Anyone for a Karry?

Take the most irritating parts of living in Indian and Argentina, combine them into one restaurant, call it ALI, and what have you got?

That's right. The Worst Restaurant In The World. I tried to order food from them last year, and the process took over SIX hours. Full story below. 

Inexplicable, in a city where over 50% of the restaurants closed last year including a couple of gems, this place is not only still open for business but has just upscaled and moved to the prime location of MY STREET in Martinez. Well, one away, but it's alarmingly close for comfort. 

Lies, Damn Lies, and Ali: Indian Restaurant

Based on my own experience, I would have to say that the advertising board above the restaurant contains the following misleading information:  

1. That it is Indian. 

2. That it is a Restaurant. 

3. That it does Catering. 

4. That they will do Delivery. 

And if you don't believe me and think this is simple hyperbole, take the Special's Board from last Tuesday as a test of competency:   

Unable to decide between Spanish, English or Indian, the
brain trust behind ALI decided to make up their own language. 

Milanesa is breaded, battered steak, as Indian as... breaded battered steak. Or Chicken Breasts, which is your second option.

Take Away (Your Will To Live)

When I ordered delivery from them last year, I assumed that a place so incompetent would be out of business within a month. Just before Maia was born, craving some Indian spice, I foolishly stepped forth into ALI, San Isidro one fateful afternoon in March.

After the maitre d' confirmed that they did do delivery, I took a menu, made my order, which the maitre d' seemed to take down meticulously, paid the bill of $104 then and there, and cycled back towards home.

After an hour, I thought I'd just call, having written the number down as displayed on their menus. An Argentine girl answered the phone. She appeared to know absolutely nothing about an Indian Restaurant called ALI.

I tried again, assuming I had mis-dialed. Eventually, the idiot girl admitted that she did work at the ALI, but did not know anything about my order. I can only guess that the maitre d' was just visiting mates, and spoke not a word of Spanish, and therein began the confusion.

Me - Si, Fergusson: chicken karry, motton para dos... ?

My recitation of our order seemed to trigger something in her because she cut me off and started, I assumed, reading back my order, only wrongly:

Idiot Girl - Chicken Kebap, Lamb Kebap, Motton Kebap, Sheema Naan, Korma de Pollo, Korma de Carne, Carne con Naan, Carne sin Naan...

... as I realised during her monotonous enumerating drone that she was reading back the entire menu to me.

Exasperated, I put Katie on the phone. Katie repeated the request to trace the Fergusson order that, I remembered with horror, was ALREADY PAID FOR. If I gave up, as any sane person would do at this point, I would have given away $104. To idiots. I was in this for the long haul.

The Idiot Girl replied, as if to clarify - Chicken Kebap, Lamb Kebap, Motton Kebap, Sheema Naan, Korma de Pollo, Korma de Carne, Carne con Naan, Carne sin Naan...


Katie handed back the phone.

This is almost the exact opposite
of the food we never actually at.  

Idiot Girl, in fairness, was at quite disadvantage, clearly knowing nothing at all about Indian food, food, how to work in a restaurant nor how to conduct a conversation. Makes being a waitress dealing with phone orders in a karry house rather a tough gig.

Katie gave up and handed me the phone. I asked to speak to someone... at the restaurant?

She put someone from the restaurant on. An Indian male, by his voice. Within seconds I was starting to miss Idiot Girl like a dear friend.

Indian Male - Yes, hello, si, kepab pollo, chikken con kenap, motton sir would you like to try the Sheema Naan, Korman de Pollo, Ferrgussun, carne Naan...
Me - Oh, put Idiot Girl back on the phone, I shouted.
Idiot Girl took the phone.
Idiot Girl - Chicken Kebap, Lamb Kebap, Motton Ke...
Me - Oh don't you start that sh... 

Somehow we fell into a system where I would speak Spanish with Idiot Girl, but she would need assistance on anything to do with food, delivery or life: from Indian Man. She could read a menu, from start to finish, but could not apparently do anything else.

Somehow I communicated that we would like $104 worth of food (any Indian food will do!), as already paid for, and I communicated our address, triple confirmed everything, and put the phone down.

About an hour and a half later, still no food. I called back. We communicated the following:

Me - Hi, remember me? Is my food, you know, ready?
Indian Man - Yes, Fergussam, your food is ready. Actually, it is getting quite cold.
Me - What do you mean?
Indian Man - Ah, Ferboomsong, but we don't have a car or any means of transport.

Well, of course you don't.


Me - Can't you order a taxi, and send them to us with the food?
Indian Man - No. 


Turns out he was right. He couldn't get a taxi to deliver the food. I called our local taxi company, and asked them to send a taxi to ALI's. They wouldn't - saying they don't send taxis unless there is someone at that address. They also said they would not send a taxi to the ALI restaurant.

So I called a different taxi company, intending to lie, saying that I was in the ALI restaurant, and when the taxi was to arrive, the Indian Man could then ask them to deliver the food to me. And pay for the taxi.

This is almost too complicated to write, so you can imagine how unsuccessful I would be explaining this on the phone to Idiot Girl and co.

Incidentally, by this time we'd already had a pizza. It was about 11pm, I think. But I wanted my bloody $104 worth of food!!

But the thought of trying to explain all of that to ALI was too much, so I gave up on the whole taxi thing, and the whole Indian food thing, cancelled the taxi and went to bed.    

Just as I dropped off to sleep, there was a buzz on the door. Wandering downstairs half asleep, I picked up the receiver:

Me - Hola?
Indian Man - Yes, hello, si, kepab pollo, chikken con kenap, motton sir would you like to try the Sheema Naan, Korman de Pollo, Ferrgussun, carne Naan...

Popularity Ratings

So, Cristina - quite recently the least popular Premier in Latin America (click right to enlarge) - won the primaries last weekend, hands down, with a smooth 50% of the vote, 38% more than the next best candidate.

Cristina made several statements about how the Primaries show Argentina's voting system is more transparent than ever. That may be, but the net is hardly thrown wider: the three main candidates were the current President, who's husband was the previous Prez, Duhalde, President in 2002-3, and Alfonsín, a President's son.

Not even following the politics closely, it would impossible not to know that La Presidenta's popularity rating fell like a lead cliché in her first term, dropping as low as 23%. Then again, if you use the Maths by which they calculate inflation, that figure is actually 67%. Go fiddle. 

Her rating did rise after her husband, Nestor, died of a heart attack suddenly last year, an experience she faced with dignity.

Time to buy some choripan?

But it does not explain how she then got 50% of the vote, 38% more than the next best candidate? A classic Argentine paradox?

Marriage

It was explained to me as follows: It's like a marriage. You may well find that your initial popularity rating with the other half is quite high, but that will plummet after a brief honeymoon period. That said, when it comes round to decision time, there are simply no other credible candidates so, in spite of a pop rating of around 14%, you still get the nod for another term.

Vote: Green screen or rent-a-crowd? 

Still, Fuerza, Crissie, and good luck in the next term. It should be an interesting second round, given that in her first round Wikip will tell you , not necessarily in these words, that she pissed off:
- the United States (suitcases of dollars, rocking up late to the G20, WikiLeaks...)
- all the farmers (hiking levies up by over 10% overnight)
- people who like water (vetoing a law that "jeopardised 75% of the world's water supplies")
- more than half of the press tried (trying to bully out of publication the opposition newspaper, Clarín
- the British (Malvinas/Falklands, and her refusal to say sorry more)
- her country's Central Bank (trying to re-route $6.7b of public funds to pay off interest: when blocked by the Central Bank's President, she had him removed, which turned out to be illegal, whereupon he was reinstated, whereupon he resigned with the famous parting line: "Fuck this")
- people who aren't millionaires (her private asset wealth has rise 572% during her and her husband's Presidency)
- Brazil (can't recall why).

Now, obviously if you dislike many of the above - and who doesn't get pissed off with the Yanks, the Brits and water from time to time? -  then you'll find a vote or two.

This entry is ridiculously one-sided of course and mostly partly sort-of made up for humorous reasons. I  state for partiality that many would point to the massive improvements she has made in reforming children's education, in promotion of Human and Equal Rights, and that she presides over a country with an economy that continues to grow. Oh, and whose teenagers don't do allota lootin', are nice to children, and give their seats to people on buses.

Family Photo

Surfing in Pipa

It has always upset me how women seem to fancy surfers rather than cricketers. Being a cricketer, I devoted my teenage winters to the loving practice of oiling my bat rather than vainly waxing my board.  

While the cricketer modestly keeps his equally well-honed Scottish opening batsman's physique behind yards of smartly pressed whites, your average surfer lollops along the beach like some sort of half-naked sporting neanderthal. 

No sex wax was required for me to have a good day of honest sporting fun. Just a sun hat, factor 60, a spare rubber and eleven other chaps just as happy hitting the leather as I was.  

Still no euphemisms in this entry. 

Cricket never caught on in Brazil. Apparently, if my history serves, whilst being colonised by the beastly Portuguese, the slave driving brutes packed surfboards when they should of course have packed the more sensible British option.

That is: whites, sun hats, six stumps, two sets of bails, a lawnmower, 3 bats, 2 balls, 6 pairs of pads, a couple of cod piece fitting boxes, batting and keeping gloves, spikes, a couple of batting helmets for the under 15s, a heavy and light roller, a pavilion, covers, a scorer (he'll have his own stationary), two ladies to do the lunches, vaseline, twenty two gentleman and two umpires with a copy of the rule book each.   

The beach on Pipa was a case in point. For some reason, women prefer to waste their time watching this sort of thing than honour the greatest game at, say, Raeburn Place during a drizzly 4 hour Edinburgh Accies' batting performance.  

I have no intention of trying to sound like a know more about surfing than I do, but even a blind novice could how good this break is. Nice even right to lefts that would make an 8 year old look good. And I think the one to the right is a girl!    

And, when I zoomed right in, I saw that that very 8 year old was right there, being made to look good by the easy breaks. To misquote Dennis Hooper: I love the smell of emasculation in the morning. But I bet he couldn't read a tricky leg spinner. He'd play him off the pitch, which is the same thing. 

It's a mystery to me why women fancy these people. Look at this guy. And I know my wife did. I, for one, cannot see why anything here would be considered more alluring that a good forward defensive shot, never mind a cover drive. Women, eh?

Besides, weaving in and out of the boats, riding a wave in to the shore...? That sort of showing off smacks of insecurity. Whereas as a drop into the leg side and a decisive quick single? That'll get a pretty lady's heart fluttering.

I think that might be a pretty girly girl. Long board or long room, you should be making the sandwiches.

I rest my case. Bat Oil 1 Sex Wax 0. 

Skol: The Rebrand.

As mentioned in the previous entry, the biggest surprise I've had in Brazil so far is the prominence of Skol lager. Well, that and the fact that the g-string bikini is deemed appropriate for all 3 generations.

Turns out Skol has undergone something of a Brazilian Rebrand from what I remember.

When I were a lad, Skol was the joke of all beers. I remember Skol being the beer you drank after finishing the Tennants, singing The Skol Song as you did so to detract from the taste. And that's aged 17, when cooking brandy, Mad 20/20 and aftershave are your drinks menu.  

You remember the Skol song? Didn't think so, but youtube and I did. It went like this:

Even the makers of Skol thought their lager was worse than Tennants. The ad looks like old men holding urine samples. The strapline? Horribly good lager. The Pot Noodle of beer. 

Now, the Brazilians know a thing or two about life. Faced with a prospect even an Advertising Supremo like Don Draper would have struggled with, namely trying to translate a product fronted by Hagar the Horrible and his animated chanting friends into a product desirable to a beach and sun loving country who hardly drink.

I can only assume the meeting went something like this. In Portuguese:

- Guys, how are we going to sell this awful beer?

Awkward silence. A moment of inspiration, as a junior ad man with hidden talent raises a nervous hand to unveil the idea that had been worming around his head since Junior High.

- Has anyone thought of using... you know, instead of the animated Viking God... um... we could use... er... big tits?

Emboldened, another young upstart chips in, tentatively:

- ... and buttocks? Again, just if you're not going with the whole animated Viking God... thing...?
- Hmm, says Draper, pondering the idea. Big tits and buttocks? Should we keep the song? The chant? Hmm. OK, it's worth a shot. Creative, get to work. 

And only hours later, they'd come up with these:

 

And who would have thought? Sales improved.

A lot.

Pipa, Brazil

There are very few reasons why an 0345 alarm clock would be a welcome sound. However, the thought of three winter holiday weeks on the beaches of Pipa, in northern Brazil, is definitely one of them.                  That and the fact that we were flying with TAM. Virgin First Class it may not be, but when you're flying with kids, TAM have got to be the friendliest of the family friendly airlines in Latin America. By this I mean that they ignore every single safety regulation in order to keep children from sleeping. Irresponsible? Maybe. But give me a flight with kids sleeping across the aisles, and I don't mind helping lift the drinks trolley up and over their prone little sleeping bodies if it means a scream-free flight. Especially if it is my kid asleep under the chairs of Business Class.        

Brazil. What a great country. At least, what a brilliant country to go on holiday. Caribbean feel - laid back, easy going people with outstanding food, and surely the only place in the world that still drinks Skol. Skol! Who knew? Then again, they advertise it like this.  

We're staying in Pipa Park. Self catering, shared pool either filled with healthy, model-like Belgians or cute screaming Brazilian, Argentina and Peruvian kids. 

The beach is gorgeous, a 6 minute walk from our apartment, closer to 20 with kids. Picturesque cobbled streets, a strip of great bars, beachy cafes and restaurants, and ridiculously handsome surfer men that do not appear to own shirts. The beach has a beautiful little inlet where the boats are moored which breaks the waves making a great little place for toddlers sand babies to paddle and play.   

Following entry on beach football, which kicks off at 0900 sharp here and deserves an entry of its own. It's been one of my lifelong dreams to play beach football with, if not like, the locals in Brazil. Don't see that happening here: it's taken outstandingly seriously, with what appears to be a long waiting list before you're invited to the starting line up. So, the Roy of the Rovers call up will have to wait.

\

So, until I'm signed up as the Scottish Neymar it'll be happy families. And Skol... 

Harper Seven

Just adding Harper Seven to the very short list of people with stupider names than me. Welcome, Harper.

I sound like a 70s Hippie TV show, you sound like an alien.