, thank you. Well, if you insist on pouring….
An unintended awkward silence crept up to the table as we sat, mesmerized by the care and table etiquette we were witnessing. This then transformed into a series of soft-voiced ‘thank-yous’ that clogged the air as he went from one patron to the next. From simian to sophistication in 4.6 seconds.
An educated guess would tell you that the bife de lomo was absolutely delectable. No seasoning. Just salt. It’s amazing what you can do with a cow by just giving it some roaming territory and abstaining from injecting it with chemical this and artificial that.
Since Americans dine to eat and the Argentines dine to talk (with the occasional interspersed eating), our consumption velocity might have been slightly above the norm. And I couldn’t help but glance around the room and feel a bit envious at all these porteños bursting with laughter and general cheer. What was so funny? Who were all these brilliant conversationalists generating such a merry, jovial vibe?
Scrooge on them. Our stomachs were full, our feet were anxious, and our minds were fixed on one thing: the bill.
Not once during the whole meal did out server inquire as to our needs, which is a good two times less than any decent American establishment. Typically American wait staff will hover just out of sight and use hawk-eye vision, prepared to pounce on a table for assistance at any given moment.
These waiters, conversely, appeared to always have some task on hand. These tasks, however, were much more menial than, dare I say, assuring the satisfaction of the client, which we all know is the bottom line American business motto.
When the drinks came, we might as well have been three Dukes, feasting at the brunt of our humble peon of a servant. But when it came to getting that damned check, we might as well have been three Native American Indians in an 1853 Tulsa saloon: invisible.
One would think that even without the slightest bit of training, human nature would incline someone to glance at peripheral objects as he/she passed them. But that waiter was back-and-forthing past our table all night, head locked in a straightforward, center position.
Then I had an epiphany. Maybe getting the bill is like getting a beer at a bar. Flash some money (skin if you got it), up your voice volume, find that thin line between polite neanderthal and educated asshole and you just might snap the server out of his menial task trance and be able to pay for that delicious steak that many more would have the opportunity to take delight in if the waiter would look at his tables and the Argentines would stop enjoying themselves so much.
Sarcasm aside, there’s something almost tragic about the way that my background and upbringing have trained me to get those itchy feet as soon as the last bite goes down. In Buenos Aires everything is prolonged. Four fluid ounces of coffee can endure a full hour of pleasant conversation. And more importantly, a coffee is more of a space-filler than an actual desired afternoon beverage.
One of the best examples of the prolonged event is an asado (a steak cookout). It takes ages just to get the embers ready. During this process a picada (meat and cheese sampler platter) enters the scene with a whole host of beverages to choose from: beer, soda, red wine, Fernet (ask a local). You’ve then got some tasty appetizers (sausage or kidney and intestines for the brave folks) and by the time the dessert tray comes around, you could’ve easily passed the four hour mark. Good cheer, good vibes, good people, good times.
So I guess there’s a lesson to be learned here. Either conform to the Argentine culture and take pleasure in other people’s company while dining (trust me, it can be done) or be prepared to resort to primitive war tactics when you’re in need of some culinary assistance.
Will Betton
LPBA.com Staff
