The restaurant purports to be Argentine, but not one of those tatty, neon-signed joints where some employee stands outside with the sole purpose of convincing you that you should eat in his Argentine restaurant.
I wonder if that's all the standing-outside employee has to do.What else would he have to do? Set the tables before the dinner rush or count the money at the end of the evening?
I remember I was surprised by the ancillary duties I had to perform as a waitress. I had thought being a waitress was all about waiting tables. I hadn't realized I would have to slice countless lemons to be served with the iced tea or water. There is a word used in the industry to call these non-waiting-on-tables waitering duties, but I forget the word.
The Argentine restaurant is called Cao, which in Spanish is pronounced "cow" so it's a nice little play on English and Spanish words considering that as an Argentine restaurant Cao specializes in serving up slabs of cow. Sitting just off Dam Square, it is likely to be full of tourists, but I have been here before and know the food is good, and there is likely to be a smattering of Dutch patrons as well.
I order my slab of cow and a side of broccoli lightly steamed and served with olive oil and thin slices of hot pepper. Two tables down two American girls work on their own slabs of cows. One of the two seems to do all the talking. I find her annoying. I am trying to read what promises to be a fabulous, yet demanding book,
Infinite Jest. The loudmouth two tables away distracts me. I reread a sentence. And another and another. It dawns on me that Loudmouth is not doing all the talking, it is just that her friend is quieter. When I really analyze it, Loudmouth really isn't that loud. She just has one of those nasally whining voices that hits a frequency that cannot be tuned out. I involuntarily throw an occasional annoyed glance.
Another single eater is sat beside me between Loudmouth's table and mine. He speaks neither Dutch nor English. When the waitress takes his order he points to dishes that have just appeared on my table. He gets exactly what I have. We are sitting on a single, leather-upholstered bench that runs the length of the wall. The tables are pressed as close together as they can be whilst remaining separate. I wonder if it's a funny site: two lone diners sitting side by side eating the same meal.
I have no intention of doing anything but going back to my hotel. This is a business trip, not to be enjoyed. But the evening has other plans. It is cold, but not impossibly so. The evening is clear and the city is active with pedestrians and cyclists riding their upright Dutch bikes. White and gold Christmas lights blink here and there. I stop to listen to buskers playing familiar yet unrecognized music in front of the impressively delicate yet dominating governmental building occupying Dam Square. Later when I consult the Internet to confirm my belief that the Neoclassical structure is the Town Hall, I learn that it is actually the Royal Palace. It used to be the Town Hall way back when (1655-1808). I feel kind of right.
I walk up the
Damrak toward the central station and pass the restaurant of a hotel where on the way to my dinner, I spied a young man eating alone. I wonder if he is still there. He's not. An older lady has taken his place. She too is alone.
I turn off the Damrak onto one of the narrow side streets used only by pedestrians or cyclists. These side streets always seem to be full of chip shops - I am reminded of a chip shop that gave me a smile: Chipsy Kings - and dodgy looking Asian cuisine restaurants and bric a brac crap shops. I watch out not to get lost. I normally have an uncanny sense of direction, which Amsterdam has the pleasure of stymying every time. I see Cool Cat and chuckle.
I used to call one of The Man's and my good friends a "cool cat". The Man used to get jealous; he wanted to be the cool cat.
Cool Cat serves as the landmark that gets me back on track and to my hotel where I upload my (these!) thoughts.
