Croque Madame - Avenida del Libertador 1902, Recoleta

On the recommendation of a porteña friend I go in search of Croque Madame. For what could possibly be more civilised than afternoon coffee and cake when you have just paid a visit - albeit a fleeting one - to the Museo de Bellas Artes. Set back a little from the great expanse of traffic of Avenida del Libertador, I try to find a table towards the back of the cafe to escape the chugging pulsation of the cars passing by. Cited as the fourth noisiest city in the world, peace and quiet in Buenos Aires are luxuries only the wealthy can afford in their immaculate serviced penthouse apartments, shielded from the cacophony of outside by glass-fronted air-conditioned edifices. 

My well-founded fear of being sunburned draws me to a shaded table. To my left, two forty-something women, friends who have a lot of catching up to do is my guess, are about to embark on indulgent quantities of cake and milky cappuccinos. To my right, a work-and-childcare juggling mother sits at her laptop, professionally groomed and perfectly manicured. She sips the smallest, neatest espresso, while her six-year-old daughter, wearing plastic Minnie Mouse ears, propels herself around a parasol stand trying to get my, or anyone else’s, momentary attention.

Torta de Maracuyá y Café con Crema

Content in my people-watching I negotiate the menu, deciding on Café con Crema and a half serving of Torta de Maracuyá (passion fruit tart). Pre-warned by the sight of my neighbours' heaving portion sizes I am confident a half helping will suffice. As I settle down to read my book, the trickle of the fountain behind me, the sun - not too hot on this Thursday afternoon - and the steady hum of chatter are all seductively calming. The slice of tart and coffee are served, perfectly executed, by the affable bow-tied waiter. I try to make the rich yet deliciously tangy tart last, the setting calls more for delicate nibbling than greedy devouring, and manage to make a good effort.

Croque Madame is a place for treating yourself, or a friend. A place where ladies lunch, be-suited men have meetings, gallery-goers take stock; a tiny haven in an otherwise boisterous city.

El Malecón - Punta del Diablo, Uruguay

"If we go in, it will fill up straight away, we just have to be the first", I reassure Kate. We are debating whether to go into El Malecón, a beach side eatery in Punta del Diablo, a fishing-village-turned-beach-destination in Uruguay, located about one hour from the Brazilian border. It being 8pm when we tentatively set foot inside the haphazardly-formed shack there is not another diner in sight, but the promise of fried seafood and icy caipirinhas lures us in regardless. We are here for the limbo-like period between Christmas and New Year, to shake off the thickness of Buenos Aires for a few days.

The restaurants in Punta are not remarkable for the diversity of their offerings; most serve various fried seafood snacks tapas-style, barbecued fish and meat and the ubiquitous Chivito, famed national dish of Uruguay. Chivito consists of several types of meat - thinly sliced sirloin beef, ham and bacon - piled high and topped with a fried egg making for a heap of salty protein-based goodness. It is served either in a roll, making a monstrous burger, or accompanied by french fries - or for the very brave, both.

While the variety of food may not be entirely inspired in this sleepy seaside town, the ready and affordable availability of seafood is enough to make us smile with anticipation. We order a mixed platter which comprises rabas (calamari), miniaturas (fish goujons) mejillones al ajo (mussels with garlic) and buñuelas de alga, a local delicacy of ping-pong ball sized deep-fried seaweed doughnuts. Washed down with lemon caipirinhas, it makes for the perfectly untainted taste of beach holiday.

We each order a second caipirinha, then a pancake to share, spurred on by the cachaca and sugar buzz. Topped with sautéed apple slices, excessive syrup and scoops of cream, the dessert is cloyingly sweet, but we find it in ourselves to greedily finish it anyway. We are on holiday after all.

By the time we leave, the place is full of hungry surfers, sun-bathers and travellers, huddled together watching the sun go down as the year draws close to it's end.

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Happy New Year to you all, thank you for following the blog thus far. Here’s to many more wonderful culinary experiences in the coming year, mostly back on familiar ground in BA.

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Chifa Man-San - Perú 832, San Telmo

A Chinese restaurant run by Peruvians may seem like a strange mingling of cultures but it is not altogether uncommon in La Ciudad de la Furia (Buenos Aires' pseudonym according to the 80s Argentine rock band, Soda Stereo). We are after a few drinks and some hefty food to soak up the cheap wine we have just sophisticatedly sipped from plastic cups, at the opening of an art exhibition in  Centro Cultural Borges.

I have been warned by my two companions, who are regulars at this straight up no-frills eatery, that under no circumstances should I try any seafood or fish on the menu; the only things that are safe are vegetarian or meat-related. Indeed, as a steaming pile of squid rings are served up at the next table Enrica pulls a mock-concerned face from across the table, conspiratorially whispering 'suerte!' (good luck) under her breath before laughing. This does not fill me with any deep sense of confidence in the food I am about to consume, but if my dining companions are regular and loyal patrons then I am in good hands, right?

We choose two rice dishes to share between the three of us, one with chicken and mushrooms, one egg-fried with vegetables. I am keen to try the dish named Felicidad para todos (translated helpfully into English on the menu, 'Happiness for all') for novelty's sake but the high price tag suggests an insurmountable expanse of food which would necessitate a doggy bag or three. I make a mental note to make a return visit with five or six hungry friends, on the proviso that what we eat tonight is decent. Fabricio orders the dishes, asking for three plates for serving, big portions, and for the food to be made with 'mucho amor', to which the pint-sized no-nonsense Peruvian waitress gives a bemused smile. He also tells her about my blog-writing endeavours in a bid to blag extra generous portions and/or free drinks, but she remains utterly unmoved, and judging by how busy the place is, she has no reason to be otherwise.

Inbetween talk about Maradona, greasy spoon cafes in London, dancing tango, and the exhibition we have just seen, we hungrily ladle the rice onto our plates, top up our beer glasses, eat and drink. The only obvious concession to Peruvian cuisine is the tiny saucer of salsa picante which sits like an afterthought beside the soy sauce and is reminiscent of the kind you get in Peruvian restaurants to dip bread in at the beginning of a meal. It all tastes good, not astoundingly so, but freshly prepared and made with love, as requested.

The total bill including a generous tip comes to a total of ninety pesos (less than £14) for the three of us, this is clearly the place that Argentine inflation forgot. Sated and happy we go off into the night in the direction of a milonga, sustained by our full bellies and the expectations of the night.