51 Cuentos de una Argentina Americana

50 kilometers.  We walked 50 kilometers.  16 hour journey from Prospe (la capital de la República Argentina) to Las Petacas, where a rock festival was going down.  We walked straight dirt roads for 14 hours, with a 2 hour nap in the middle of dirt road number 3.  We rocked.  I loved and lived the strain of it, the determination, the vision.  I want it still.  I pray, in my way, for my teammates and our journey, Tejer las Américas (Weave the Americas) 2014.

In the meantime I remember as I learn and grow.

1. Shawarma:  the Ace of Swords.

Sha-war-ma, yanki de mierda, decílo bien.

–Sha-war-ma, piece of crap Yankee, say it right.–

“Shwarma.”

Naeeoo!  Hablan todos tan mal en tu país?

–Nooooo!  Does everyone talk this badly in your country?–

(English below —->>)

Castellano:

CheChé y su hermano Lucas (Chaiben)–el apellido Lebano de su abuela paterna–son hermanos y entrepeneurs.  Empezaron una empresa de comida arabe que estrenó en la feria de los domingos en San Francisco, Córdoba, Argentina.  Ya no me sorprende que cumplí mi renacimiento en la San Francisco del Sur.  Una vez San Francisqueña, siempre San Francisqueña.

Cheché, además que ser un chef excelente, es también Chechechefchofer y fotógrafo.  También tiene un talento para el baile.  Es él que facilita los viajes y es a la vez la voz de razón y el maldito del cáos.  Me cuidó y también me robó el zapato.

Pero este capítulo se trata de su negocio de comida árabe con especialidad del *SHAWARMA* con su hermano mayor, El Negro.  Como hay tantos Negros en este grupo de amigos, incluso David, Isra, y aún Cheché mismo, El Negro aquello también se llama el Chaiben.  Tiene otro nombre que ya lo voy a recordar, pero por ahora lo dejamos a los dos Negros allí en la feria de San Francisco (Cdba) en aquella calle principal que tiene los semáforos más colgados del mundo, que te tienen allí esperando con tu bici aunque no haya nadie, ni hasta ningún pive en la esquina para tirar piropos con los ojos).  Por eso salimos con malavares para entretener a la gente mientras esperaban el semáforo interminable, y a veces ganamos bien con las moneditas.  BUENO, lo que estaba diciendo es que los Negros Terraf vendieron ShAwarma deliciosa, con la carne allí girando en el palo, y lo cortaron y combinaron en panes delgaditos con una salsa de la p***madre y si fueras su amiga, te lo dieran gratis en secreto.  Pero si lo llamaste Shwarma sin la otra “a” te cagaron y te llamaron cacacapitalista imperialista de mierda y te dijeron Yanki Go Home pero después te prestaron el departamento por cuatro meses sin pedir nada más que mejorar tu pronunciación.

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English:

Cheché and his brother Lucas (Chaiben)–the Lebanese family name of their paternal grandmother–are brothers and entrepeneurs.  They started an Arab food business that debuted in the Sunday market-fair in San Francisco, Córdoba, Argentina.  It doesn’t surprise me anymore that I had my rebirth in the San Francisco of the South (el Sur).  Once a San Franciscan, always a San Franciscan.

Cheché, in addition to being an excellent chef, is also Chechechefchauffeur and a photographer.  He also has a talent for dance.  He is the one who facilitates the trips and he is at once the voice of reason and the little demon of chaos.  He took care of me and also stole my shoe.

But this chapter is about his Arab food business that specialized in *SHAWARMA* with his older brother El Negro (Black One).  Since there are so many Negros (Black/Dark Ones) in this group of friends, including David, Isra, and even Cheché himself, that El Negro was also called Chaiben.  He has some other name as well which I’ll remember sometime soon, but for now we’ll leave it at the two Negros there in the fair of San Francisco (Córdoba) on that main street that has the most lackadaisical stoplights in the world, that leave you there waiting with your bike even though no one is around, not even some dude on the corner to through out pick-up lines.  Which is why we went out with performance and circus tricks to entertain people while they waited for the interminable red light to change, and sometimes we made a good chunk of change.  ANYWAY, what I was saying is that the Negros Terraf (their last name) sold delicious ShAwarma, with the meat there spinning upright on the spit, and they cut it and put it in a wrap with a f***ing fantastic sauce and if you were a friend, they would give it to you in secret for free.  But if you called it Shwarma without the other “a” they’d throw you to the wolves and call you cacacapitalista imperialista de mierda (imperialist capitalishitist) and would tell you “Yanki Go Home” but then they’d loan you their apartment for four months without asking anything of you but better pronunciation.