Habla Inglés?

I am a peruser. When given a menu, I like to study every detail, slowly review each line before making a decision about which item will cross my real palate instead of just lingering in the sensory frontier of my imagination.

At least, this is so the first time I eat at any restaurant. If I find a dish I really like, such as the L'Italanio I am currently enjoying at Vesta on 30th Avenue in Astoria, I simply feign interest in the menu and order the same thing each time.

I've written about Vesta before, but it's worth another mention. They have gained popularity since my last visit, and at just before noon on a Sunday, although not full, there is a solid, lively young crowd.

The L'Italanio is a tasty dish with two poached eggs over hot sopressata and ricotta on perfectly toasted slabs of bread accompanied by savory home fries. The spiciness of the sopressata is perfectly balanced by the creamy ricotta, and the gooey yolk of the poached egg adds a delicious richness. The man at the bar next to me ordered the Warm Bankie which consists of fried eggs over polenta with asparagus and mushrooms. I have order envy, which is exactly what I deserve for being so boring as to order the same dish for the third time. The pancakes and the thick whole wheat French toast also look delicious.

I suspect that there is much more to be discovered here at Vesta. I just overheard someone on staff giving a brief tutorial about Fragolino, a sparkling wine with a strawberry flavor that can be mixed with Prosecco to reduce the sweetness. Next time I will have to order one of those!

Well, as often happens when I try to eat and write at the same time, I've meandered from my original point. When I first sit at a restaurant, I study the menu, and each word holds weight. One simple ingredient or cooking term could promote or demote an entire dish from its status on the list of possibilities.

Sometimes ordering can get a little stressful. What if the waiter comes by prematurely, and I am pressured in to making an early decision? What if I haven't given the menu enough careful attention and order a dish that will not satisfy the precarious balance of craving, taste preference and health consciousness that exist within me at that moment?

Oh, yes, I know. It's just a meal, but each meal is an opportunity to enjoy the ultimate gastronomic experience.

This ordering obsession (some may call it a sickness) is, of course, fully dependent upon understanding the language in which the menu is written. In Argentina, I was illiterate. If the answer to my question, 'Habla Ingles?' was 'No,' then I was screwed. Ordering for meals in the company of Spanish-speaking friends was only slightly enabling. After a few initial questions, I began to feel like a pest, and stopped asking. I would have had to ask about every word on the menu in order to make a proper decision.

Some restaurants had enough tourists that they would bring an English menu to the table, but this did not guarantee understanding. For example, I ordered a salad with some mystery dressing called "golf sauce" and received a gorgeous plate of greens topped with an enormous dollop of some mayo-based concoction reminiscent of Thousand-Island dressing.

By my last night in Argentina, I had given up trying to decipher menus. I went to a restaurant without English-speaking staff for an authentic Argentine meal. The hotel desk clerk had told me, "We eat meat. You could eat a whole cow and that would be authentic to Argentina."

At the restaurant he suggested, I ordered 'bife de chorizo' which, with my limited Spanish, I assumed was a type of chorizo sausage made with beef instead or pork. It was instead a steak the size of my head. Since I tend to eat meat like a side dish rather than a main course, I barely made a dent in that huge piece of flesh.

That meal had other problems, such as my choosing salad greens that were foreign to me and tasted exceedingly spicy and bitter. I had also poured chimichurri over my salad thinking it was dressing. Then, I was harassed by a drunk patron while the entire waitstaff and several other diners watched uninspired to say or do anything to intervene. Not knowing how to say "f___ you" in Argentine Spanish, was at that moment, a huge disappointment. I settled for "la cuenta, por favor," which means "check please."

I did learn a few Spanish basics while traveling, but it was still a struggle. V. lent me a Spanish phrase book before leaving Argentina, but it couldn't help me say things like, "I know you are taking me for a ride, a very long unnecessary ride, and I refuse to pay the extra fare" to a taxi driver. Taxi drivers, forgive me, but this is a problem that knows no international boundaries. In fact, I think I am going to learn that phrase in whichever language is appropriate before I go anywhere in the future.

My first night at a hostel in Mendoza, the language difficulties became laughable. The hostel was not as nice as rumors led me to believe. I was trying to ask about checking out, but it was midnight and no one spoke much English. So instead, I found myself in an empty bar drinking cerveza and watching "football" with Pedro, who spoke only Spanish, and Rinaldo, an Italian guest, who did speak English but was already thinking in two other languages. For one night, it was an acceptable alternative.

I relived a bit of Argentina on Friday night by hosting a small group of friends who came over to enjoy the Argnetinian wine and chocolate I lugged home in my backpack. I made two pizzas: one with an Italian-sausage Bolognese and smoked mozzarella and one with pesto, ricotta and fresh asparagus. I served a salad with baby lettuce, dandelion greens and ramps (wild leeks) fresh from the Farmer's Market in Union Square. Pizza is very popular in Argentina, so I felt it was authentic enough. We had a Malbec Rose, a Malbec-Cabarnet blend, a Torronte, a sparkling wine, and a full Malbec. (Two of those bottles came from Bottle Rocket, a great wine store on 19th Street. I could only carry three home from Argentina.)

Our only language barrier was trying to read the brochure from the chocolate-maker. Sorry, LB, guess some things will remain translatable only by taste buds.

Well, readers, I have certainly rambled on enough for one entry. Not sure you are still with me, but if you are, stay tuned! More gastronomic pondering coming your way next Sunday!