Running late, and encumbered by a large pan of still hot brownies, I decided to hail a taxi to a friend’s dinner party last night. “Que rico olor,” my driver greeted me as a slid into his dented, vaguely musty car. I had to agree: the brownies did smell good.
“What are you thinking getting into a taxi at this time of night with a big plate of brownies like that one there?” my driver asked. He sounded a little irritated.
“Well, I’m headed to a friend’s dinner,” I said, caught slightly off guard. Since when did taxistas tell people to find another driver in Argentina?
“No, no, it’s okay,” the driver said, realizing that I was a foreigner and not entirely accustomed to the particulars of Argentine taxi drivers. “This time of night is tough, though... some cute girl gets in your taxi with two dozen empanadas, you know, homemade empanadas, and I haven’t had anything since lunch! Sometimes I give a girl a couple pesos off her fare for an empanada or two. Did you make those?”
“Yeah. Brownies are easy,” I said, warming up to my driver and his commentary as we passed by the cathedral.
“That’s what I tell my girlfriend, but she’ll only make them out of the box! It’s what, six ingredients? I used to make them with my mom.”
I could tell what he was thinking, but the brownies weren’t cut yet. I had no way to give him one short of digging into the tray with my fingers, which I was not about to do. “Lo siento, che...” I said. “No, it’s okay,” the taxista said. “I’m going to get some empanadas soon.”
When I arrived at my friend’s apartment, I was 15 minutes late: early, even, by Argentine standards. The brownies were still warm. As I slipped out of the taxi, the driver looked over his shoulder and said, “I hope they’re good. Maybe I’ll make some this weekend.”
“What are you thinking getting into a taxi at this time of night with a big plate of brownies like that one there?” my driver asked. He sounded a little irritated.
“Well, I’m headed to a friend’s dinner,” I said, caught slightly off guard. Since when did taxistas tell people to find another driver in Argentina?
“No, no, it’s okay,” the driver said, realizing that I was a foreigner and not entirely accustomed to the particulars of Argentine taxi drivers. “This time of night is tough, though... some cute girl gets in your taxi with two dozen empanadas, you know, homemade empanadas, and I haven’t had anything since lunch! Sometimes I give a girl a couple pesos off her fare for an empanada or two. Did you make those?”
“Yeah. Brownies are easy,” I said, warming up to my driver and his commentary as we passed by the cathedral.
“That’s what I tell my girlfriend, but she’ll only make them out of the box! It’s what, six ingredients? I used to make them with my mom.”
I could tell what he was thinking, but the brownies weren’t cut yet. I had no way to give him one short of digging into the tray with my fingers, which I was not about to do. “Lo siento, che...” I said. “No, it’s okay,” the taxista said. “I’m going to get some empanadas soon.”
When I arrived at my friend’s apartment, I was 15 minutes late: early, even, by Argentine standards. The brownies were still warm. As I slipped out of the taxi, the driver looked over his shoulder and said, “I hope they’re good. Maybe I’ll make some this weekend.”
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