Not our Night

I bet they'd have found the place easily enough.
We found them in a tango cabaret bar in San Telmo

It wasn't to be our night.

It was a Saturday night, in fact, so we thought we'd have a pre-dinner drink in a Buenos Aires bar warmly recommended in our guidebook.  I memorised the spot marked on the map, but not the actual address.  We never found it.

Henry had chosen the restaurant, a Turkish place.  We spotted it easily enough, and that it had closed down.

We tried a vegetarian place we'd noticed the day before, and took our seats.  Oops, no alcohol served, so we moved on to an Indian cafe around the corner.  No credit cards, on an evening when we'd run out of cash.

I headed for the cashpoint (hard to find, in this part of Buenos Aires.)   A message in Spanish appeared to tell me it, too, was out of cash that evening.

It was about midnight when we finished our dinner in the restaurant we eventually fell into -- walnut pasta for Henry, pork steaks for me, a bottle of local Malbec for us both, paid for on AmEx.  But we'd discovered that it is true what they say about South America.  At that time on a Saturday night the place isn't winding down, it's waking up.  So maybe it was our night, after all.

Lovely Argentinian family owners of B&B we stayed in in Buenos Aires.
Their English was better than our Spanish. 

John