Photo by Ryan Bird: http://www.redbubble.com/people/theblackazar

[The city] carries on its lapel the unexpungeable odor of the long past, so that no matter where you sit in New York you feel the vibrations of great times and tall deeds, of queer people and events and undertakings.

- E.B. White, “Here is New York“

Troy Johnson spent the 1960s at the helm of disco in Brooklyn. In the 1970s, he opened a boutique in the West Village and feasted on soul food at the Pink Teacup, where John Lennon also loved to eat.

He spent the 1980s as a man of leisure, traveling around Europe and falling in love in Brazil (After bringing his lover back to New York, they couldn’t make it work).

By 1995 his money ran out, and he started to drive a taxi. Even though he’s losing his hearing (I had to shout my questions at him through the partition – was it the years at the disco?), he’s still at it after fifteen years.

When my co-adventurers and I hopped into Troy’s back seat, he told us “you’re not gonna get rich driving a cab.” And that his girlfriend of 18 years had just left him “because I wouldn’t get married.”

“I said it from the beginning,” he said, “But she hung around. If a guy ain’t gonna marry you after three years, you better hit the road.”

He admitted he was having a hard time letting go of his ex. To ease the pain, he’d just picked up turkey wings, smothered pork and pig’s feet from RCL Enterprises, the soul food restaurant that’s going to be the subject of Part 2 of this adventure.

When we asked the cabbie – who grew up in Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn and now lives in Union Square – about his favorite food in Manhattan, he led us to El Quijote, the Spanish restaurant where he’s been eating paella valenciana since 1958.

“And the restaurant’s even older than that!” he said.

Judging from the polyester uniforms on the middle-aged waiters, the fading windmill mural on the wall, the music from “Cats” and “Evita” that piped through the speakers, and the gold balloons on the ceiling in the bar advertising the restaurant’s 80th anniversary, Troy was right.

We spread linen napkins across our laps, eyed the pink and blue neon, and squinted at the long, leather-bound menu, where I read that the Minister of Spain had declared El Quijote “the best Spanish restaurant of any country in the world outside of Spain” in 2002. The dining room was empty except for us.

We ordered a half pitcher of “secret sangria…from the same coveted recipes passed on for generations by [owner] Manny’s family.” It was as smooth and fruity and dangerous as any we’d tasted in Spain. Delicious – especially for $16.

While we waited for Troy’s paella valenciana ($19.95), we went crazy over the side salads that came with the pollo quijote lunch special ($12.95) we ordered. Rather, we went crazy over the dressings: blue cheese that was as thick and chunky as my grandma’s and a punchy vinaigrette loaded with onions and red peppers.

The seafood in Troy’s paella – jumbo shrimp, plump mussels, giant clams – was impressive, too. Apparently owner Manny Ramirez harbors a Spaniard’s obsession for fish. According to his menu, “he was the first to establish his own fishing boats along the coast of Maine so as to offer generous portions with the emphasis always on FRESH.” We could taste that freshness, even if the rice was overcooked and so much chorizo made the dish too salty.

The chef had also been heavy-handed with the salt in our pollo quijote. But we still appreciated the combination of onions, garlic, olive oil, tomato and red wine that had worked its way into chicken thighs that we cut with butter knives. We left a side of over-fried potatoes pretty much alone, overwhelmed by the portion sizes. The two dishes we’d ordered could have easily fed four people.

I lingered over a cup of “El Quijote’s famous Spanish coffee,” which turned out to be a justifiably famous cafe con leche that for some reason got me thinking about E.B. White, who believed that “no matter where you sit in New York, you feel the vibrations of great times and tall deeds.”

Nowhere was this more true than at El Quijote – and in the back seat of Troy’s cab.

El Quijote – Map it
226 West 23rd St. (between 7th and 8th Aves) – Chelsea
Tel. 212-929-1855
Open: Sun-Thu, noon-midnight; Fri-Sat, noon-1am
Credit cards accepted
www.elquijoterestaurant.com

“I don’t have very sophisticated food tastes,” the taxi driver said, “I really like eating at the Coto food court in Ciudadela.”

When I explained that we were looking for something a little more soulful than a superstore cafeteria, the taxista radioed his fellow cabbies for help. No one responded.

I tried to beat back my despair.

The taxi driver picked up his cell phone.

“My sister’s dating a guy who really likes to eat. I bet he could recommend a place.”

My co-adventurer and I listened intently to the one-sided conversation that would determine our lunch fate.

“Hola Mirta. Soy Horacio. ¿Qué tal? Look, I have some tourists in my cab that want to go somewhere for lunch. No, not Puerto Madero. Does Diego know any good places around your neighborhood? Spanish food? His brother lives in Spain? Where’s the place?”

Horacio made a quick left. He was taking us to a Spanish restaurant where Mirta’s boyfriend brought his brother when he was visiting from Madrid.

“He says it’s good. He’s a real exquisito. He should know.”

Was I breaking my rules by eating at a place where the taxista had never tasted the food? Sure.

But how could I refuse a cabbie willing to go to the trouble of calling his sister for a restaurant recommendation? And how could I get out of Horacio’s taxi after learning that he was working seven days a week to save money for his oldest daughter’s Quinceañera?

Our destination decided, we drove out of the Buenos Aires I knew and penetrated a grid of sycamore-lined streets and two-story houses.

“Where are we?” I wondered aloud.

“In Buenos Aires, taxi drivers orient themselves by soccer teams – not by neighborhood,” Horacio said, “Right now, we’re in Argentinos Juniors territory. I guess that would be Paternal or Floresta.”

With that, the snowy-haired cabbie pulled up to Rincón Hispano and bade us goodbye.

I took one look at the lace fans, fringe shawls and guitars on the exposed brick walls – and one whiff of garlic and olive oil and seafood comingled – and thanked Horacio, his sister and her boyfriend.

The dining room was heavily populated with families, couples and locals of every generation. We slid into one of the last free tables, just below a bull-fighting poster.

A quick-footed server offered us a shot of chilled sherry – free to sip while we perused the menu. Sunday conversation echoed around us while Lionel Ritchie danced on the ceiling.

We ordered a merluza (hake fish) and shrimp stew.

I began conjuring up memories of the seafood cazuelas I’d tasted in northern Spain, hoping that this restaurant’s rendition might transport me back to those stomach-caressing flavors.

It was not to be. Though the poached hake fish fell off the bone, the shrimp were past their prime. The fried potato slices on the side – crisp and golden and salted with care – nearly rescued the stew, but they couldn’t make up for a tomato sauce that drew inspiration from dried herbs that should’ve been ditched months ago.

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so was our path to Rincón Hispano. Still, we wished our hard-working taxista well – flawed food radar, upcoming Quinceañera and all.

I do believe we get everything we ask for – whether we’re conscious of it or not. Which is why I’m not surprised that after a week of wondering about the pasta at El Español, taxista José granted my unspoken wish and delivered me there last Thursday. No fooling. I have witnesses to prove it.

José is from Quilmes, a working class suburb south of Buenos Aires where the Quilmes Indians were ‘relocated’ from the Tucumán province centuries ago.

He worked for Dupont until he was 28 (“I’m still in love with that company. Working there, I felt like a man.”), where he met his girlfriend. After the factory packed up and moved to another country, José started driving a taxi.

Despite 20 years behind the wheel, he knows little about restaurants in Buenos Aires.

“But every now and then,” he said, “I meet los chicos [i.e. other cabbies] at El Español.”

After picking Jose’s brain and assuring ourselves that he didn’t have other treasures hiding in his taste memory, we said ‘yes’ to El Español.

The taxista drove south, out of Abasto and into Once. When we crossed Avenida Rivadavia, he pointed out El Cafe de los Angelitos and started singing the lyrics to a tango of the same name:

¡Café de los Angelitos!…
Yo te alegré con mis gritos [I made you happy with my shouts]
en los tiempos de Carlitos [in the era of Carlos (Gardel)]
por Rivadavia y Rincón. [on Rivadavia and Rincón]

Two blocks later, he braked in front of El Español, wished us luck, and returned to the night.

It was 10.30pm – peak dinner hour. Every single table at the two story restaurant was occupied. My co-adventurers and I lingered in the doorway, waiting for a spot, and scanned the Quilmes-swilling crowd. We were the only foreigners.

A sign on the wall read:

“On busy days, we ask for your consideration and request that you don’t stay too long. You’ll be rewarded when you’re the one waiting.”

They seated us in five minutes.

A waiter in a red polyester vest flashed us an amused smile and handed us a menu of many pages. On his recommendation, I ordered sorrentinos (round pasta stuffed with ham and cheese) with pink sauce. My co-adventurers went for beef cannelloni with Béchamel and tomato sauces, chorizo sausage and French fries.

Our feast took longer to prepare than I anticipated, and judging from the size of the hungry crowd, I guessed that the kitchen was backed up. I could picture the infernal frenzy behind the swinging door – burners on high, ovens seething, cooks moving at industrial speed – and I was glad I wasn’t part of it.

When the sorrentinos arrived overcooked, split and missing much of their filling, I thought there might be some truth behind the kitchen scenario I imagined.

Thankfully, the chorizo – smoky, tender and not too fatty – saved the meal. The cannelloni held its own, too. Despite being too heavy on the Béchamel, the paper-thin pasta was delicate, the beef filling carefully seasoned with fresh parsley and red peppers. The three of us ate all of this, and washed it down with soda and water, for less than $20US.

No, El Español may not serve cuisine for the guidebooks. But in a city where turbulence often rules, and where posted prices and official inflation rates are fictional, it’s easy to see why the restaurant draws such a large, loyal clientèle. Honest, fiercely local, ridiculously cheap food will win you fans any day of the week.

Thanks to its abundant, cheap food, several cabbies have recommended El Español to me over the course of these taxi adventures. But the restaurant has always been an addendum, a suggestion that’s arrived only after they’ve delivered me someplace else.

If the Irish writer Richard Steele is correct, if “a woman seldom writes her mind but in her postscript,” I wondered if the same could apply to Buenos Aires cab drivers and their food recommendations.

Last week, I set out with my long-suffering co-adventurer from Australia to find out whether El Español deserves more than an afterthought.

Everything about the place was no-nonsense: the appetite-inducing red and yellow color scheme, the fluorescent lights, the hard-working air conditioner, the white numbers stenciled onto table legs, the TV tuned to Crónica news, and the crowd of local families, taxi drivers, and couples that packed the dining room.

Our server appeared in a flash, handing us book-length menus. We turned page after laminated page, addled by the selection and astonished by the prices.

Grilled chicken for 7 pesos (about U$2.50)? Meatballs and mashed potatoes for 9 pesos (U$3)? Choripán (sausage sandwich) for 3 pesos (U$1)? No wonder taxistas adore El Español – the food is cheaper than the street carts on the Costanera Sur.

We started with a fresh and generous ensalada completa (with spinach, potatoes, hard-boiled egg, beets, carrots, tomatoes and white rice) and moved on to merluza al pimentón (poached hake fish with paprika and boiled potatoes).

The fish was moist and well-prepared, but, as my co-adventurer pointed out, drowned in a bitter pool of cheap corn oil. We perked it up with a squeeze of lemon but decided that next time we’d order pasta (On our way out, we noticed a roomful of men making ravioli, gnocchi, and fettucini).

Yes, there will be a next time at El Español, as I suspect there are treasures to be discovered on that vast menu.

And if nothing else, I know I’ll get my money’s worth.