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Cafe Tortoni : A Tango with the Past |
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Monday, 31 October 2005 |
by Roselaine Pennino
Cafe Tortoni. Buenos Aires. Argentina. The oldest cafe in the country.
With wood- panelling, built-in antique mirrors and art deco lamps of
different sizes, colours and shapes. It is always dark even by day. The
waiters dress in black slacks with cuffed white shirts and aprons. The
wooden-embossed bar is long and winding; its shelves stocked to the
brim with bottles of all kinds. The pictures that line the walls hold
in their frames, past visitors like Federico Garcia Lorca, the Perons,
Don Carlos of Spain and Jorge Luis Borges. And in the evening, the
famous tango venue room in the back beats rhythmically to the sounds of
Carlos Gardel, the singing jewel in Argentina’s crown.
I order a cafe con leche with a croissant and drink in the atmosphere
that is intoxicating and so well-preserved. Meanwhile the traffic
outside the tree-lined Avenida de Mayo, blares loudly without end. Yet
sitting in this cafe, one feels sheltered from the outside world. One
steps back in time and remembers another Buenos Aires. Different from
the one beyond the front doors. Cafe Tortoni: the bridge between the
past and the present. After that December three years ago when our
economy crashed, we became uncertain of our safety and our future. In a
unified movement, we demanded our government and those who corrupted
our country's finances to leave. Instead some of us left. Like me.
Because this was not the first crisis. Nor the last.
I now live in Valdivia. In the south of Chile. A small town deriving
its pleasure from a fish market located in its centre. There is little
to do here compared to Buenos Aires. The cafes are few. Yet what
modern-day Valdivia has to offer is certainty. Chile, today, is the
economic showcase of South America. Making it a stable country. So
Valdivia is now my home but my heart lies in Buenos Aires. And when I
visit my parents, and I want to remember the Buenos Aires I once knew I
come here to Cafe Tortoni. I sit. I have a cafe con leche. And I look
at all the memorabilia that clutters its interior. The more I look. The
more I go back in time. And the more easily the memories return.
Like the endless nights where my friends and I huddled together in San
Telmo's cramped, smoke-filled cafes, and watched local tango dancers
slide across the worn wooden floors. The spring evenings in La
Recoleta, where we’d drink on the terraces, and breathe in the fragrant
smell of jasmine coming from the tree-lined avenues. And the long walks
in Palermo's expansive Tres de Febrero park, with its lake, bridges,
tall trees, statues and fountains dotted everywhere. And the operas
we'd go to in the evenings at Teatro Colon with its magnificent Italian
renaissance hall. Stepping out afterwards onto the widest avenue in the
world: Avenida 9 de Julio. Facing the obelisk, the symbol of Buenos
Aires, rising sharply above us, bathed in an incandescent glow.
I re-visit all these places with my parents and friends. But I feel it.
And they feel it. The rich, sophisticated, proud Europeanised city we
once knew, is now worried and insecure. One sees it in the faces that
pass by. In the buildings that lack lustre. And in the streets, at
night, that lack life. Buenos Aires is still beautiful but it has
changed.
"Hola, Esperanza. Sorry we're late." My father leans over and kisses me
on the cheek. My mother is behind him and then kisses my cheek in turn.
They flop into red velvet upholstered chairs and smile at me. Both are
very pleased to be here again. They used to come to Cafe Tortoni once a
month on Saturday evenings, to watch the tango show, and every Sunday
morning for breakfast.
My father motions to the waiter. The waiter arrives and my father holds
up two fingers. "Two cortados, please." He then turns to me and says,
"it's a long time since we've been here." He looks around and admires
the interior with mild delight. "It brings back a lot of memories for
your mother and I."
I look at them both, squeeze my father's hand, and say, "for me, too."
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