The line at Tom’s Restaurant wrapped around the outside of the place and onto the adjacent street, as usual. Also as usual, Tom’s employees snaked their way around the line offering orange slices, cheap cookies and, most importantly, coffee to the patiently waiting, possibly hung-over Brooklynites. Of the many lines I’ve waited to access the inner sanctums of countless eating establishments, I have to give Tom’s credit for giving almost as much attention to the customers without tables as they do to the ones with. This is especially important since the wait can sometimes be longer than forty-five minutes and nothing is worse than having to wait that long in an upright position for the day’s first cup of coffee.
A few friends and myself had decided to grab brunch at Tom’s and within about twenty minutes, we were sitting at a table enjoying their always-reliable attempts at standard breakfast fare. My plane had landed in JFK from Buenos Aires a couple of days prior and the idea of a traditionally American, farm-fresh breakfast was something I had to get used to again. Breakfast in Argentina is centered around a café con leche of some kind and a couple of medialunas, a sweet mini-croissant. My favorite accompaniment to morning coffee, though, was an order of tostadas with mermulada and queso blanco. Tostadas, small, toasted bread rounds, would be topped with the sweet mermulada, a fruit jam, and the spreadable white cheese, or queso blanco, which tasted like a cross between sour cream and cream cheese. The mix of sweet and sour flavors, combined with the crunch of the toasted bread was enough of a pleasure to make me curse the few days I overslept and missed out.
At Tom’s, I dined on a dish referred to as Mexican Eggs. What makes an egg Mexican was, apparently, a lot of nacho cheese and salsa. I was OK with that. I was also OK with the ever-present coffee pot making an appearance when my coffee had dipped below an unacceptable level. I never had such a concern in the southern hemisphere. Like many coffee-loving countries outside North America, Argentineans enjoy the espresso in all of its relative, low volume, forms. They enjoy the social process of gathering at a café and, post consumption, leaving the empty coffee cups on the café table. White, paper buckets of hot coffee will never be seen floating amongst pedestrians on a Buenos Aires street.
Brunch was great and the opportunity to catch up with people near and dear to me after such a long absence was greater. Tom’s incredibly affable staff serviced our every gastronomic whim. Effortlessly choreographed, they made sure to inquire every ten minutes or so if everything was to our satisfaction or if we needed anything at all. All the fuss made me recall one evening in Buenos Aires’ Barrio Norte neighborhood, at a fantastic little nook called La Parolaccia, where I dined on some of the most delicious fresh pasta these teeth of mine have ever imprinted themselves into, for a pittance.
As the night wore on and as my champagne bottle got lighter, I noticed the wait staff standing patiently just outside the kitchen as the restaurant emptied. They only came by when bringing food or if we needed something. The rest of the time they were noticeably absent. When the head count was reduced to the three Americans who had invited me to join them at their table and myself, I saw all the waiters, the hosts and the manager continuing to stand quietly as if waiting for something. I had hoped they were waiting for me to compliment them on their exquisitely homemade, fresh spinach-stuffed raviolis because, frankly, I was prepared to start doling out hugs. Turns out they were just waiting for us to leave when we were ready. Part of me wanted to see how long they would stay. The other, bigger, part of me loved the idea of not being rushed and left alone to enjoy company and conversation.
Still, I’m unsure which scenario induces more pressure: restaurant workers waiting quietly in a corner or having them encircle you while constantly asking if you need them to make change. Quickly, our American guilt got the best of us and before the clock ventured into the following day, we got up and left. I’d be lying, though, if I said I didn’t rather enjoy the lack of harassment while eating.
Another familiar element was missing from the scene at Tom’s that Saturday morning/afternoon. Many a peripheral vision made me do a double-take in BA’s various cafes and restaurants whenever I spotted a young (and sometimes, not so young) couple making out; which was quite often. Porteños are a notoriously passionate people but in several corner booths across the city, the label is taken quite literally at all hours of the day. I’m not just talking stolen kisses either; I’m referring to mutual tonsillectomies. Perhaps Tom’s wasn’t the best venue for rapturous public displays of affection anyway, what with the strong possibility of morning breath and all.
I deeply miss Buenos Aires and all of its pleasures and contradictions. Argentina is most definitely a place I need to revisit as soon as possible. But travel always eventually fosters a yearning for home and all of its elements, both edible and otherwise, that make it thus. Whether it was the slightly humid spring air in Prospect Heights or the company of good friends, I realized I didn’t miss my tostadas that much. Besides, when a Tom’s waiter in white offered me a piece of chorizo with a lemon squeeze as I waited in line, I suddenly felt right at home again.
Hey Georgie, i felt a felicity after reading the article, i like you like Argentina, and don't forget you have to come back. My friend, i have to tell you that tomorrow, in my job, in the morning, i will drink a cup of cofee with milk and croassants in honor of this article and your company, keep being like you are. From Buenos Aires your friend Luis.
Posted by: Luis | June 24, 2007 at 03:39 PM