Saint Plotniko and the Livin' is Easy

Saturday morning, and the living is easy.
Bagels toasting, and the coffee is nigh.
Your Plotnik's fat, and his Duck is good looking.
So hush, little Plottie, don't you cry.

Stop your whinin' already.

Plot took to the hills on his plotkicycle this morning and thought he'd drop dead as a doornail before he got to the second hill. But he didn't. When he walked into the bagel shop the Korean lady greeted him like she always does, with a napkin to blow his nose into after his bike ride, and the owner scooped up six poppy seed bagels and a tub of cream cheese and put them in a bag. Plottie didn't have to say a word except "Thanks, guys."

Across the street at the farmer's market the Sikh in the blue turban hasn't changed his tune: "Oh Good Morning Sir I am giving you a sample?"



The unfortunate slide guitar player was there already, doing the world's second worst gig, playing for bratty babies at an outdoor farmer's market at 8am on a Saturday morning.**

The young Hmong (which does NOT rhyme, or at least Plotnik refuses to rhyme it) sold Plotnik his bunch of scallions and cilantro.

Koreans, Sikhs, African Americans, Hmong. Ain't none of that in southern South America. Just Latinos who look like Northern Italians and Basques.

The latte in Nef-Nik's U.F.'s Coffee mug was amazingly delicious.

Yesterday, the new wine selections came in the mail: a 2006 Zinfandel (Block 2), a Sangiovese and a new blend.

Last night Plotnik bbq'd fresh salmon with a Vietnamese dipping sauce, using the crispy method he learned in chile, where the salmon was really, really good.

No better than here, though.

(And as he hinted to you repeatedly, the beef in Argentina was no better than here either, and now Plotnik is going to admit something to you that will not do anything to better Argentine-American relations.

(Do you know where the very best beef was in Argentina? Not the vaunted ballyhooed lomos and bifes de chorizo and matambres and this cut and the other cut. The answer is:

McDonald's.

(The last day, while at Buenos Aires International Airport waiting for their plane journey to begin, Plot and Duck each had an Argentine version of a quarter pounder with cheese. One bite and they just stared at each other, open eyed.

(The deal is, Argentine beef tastes just like ours, and is better for you because it's all grass-raised without hormones, but it's tough tough tough. It's the chew that keeps on chewing.

(But take that beef, grind it, press it, roll it and put it on a bun: Priceless. All the taste and none of the work. And it's grass fed so it's not at all fatty.

(Sorry to admit it, and all you gourmet friends of Plotnik, you may now burn this blog.)



The three pictures are three of Plottie's favorites of the trip that don't have him or Ducknik in them: you are looking at the little house on the pampa which looks like any other picturesque farmhouse in the world except for the Serrano Glacier falling down the mountain behind it; above that is the motorcycle parked in the middle of nowhere, with the road winding away in the distance, taken at the end of the trail before the hike down and then up again to the Cave of the Painted Hands; and on top is the inside of gaucho Tiburcio Sayhuehue's house where the mate tasted so indescribably awful but the guitar was gloriously in tune.

You all knew this was coming: Plottie's back and happy to be here.

--------

** The piano player on the second floor at Nordstrom's.