Every Wednesday between classes, I have two hours to kill. Two hours to be “productive” by reading a longish article in Spanish about magical realism and the writers who best exemplify that movement. Two hours to drink tea (I don’t like coffee and it’s terrible here anyway) or watch the news on TV (la presidente is visiting Chile this week, the highlights of yesterday’s fútbol game). Two hours to pretend to be a local while I sit in this café.
This is routine for me now. After Art History, I take the B-line two stops east to the “microcentro,” the business and theater district of Buenos Aires. It’s not actually in the center of the city. It’s more northeast, but that’s how it is in Buenos Aires—people say things they don’t mean.
I come to this café every Wednesday morning at 10:30, give or take a few minutes. The menu here is huge, physically and in terms of options. They serve breakfast and lunch. I’m not much of a breakfast person, so I order té con leche (tea with milk) and medialunas. The tea is a British brand, nothing special, but medialunas are the best food I’ve eaten in Argentina. They’re palm-sized croissants with flakey dough. They come in two varieties: plain or sweetened (basically a thin coat of syrup on top). Most places have only the sweetened kind, and I won’t complain about that.
The waiter comes back with a full tray. I ordered two things, right? But not even the menus here are clear on what they mean. Té con leche means I get a large mug with a saucer, a tiny pitcher of warm milk on a saucer, a small teapot of hot water on a small plate, and a tiny glass of orange juice. (The first time I ordered tea in Buenos Aires, I thought it was some weird thing with mixing orange juice into your tea. But no, they drink it separately. A little bit of vitamin C never hurt anyone.) Medialunas come in a basket. If they’re larger ones, you get three. Smaller ones, four. My square table that’s supposed to seat two is covered with excessive glassware. I rearrange everything into an arc around me to make space for that magical realism article. (The page I’m on is talking about Julio Cortázar’s use of time. He likes to jump around a lot.)
I unwrap the tea bag and drop it into the teapot. I look up at the TV and see that the public bus employees are striking this afternoon. Fine, I take the subway home on Wednesdays anyway. After the tea steeps I fill my mug halfway. I fill the rest with milk.
Some of my friends back home joke about how much sugar I put in my tea. As in, I have some tea with my sugar. That didn’t change when I switched hemispheres. Most people in Buenos Aires have too much sugar and caffeine anyway. It’s because they stay up late and wake up early. Every kiosk on every corner has a variety of sweets and candy bars to give you a sugar boost any time of the day. The waiter probably doesn’t think anything of the three sugars I put in my tea. Either that or he’s used to it by now. I always have the same waiter.
When you walk into most shops in Buenos Aires, employees will immediately walk up to you and ask what you’re looking for. This makes sense for two reasons. One, they want to make a sale and two, direct contact with customers reduces shoplifting. Restaurants and cafés don’t work that way. Usually you walk in and find a table yourself. When the waiter notices you he gives you a menu. You have to wave him over when you’re ready to order. Take your time eating and sit for as long as you like, and then you have to get the waiter’s attention again for the bill.
Americans are used to attentive waiters so it’s frustrating the first few times you have to do that, but I don’t mind it much anymore. The locals are better at it than I am, but I’m getting there.