B.A. Bulgogi

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In our weekly quest to break free from a constant diet of meat and pasta—and thus make the beauty of said constant diet shine even more brightly in comparison—Cintra and I visited Bajo Flores to test B.A.'s Koreatown. Spurred by Grant D., whose site listed this joint on Calle Saranza, we hopped the 101 colectivo but, as happens occasionally, instead of following its prescribed route the 101 got creative and we stepped off near Nueva Pompeya. You might wonder why someone would name their barrio after Pompeii (considering how badly the original met its end), but then you haven't seen this part of "New Pompeii." (more after Read more!)

Alongside the northeastern edge of Parque Almte. Guillermo Brown, a Villa Miseria ("misery village" i.e. a shantytown) sprawls. Telephone kiosks advertising rates of 23 cents/minute to Bolivia and Paraguay describe the demographics of this and so many other Villas Miserias, whose residents form a large part of the cartoneros who troll through city streets each night, picking cans and cardboard (cartón) from people's trash. The houses are largely ad hoc affairs, built from scrounged bricks and roofed with corrugated tin; streets are dirt-pack and there is little electricity, giving some of these sweaty-close neighborhoods an almost rural darkness at night. Villas Miserias have become so prevelent, in fact, that they've begun to spawn poverty tourism of the kind that's seen in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro (here's a blog post I did on the subject on Gridskipper.com.) Packs of dogs wander the streets, the gutters smell of sewage, and practically everyone we walked behind smoked pot, presumably to make it all a little more palatable. It is truly desolate, and shameful for any country that's part of the first world.

The restaurant at Calle Saranza 2135 was closed when we got there at the appropriate Argentine lunch hour (2 p.m. or so), so we wandered up the nearby Avenida Carabobo. In a working class neighborhood of two story buildings and cracked sidewalks, the street was lined with Asian grocers (I had begun to worry that there was no bok choy in Argentina; my worries have been put to rest) and kiosks. Finally, at Avenida Carabobo 1559, it offered up a restaurant helpfully named "Restaurante" (above).

Like Asian joints everywhere, the furnishings consisted of plain black formica tables, a drop ceiling, calendars in several languages and—its signature element (though we couldn't explain its presence)—a pastel painting of a ski boot. As we walked in the owner came over to remind us that this wasn't a parilla joint with steak and the like. "Korean food?" he said. We nodded. "Asian food," he said. Yes, we said, we understood. That's what we wanted. 'Ethnic' food doesn't have the hold here that it does in New York, to put it mildly.

There was no menu so we chose the one plate (of two offered) that we recognized: Bulgogi. The side dishes were good, the kimchee proficient, the meat nicely marinated, and the price—29 pesos, or about $13, for food and beer for two—was like Korean BBQ everywere, not low-budget (for B.A.) but not bad. Highly recommended for anyone who needs a Korean fix.