My last weekend shift before I take off for two months of taxi adventures in Berlin was my last chance to hunt down an empanada that would measure up to Daniel Beccaria's Buenos Aires standards.
May 13, 2007: Rosa, my bikini waxer from the northwestern province of Tucumán, is trying to distract me as she rips my hair from unspeakable places. “You really write about food?” she says. “Yes,” I gasp, holding still as she attacks some stubborn strands with tweezers, “Right now I’m obsessed with empanadas.” She laughs
Flirtation is a fact of life in Argentina. Whether you’re walking down the street, buying a pack of gum, wrangling with the bureaucrats at immigration, or getting you’re teeth cleaned, the men in this country openly exercise their right to pour on the charm. Taxistas are no exception – in fact, I’ve grown so
“Some of us have to work for a living.” The taxi driver didn’t actually say it, but I could read the words in his eyes. “I’m a taxi driver,” he said, “I don’t have a favorite restaurant because I eat every meal at home.” He bent over, removed a binder from underneath the passenger