They’d run out of lasagne by the time I got to Frankie Franks last Friday. An hour on the subway and twenty minutes trekking through the Bronx to taste the dish that cabbie Mohamed had recommended with so much enthusiasm had led to a dead end.
Of course I was disappointed. I silently cursed the
Buenos Aires, 1955. An Italian immigrant named Luigi opens a nondescript cantina on the corner of Billinghurst and Valentín Gomez in Almagro.
Musicians and singers – including tango-singing legend Roberto Goyeneche – begin to gather there. Soccer stars, poets and painters follow. Don Carlos flourishes, but Luigi grows tired of the glam and sells the
Tennessee Williams said that “Some mystery should be left in the revelation of character in a play, just as a great deal of mystery is always left in the revelation of character in life.”
I would add that a great deal of mystery is always left in the revelation of character in a taxicab. Especially
The Anglo-Irish novelist Elizabeth Bowen says that “experience isn’t interesting until it begins to repeat itself – in fact, till it does that, it hardly is experience.”
I tried to keep this idea in mind when Cacho, an ex-butcher who started driving a taxi after the Argentine economy crashed in 2001, dropped off my vegetarian
“I don’t eat lunch,” the taxista said, “I only eat fruit when I’m driving. I have to take care of myself, you know?”
Take care of himself he did. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve assumed that the bald cabbie in the sky-blue sweater vest had just come from a day spa. Such was
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