Of the glory that is SarkisPosted: May 13, 2011 Filed under: Food, Language and text Leave a comment
Last evening, oh readers of mine, I went out for dinner to celebrate that little baby chil’ whose birth you read about in my previous post. (Worry not: no baby talk follows–even if I am an Aunt, I remain committed to dark humor, an extremely guarded optimism, and a deep appreciation for the futile).
The selected restaurant was Sarkis. It happens to be the first place I ate a meal in this country, lo those many months ago. Sarkis serves Mediterranean food in the posh Palermo neighborhood. There is always a line and those crowded around the entrance waiting are usually highly attractive porteños between the ages of 25 and 35–though a few of the jet-setting older crowd join in as well. As it happens, I very consistently arrive a bit before the folks I plan to dine with and thus have ample time to gaze, longingly, at the bearded hipster types* and their outrageously attractive girlfriends as they smoke and chat on the corner waiting for their names to be called.
It’s really a scene. The doorman is megalomaniacal. If you know him well enough to exchange kisses, you get bumped up on the list. Each time I’ve gone up to put my own name in I can see the joy of absolute power light up his eyes–especially when he notes the foreign accent.
But once you do get in, it is sooooo worth it. Some of the best food I’ve had in this city. Falafel, tabbouleh, hummus (although why they won’t use the fantastic olive oil this country produces is beyond me–even if whatever it is they are using is a cost-cutter). Last night we went with lamb kabobs, a Greek salad, and one of the greatest versions of vegetarian moussaka I’ve ever eaten. And oh did we eat. ALL of it. Plus dessert and Turkish coffee. Walking a few blocks after our dinner to catch a cab home one of my comrades and I were dangerously close to passing into a cuisine-induced coma.
Ahhh, Sarkis. How I adore thee. Tonight, for dinner, I’ve been invited to a friend’s house for Colombian cuisine. So, off I must go, in search of the avocados I’m charged with supplying. Happy eating, readers, wherever you are!
*I’m no longer sure if this is an appropriate expression in English. Here, in Spanish, it is common to refer to a man (not necessarily a hipster, just any fellow) as “un tipo.” It functions as a very informal pronoun, though my sense is that it can, if inappropriately deployed, be derogatory. It is also quite common to refer to a man as “el man,” although this may be more common among the Colombian crowd. “El man,” if mishandled, can also be derogatory.