The Proprietor’s Wife

The man in the hat wanted to visit places so far, far away that getting there would be half the trip. Places like Nevers Bourgogne, Konya Turkey, Mechelen Antwerpen, Searsport Maine, Sobreda, Setubal Portugal, Upplands-Vsby Stockholms Lan, South Shields South Tyneside, Kefar Habad HaMerkaz, El Palomar Buenos Aires, Argentina, Seoul Seoul-t'ukpyolsi, Punta Umbra Andalucia, Telefonica de Espana, Edinburgh City of Edinburgh, Stevenson College, Trento Trentino-Alto Adige, Universita' di Trento Italy, Fossano Piemonte Italy and one place that he had heard about but couldn’t remember the name of. He overheard that in a small family owned café in El Palomar Buenos Aires the proprietor’s wife made stewed oxtail in a double-boiler, bits and ends of oxtail, skin and flayed meat churning and rising to the top of the boil. She skimmed off the oil and fat, ladling fatty curds of oxtail and sinew into outstretched bowls. The diners ate in silence, the proprietor’s wife lording over them like a matronly school dietician, her eyelids ticking, feet kipping the tiles, her husband watching from behind the wooden bar, his hands making the sign of the cross above his breastplate. He wanted to go there, to the café in El Palomar Buenos Aires, and eat bowlfuls of oily fat oxtail, his lips greasy with oxblood, the proprietor’s wife eying him suspiciously, her feet cloven inwards like hooves.