Ever since Wednesday, when we went to El Argentino for Valentine’s Dinner, we’ve been stuck in a fugue state, a contrapuntal composition on a carnal theme.

“The beginning of the fugue tends to be written to definite rules”

I just generally wouldn’t order the meat. It seems undainty and overwhelming. But I know when the code of conduct supercedes my inclination. At an Argentine restaurant, one must tango with steak. I was pleased with the Arrechera - translated as “skirt steak” on the English language menu, made it seem ladylike enough - cooked medio and served with a bacon and sour cream filled baked potato. A bottle of red and a same colored rose complemented the rich warm flavors of South American romance.

“The fugue rarely stops after its initial exposition, more often continuing to one or more developmental episodes”

Thursday evening we picked up Mac in Telchac and starving, stopped at Los Compradres in Progreso on our way home. Carnaval was poised to descend and from our table we could see parade floates being assembled and revelers making ready to revel. Perched on the edge of the little zocalo, we enjoyed tacos, two of each kind: gringas, chorizo, puerco, and pastor. The vertical pork was sliced from the spit by a swarthy guy who relished his power. Hand made tortillas and Victoria beer were pitch perfect accompaniments.

“A fugue may end with a recapitulation”

By 1 o’clock yesteray we were totally famished. Friday is our errands day, when we put on long pants and go into town. I exchange libray books and then we have lunch. My driving skills are really highlighted by the crowds in the narrow streets of Centro; we pointed out the church and the tourists and the parade ready square. We stopped to refuel at La Parilla, a grilled buffet extravaganza. The arrechera was good not great, but they make up in spectacle what they lack in outstanding cuisine. Four words: margaritas in the afternoon.

The past three meals have been so gloriously Baroque, but I think it’s time for a salad.