I wish the velvet had been seductive! And I wish that I had gotten, then, as drunk as I am now. I’m obviously joking! I’m not drunk! I am ignorant of the taste of any drink with an alcoholic graduation higher than secondary school. Oh, well, if I fail to build myself into a funny bohemian media character, I will have confessed my alcoholism online profusely enough, as to have made myself unemployable. I hope you’re glad, aunt Gabbie! Yes, I should have gone to Med School! I shouldn’t have gone to Tazz.
Last Sabbath, an engineering student friend of mine, an event planning student friend of mine, a veterinary student friend of mine, an illustration student friend of mine, and I, went out to Palermo, to celebrate the illustrator’s birthday. First, we went to a little vintage fair, then to Distrito Arcos, where upper-middle class people pretend that they’re not shopping at an outlet store. Afterwards, we went to Tazz. Tazz is a two-storied complex(?) that has, on its ground floor, a couple of pool tables preceded by a bar, where, surrounded by vodka bottles, two TVs hang side by side; on its first floor, three pool tables, and the worst bathrooms we had ever been too; and, on the second floor, was a saturated little bar, to whose left was a receptacle where to dance.
We were welcomed by a young woman, to whom I wouldn’t know which adjectives to apply, who lead us to our reserved table. We hadn’t been warned that we’d be sitting in a velvet booth. We didn’t complain. We sat down, and noticed a horrid aroma, similar to that to be found when turning one’s head towards an open armpit, when travelling by train. This is the first instance, in which, when remembering this thing that happened so recently, I asked myself: “Aaron, darling- Why didn’t you ask if you could change tables?”
- We were sitting near the door, which was left open, so we could get used to the smell. Sooner than later, we didn’t perceive it anymore.
- We wanted to give the place a try, and we’re young. Demanding good service is disrespectful, so one should reserve their complaints for the worst of events. i.e.: I can’t complain about the smelly booth! What if there’s a cockroach in my drink?!
Another young woman who was doing her best, a – In spite of being the son of an immigrant, I’m horrid at recognizing accents, so I could never tell if our waitress was Colombian, Venezuelan, or a Cuban sister. It’d be more likely for her to be Venezuelan, so: Another lovely young woman who did her best, a Venezuelan immigrant, brought us three menus, whose pages where plasticized and stuck together.
I wanted to order a spinach soup, which was about AR$160 (U$S8), but I might be misremembering. They didn’t have any left. I ordered a quinoa burger instead.
I’ll speak of us, as if we had already graduated, because it’s the best that we’ll have in this regard: The illustrator tried to order a bagel, but they had no bagels left. She ordered a burger instead. Only three friends of mine seemed to have luck on their side: The engineer, who ordered a gigantic burger that would cost him about $200 (U$S10), the veterinarian ordered a vegan wrap, and the wedding planner, who went for chimichanga tacos or some other insult to Mexico and its lovely people. As an entry, we ordered a portion of fries with cheddar cheese, that we’d share.
Oh! We tried to drink too, at least U$S10 for a burger and I, tried to. He was the beneficiary of a promotion that promised two fernets for the price of one, and I ordered a Bombay Gin&Tonic. I was notified, a while later, that there was no Bombay left. I then replaced my order for a Beefeater Gin&Tonic.
The drinks arrived. Those who had ordered sodas, didn’t receive a 500 ml. bottle each, like it’s customary, but glasses filled to the brim with WHO THE FUCK KNOWS WHAT. Argentinians do not trust other Argentinians. We need to have the goddamn bottle before us, otherwise, we suspect that by drinking whatever is provided to us, we’re helping our future kidnappers.
After half an hour, the fries arrived. They were pre-packed fries, the cheddar cheese wasn’t cheese, and, instead of bringing us all forks, two of us were provided with brochette sticks. After quickly calculating how much money my parents must have spent on me, I called the waitress and asked for a fork. It took us few more minutes, to clean the plate.
Few tables were occupied. Five, perhaps. An hour passed. Everything arrived cold. The burger had the consistency of whatever one’d find in the plate of an orphan, living under the English State’s custody, in 1856. I pressed it with my fork, and it sunk like a paste. It was a paste. It was a horridly tasteless paste.
The burgers were freezing, the Mexican thing was freezing too. The vegan wrap was art. It was abstract art. It was the culinary rendition of sadness.
The pool tables were located far too close to each other, and far too close to surrounding tables. The club was just tiny, and the songs were muffled.
The bathroom floors had a weird pattern, made by white tiles, and the spaces where white tiles should have been. In a sink, was an action painting made with shit. The trash cans were overflowing with used toilet paper. Everything was a mess.
We tipped. It must be horrid to leave a communist dictatorship, to have your income depending upon delivering cold paste to bourgeois cunts who clean their asses with their hands. Horrid! Horrid! That’s that. My head hurts from all the complaining.