Ode to a steak

Vegetarians might feel some discomfort while reading this post.

Our final destination was Argentina, the promised land of beef and red wine. We had heard so many legendary stories about the local steaks that our expectations were certainly set very high. After settling in our hostel in San Telmo district, we headed for a local restaurant to empirically test the steak theory. And for the love of god, every mouth-watering story is true! So tender, so moist and no unidentifiable stuff left between your teeth. The steak was so good that it needs a 2 minute silence to honor it, and maybe a national holiday just to celebrate its existence. Or at least a love poem, or a song! This place is truly a culinary heaven; in addition to steaks, the red wine is simply brilliant and a small jug in a restaurant costs about one euro.

We spent our first days in the capital Buenos Aires, which deviates a bit from our previous latin American destinations. Close connections to Europe means that people are more mixed and the fair hair and skin are not such strange things anymore. People often speak English or French, and some areas look and feel like Paris.

In the early days we sure walked a lot and eventually found our way to the Recoleta cemetary, which has many famous tombs, such as Evita´s. Quite a unique place, the tombs were huge, decorated with marble statues, and the area was built like a small town with little alleys. Evita´s tomb was easy to find, just followed the crowds and the flowers. It is interesting to note that as a character, Eva Peron is both admired and hated. Don't let the musicals and Madonna's history knowledge fool you, this lady also abused her power and you are sure to start a fierce conversation with the locals if you ask questions about her.

We also booked tickets to a tango show called "Señor Tango". I had previously thought that I knew how to dance tango, but I was wrong. This footwork was totally something else. Legs swinging everywhere...shiny hairgel...painful faces and the sound of the accordeon. And then something strange happened: An older gentleman, looking like something between Jack Nicholson and Nacho Libre, walks on stage and the ladies start crying and - oh yes - screaming. I felt like it was 1992 again and I was in a boyband concert. This man is called Fernando Soler and the picture on the right might or might not make you go hysterical. You decide. Neither Libor nor I shed a tear.

But that wasn´t the strangest thing yet. The show had been a pretty classy thing to watch, until about an hour into the program lights went out and some kind of a strange nearly-striptease thing started. So all of a sudden, this dressed-to-the-nines audience was glancing at a bunch of ladies in tiny lace underwear, sticking their butt cheeks into the audience while the saxophones played some raunchy tunes. This was the point where I ordered more red wine and reflected on the unfair questions in life. So to summarize: The male audience got a dozen half-naked ladies and us ladies got a Nacho Libre. Seriously.