Tag Archives: Food

Eat, Eat, Eat.

22 Jul

Today, a cab driver told me that the men here in Buenos Aires understand that Argentinian food is the best but the women are too busy dieting to appreciate the cuisine. Believe me, I’ve been too busy stuffing my face with chocolate covered churros filled with dulce de leche, glorious glorious meat and empanadas to even consider holding back. Who needs to diet when you can just put on the pants with the elastic waistband? I’m basically having an “Eat, Pray, Love” experience minus spiritualism, minus the romance. Yes, my travels are less cathartic than they are caloric.

(Meat) sweatpants

This doesn’t mean, however, that I’m not deathly afraid of returning to the States, looking like the small cow that I have undoubtedly consumed over the past week. And as this is obviously not the time and place for dieting, I must resort to exercise to remain human-shaped. Fortunately, our apartment complex has a rooftop gym. Unfortunately, this otherwise lovely building is home to the crappiest treadmill in the entire world.

Crappiest? That’s an awfully bold statement to make, you say? Well, trust me. If you had to run on it, you’d be on my side. I don’t particularly enjoy running and this treadmill isn’t sweetening the deal. First of all, the display doesn’t work, which means that you can’t tell how far or how long you’ve run.

This face accurately depicts how I feel about this treadmill.

But hey, we know that rate x time = distance, so as long as you carry your own watch you should theoretically be able to calculate your distance, right? Who needs a working display? I do…unless someone can tell me how fast a “fat burn” pace is.

The devil machine's speed adjuster.

Plus, unless they have their own personal televisions, treadmills, in general, bore me. This particular treadmill does not contain a TV but it does face a floor-length mirror. This way, I can admire my sweaty unattractiveness while suffering excruciating boredom. The other day, I literally had to yell (aloud) “KEEP RUNNING!!!” to keep myself from quitting. Mirror Courtney was looking pretty beat.

Is Argentinian food really worth all this trauma?

Decorative "sugar" crystals? Nope, it has to be meth. It's the only reasonable explanation as to why these churros are so addicting!

Why yes, yes it is.


(Wo)man vs. Food

4 Jun

I entered the ring a mere girl and left a champion.

When my friends from my semester abroad in Shanghai wanted to reunite, we figured a battle of appetites would be the perfect activity to rekindle our friendship. Of course, I was can’t-sleep-the-night-before excited. I’m not the most competitive person, nor am I the biggest eater but there’s something about eating competitions that ignites a passion within me. I think I just love talking smack, emasculating male friends and having an excuse to wear pants with elastic waistlines.

We arrived at my favorite all you can eat shabu shabu restaurant ready to eat…or should I say comp-eat. However, the restaurant apparently blatantly lied to me as they were, contrary to previous promises, closed on Memorial Day. Blood was rushing from my brain. My body felt weak. My soul ached. I was tempted to scavenge through the restaurant’s trash for leftover meat scraps. I wanted, nay, NEEDED copious and copious amounts of food. Remnants of dignity and a continued desire for gluttony persuaded us (well, me) out of the dumpster and instead, led us to a $11.95 Korean barbecue buffet.

Now, you can’t reasonably have high expectations at a buffet that costs less than $12. At the same time, when your blood sugar level is rapidly dropping you don’t have any standards, so it was a perfect marriage. The buffet consisted of a hodge podge of mediocre to decent Korean dishes, the prize being the barbecued short ribs. It seems like everyone else was in on this little secret because as soon as the waitress refilled the tray, hoards of diners would swarm in like Asian people on a new batch of ribs, literally. Competition was fierce. No matter how attentive I was, this Korean grandmother always somehow beat me to the front of the line. A true veteran buffet-er.

In the end, it was too difficult to gauge who really won so we changed the competition to a feat of endurance against fellow buffet patrons. The unsuspecting dimwits didn’t even realize they were in a competition. Rookie mistake. We stayed until closing and chalked up our first victory as a team.

That day, I learned a lesson in camaraderie, in perseverance, in sadness, in happiness. Most importantly, I learned that I don’t want to eat short ribs for the next three years. Apparently, my parents didn’t get the memo as I found this in the fridge when I returned home, exhausted and scarred from the war.

Ribs, it’s (unfortunately) what’s for dinner.