Sugar Plate

So basically I have an hour to lie down before I go back to work at Sugar for cocktail waitressing, round 2. But last night was really fun and I got to go to my first River Plate fútbol game today, so I can’t really complain. Except today is the first day of National Pizza and Empanada Week (brought to you by whom else but pizzerias around the country) and when I came home starving I wanted to try the pizza from Piacere that I had fallen in love with the minute I saw its glossy color photograph image on the menu, but they weren’t turning the ovens on for another hour and could only offer me ham & cheese sandwiches on pan de miga, which I could get on any street corner.

Sugar
But anyway, waitressing was super-fun. I work for the British owners Mark and Con, who live exciting and sort of depressive lives – in a different girl each night kind of way – but they are fun and pay me in cash and take song requests as they take turns DJing from their Dell laptop, so it’s cool. I work with Pauli, a Colombian chick who was also new last night. The bartenders are Andres (the Chilean from Tuesday night,) Mallory (a Rhodes graduate from Tallahassee, FL,) Jamie (tall brunette from somewhere up north,) and Christy (an home-schooled Austinite who thinks dancing on the bar will get us more tips, but really it just slows bar service down during peak hours.) Santiago is our doorman, who makes a mean cup of coffee, and Malcom is our busboy. They’re all really nice, and the girls who bartend are around my age. Mallory even was a Tri-Delt with Sarah Galpern at Rhodes. Small world.

I felt like I was playing hostess to some big party that I didn’t have to pay for. I flitted around and asked everyone if they needed more to drink or if they wanted to see the menu. I primarily spoke in Spanish, because I figure if you live in Buenos Aires, you speak Spanish. On the occasion that I heard English or someone asked me where I was from (“Are you American?” “I would’ve guessed Californian.”) I would slip into English. When things were slow I cleaned out ashtrays and fluffed seat cushions (“You realize you don’t need to clean it out if there’s only one cigarette butt in it.” “Yes, but if I don’t stay busy I’ll get tired.”) The night ended at 5:30 am with chores and the doling out of tips and payment. In all I made $97 pesos, not bad considering I also was served a vodka-water, some sort of communal employee shot, an espresso, a mojito, a caiparihna, and a sparkling water. By no means did I consume all of these. I think the only drink I finished was the coffee. But Matt and Con kept saying I was doing a great job and rewarding me with drinks I didn’t want. So I would accept them with a sip and place them behind the bar.

Also, working at a bar with these people is like getting all the benefits of going out without having to deal with Latin (or tourist) boys as much. When you want to escape some flirtatious guy, you can say, “Oh I better get their order.” And when they want to go home with you, you tell them, “Well, I’m here until close so you might have to wait a while. Can I get you another drink?” Some English speakers (two Brits, an Australian, and a Michiganite) thought I was the owner because I was scurrying around so much to make sure everything was alright. Perhaps I have a new calling. Con, the more serious of the bar owners, said he was “really impressed” with me. And what can I say? I had fun. Perhaps it is the Southern hospitality in me.

Sidenote: Jenny asked me if I had to pick up people's glasses and stuff. "Yes, that's part of being a waitress." "Gross." What I wanted to say was, "I clean up your cups and plates, what's the difference?" But I bit my tongue. Something tells me she didn't get the "You're no better than anyone else" speech. Or the "No job is beneath you" speech either. She stayed out with some Colombian polo player until 8:30 in the morning (!) so she slept through the game.

Fútbol
Today’s River game was fun though. Annemarie called me a little before noon to see if I could meet her in 45 minutes to go with her, Damian, and Juan Jo. I was dressed and planning to check out some Recoleta sights, but I figured this game was a much better deal. So I scarfed down some breakfast at home and hopped on the subte to Belgrano. No sexual harassment this time. We stopped at a parilla stand to meet Juan Jo, where I caved and ate half a chorizo sandwich with repica chimichurri sauce. (They're my weakness.) It was spicy but I couldn’t eat it all. Then we headed over to Juan Jo’s dad’s house to pick up the revistas. Juan Jo publishes a magazine for Club Atlético River Plate, and he lets us use his press pass to get into the games, provided we help him pass out the free magazine. (He makes money from advertisers.) We get to the game about an hour early or so to put magazines in all of the private box seat rooms and give them to basically any authority figure in the building, as well as kids and fans. (Silvana is in Punta del Este, decorating a house for a friend. This is the only reason I was able to come.)

While Juan Jo does his thing we grab some coffee from one of the box seat area’s café stands, and then we find some unassumed seats under the awning because it looks like it might rain. It’s really cold today. Annemarie is wearing one of Damian’s sweatshirts because she still hasn’t found any winter clothes since her coat zipper broke the other week. (She is also wearing some River Plate underwear we found in this über-touristy shop over by Plaza de Mayo. After today’s victory, we have decided they are lucky.) Vendors in the stands sell black coffee and watered-down Coca-cola, as well as snacks like candied peanuts and Bon-o-Bon, a sort of peanut buttery alfajor. I snag one of those so I can have a mini merendia with my coffee at half time. When the guy sold me my $3 peso Dixie cup of sweetened black coffee, I tried to let it warm me up and I dunked my cookie into it, melting the chocolate coating and giving the crunchy cookie the effect of a Chips Ahoy cookie dunked in milk. Delicious. Games here are more refined than American sports. Although the complex is a bit run-down (funding is provided by the Club itself, not tax dollars) people sip coffee and eat croissants at the half, instead of hotdogs and beer. Hamburgers and hotdogs are available, though. Along with grilled onions and other condiments free of charge. That being said, the vocabulary used in the stadium is not refined. At the half the score was still 0 – 0, but eventually River pulled through with a goal against Huracán. The whole stadium (except the three sections blocked off as the opponents side) bursts out in an eruption of “¡Gol!’ It is a very exciting sight, although I feel a bit like a fraud since I know nothing of soccer.