Last Tuesday Pedro invited Ben and me to dinner at this authentic Argentine place that apparently is reminiscent of Salta: El Sanjuanino on Posadas y Callao. Considering its location, it appears to be a total dive. It had been written up in the New York Times, and the yellowed paper hangs framed on the wall. I had already eaten, but I try not to reject invitations from Pedro, so I sat down with the two boys and we split a pingüino of wine. They poured a half bottle into this ceramic penguin. I was obsessed. The wine wasn't bad either. Since penguins are native to Patagonia, they are in a way a symbol of Argentina. They're not quite as popular now, as Kirchner is from Patagonia and they call him "El Pingüino," sometimes you hear Cristina referred to as "La Pingüina," but usually she's just "La Puta." (Don't ask me to translate.)
Anyway, Annemarie and I got lost today (she counts subte stops, I look at names. Apparently she miscounted) and as we made our way to the Design District to find some things for her new digs, I saw this little fellow in the window of some hodge-podge store chock full of random kitchen utensils. Seriously, it kind of looked like a thrift store tucked in among hipster boutiques and cafes. I felt like I stepped into a Mexican flea market. But at $16 pesos, the pingüino went home with me.
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