Fo'castle Waltz

Hastily I bought a ticket—a pretty good one—and spent a little more than I'd planned. Then I walked along the Avenida del Mayo for a short spell. The green-yellow street lights were coming on and that fashionable avenue looked dreary. I spent a little time poking around one of those flowery, bronze-dripping monuments that the French Beaux Arts sculptors delight in sticking up in the squares of the cities of South America. When I felt the cold wet night seeping through my jacket, I went hunting a reasonable restaurant not too far from the Teatro Colon.

The effect of the beer had worn off completely and I was cold as I tramped those side streets. I had found a place that looked pretty good. There were pagodas painted on the window and the sign said Cafe Oriental—a chop-suey joint! I walked in with confidence. Here at least I'd not have to eat Stek Caballero.

The place was empty—it must have been too early for dinner. I sat down at one of the tables and enjoyed the luxury of the first clean white tablecloth I'd seen in months. Then I opened the large cardboard menu to choose which one of the numerous chop sueys I'd like to eat. I always liked fried onions (and who doesn't?); the shredded shrimp, pork or beef which christens these vegetable stews I felt was never of much moment. So I galloped down the menu to Cocina China and found no chop suey at all—not even plain.

There were plenty of incomprehensible Spanish words preceded by "China," but nothing that even remotely resembled the mysterious hashes I'd eaten on Mott Street. Maybe here they really let themselves go. I'd been told there are things done with fat little puppy dogs, venerable fish eyes, and tender young rats I'd not like to meet up with hidden in a thick soybean, sauce.

A young Chinese waiter had come to my table and stood there waiting for my decision. Finally, I frankly asked him:

"Haven't you any chop suey at all?"

He just stood there, and when I repeated my question a little louder he broke out with a grin. He didn't understand a word of English!

For some reason that amazed and annoyed me. It seemed natural and I could understand these Argentinians not speaking our American English—but a Chinese waiter in a chop-suey joint—I tried repeating chop suey and varied the accent to get him to understand I wanted any one of the numerous combinations of fried onions, celery, etc., that his ancestral grandfathers had dreamed up on our West Coast long ago, the beggar's hash they call chop suey—but no dice. He giggled and just shrugged his shoulders, so I sadly ordered Stek Cabal-lero.

He took my order back to the kitchen and waited near the door until it was cooked for me. A sleazy young Argentinian who had come in and seated himself at one of the back tables there gave him the wink. My waiter walked over to his table, leaned over it, and they both snickered at me as they gabbled in Spanish. To them, I was funny!

The Stek Caballero which was finally served me was no different from a dozen or so I'd already eaten during the past week. After I downed it, I rapped for that smirking little waiter and asked for a Cafe Expresso with Martel cognac. He understood that all right and wasn't grinning any more when he served it.

There was one difference in that food and drink from any other I'd already had in Rio Santiago—it cost a lot more. After I paid my bill I found I had one peso and a few loose centavos left from my original wad. That settled everything. Unless something happened I'd have to get the last train back that night.

I looked up the train schedule that I had thoughtfully carried with me—the last train left at 10:30. I hunted my ticket for the Teatro Colon; the performance started at nine. Well, it looked as if I'd get one hour of Stravinski's Petrouchka or the Firebird, depending on which they started the evening with, before I'd have to dash for that last train to Rio Santiago.

It was too early for the opera. I sat there nursing my drink. There never was a little cup of cold black coffee that was coddled as carefully and as long as I fondled that Cafe Ex-presso. The restaurant was filling up, and my young waiter had flicked and straightened the cloth at my table about a dozen times before I finally took the hint and walked out.

I stood in a doorway out of the wind across from the big Teatro awhile, until I'd seen a few people enter who looked as if they might be some of the audience—patrons of the opera same as myself. Then I crossed over and, after giving my hair a quick lick with my pocket comb, straightened my tie, folded my wet collar back into place, gave my mustache a pinching twirl, and entered the big lobby of the Teatro Colon.