"But how are they cooking here in the street?"
"Go closer and you can see," replied José.
Francisco walked to the curb, and looking over their backs into the middle of one circle he saw—the stew cooking in a shovel.
"They buy these things at the market and use their street shovels for stewpans, as you see."
"Ugh! I hope they wash them first," laughed Francisco.
They were now passing the market, an enormous affair covering the best of a large block. But the scene was no longer animated for the chattering and bargaining were beginning to cease; and the merchants, themselves, were nodding over their wares.
Along the curbing were piles of merchandise; here, a stack of peaches, pears, apricots, figs, nectarines, grapes, and plums; there, an array of earthen ware, in curious shapes; here, a stock of readymade clothing, aprons, trousers, ponchos[14] and shoes. The vegetables were heaped high in piles; tomatoes, beans, lettuce, cardon, celery, potatoes, cucumbers, and onions in long ropes, their stems so plaited together with straw that they can be sold by the yard; or, in that country's measure, a metro.[15]
Many of the stalls offered cooked foods; roasted partridges and chickens; pâtes of jellied meats; cleaned and cooked armadillo, whose meat tastes like tender roast pork. The Argentines are very fond of them and they consume thousands every month.
Around the curbing, at one end of the market, stood great carts, with wheels fully eight feet high. These, José told Francisco, were the market carts that brought the produce into the city. They look rude and cumbersome, but carry several tons and often as many as a dozen oxen are hitched to them.
These interested Francisco but José bid him hurry as no doubt his uncle would have breakfasted. Which, indeed, he was doing, for as they entered the hotel Francisco caught sight of him, seated in the long dining-room with several gentlemen; all of them, including the Colonel, in cool looking white linen suits. Francisco joined them and was introduced to the strangers.