The Café Tortoni is on the north side of the Avenida de Mayo between the streets Piedras and Tacuari. It extends back to Rivadavia. It is the oldest café in Buenos Aires and is owned by a nonagenarian Frenchman, Monsieur Curutchet, who is on the job morning and night and is still active, although the management of the establishment is in the hands of his son, M. Maurice Curutchet. It was in front of this café that my acquaintances came at least twice a day, and from a marble-topped iron table beneath the street awning we observed Bonaerense life to great advantage as it paraded by. We soon became so accustomed to the different passers-by, many of whom went by at the same time each day, that we soon knew the vocations of many of the folk that were but atoms in the large population of the great city.
There was a subway exit but a couple of rods from our table, and it was astonishing to see how people when they had reached the top step would stop and pant. It was not a deep subway, but so physically poor is the average Porteño of the middle classes on account of abuse of living that he soon becomes exhausted. He does not live long, and many men of forty are like men at home of sixty. The crowd that continually passes does so with quick step, neither looking to the left nor to the right, but straight ahead, serious and never smiling. I noticed this and remarked to an acquaintance about it.
"They are evidently thinking," said he, "of how they can swindle somebody out of ten cents."
The Porteños appear to be a sad folk, and if one sees somebody smile or hears a sound of laughter on a Buenos Aires street, you may be sure that an Italian or a Spaniard is present. Latins from Europe that come to Argentina soon become like natives, depressed, excitable, and despondent. Many Argentinos of the cities wear black straw hats instead of white ones, which still further enhances the funereal appearance of the men. This is a sign of mourning, similar to the black arm bands that were in fashion in the United States a decade ago. I know a Philadelphia jackanapes who wanted to follow the custom of Buenos Aires, and seeing the great number of men wearing black hats, bought one not knowing that it was a token of respect for the departed relatives. He returned to his country evidently never knowing his mistake.
The beggars, street fakirs, and peddlers on the Avenida de Mayo are terrible. No city in the world has so many. Neither Naples nor Las Palmas can compare with Buenos Aires in proportion in this respect. A man seated at a table in front of a café is never free a minute from annoyance from this rabble. Children from five years old up to octogenarians of both sexes systematically make multi-diurnal rounds up to the different cafés. Some are insulting. A narrow shouldered young man, a mixture of degenerate and of cigarette fiend, came to a table where I was seated and offered some chewing gum for sale. Upon my refusal to buy any, he backed up a few steps, started calling me names, and then walked away. A few hours later I met him accidentally; he wilted when he saw there was no escape. I grabbed him by the coat collar and nearly shook the eye teeth out of him. I at least put the fear of God into him.
The street urchins have a habit of making the rounds of the different tables and if you are not watching, steal the cracked ice from the dish in which it is kept in front of you to put into your glass of refresco, according to your desire. I caught one such boy doing this trick to me, and slung the contents of a water pitcher at him which caught him squarely, giving him a drenching. Near by was seated a well-dressed Argentino who took the boy's part, and started to call the police. As a foreigner, especially a North American, has no rights in Argentina, I thought it best to walk away.
There are milk depots stationed at various parts of the city and along the Avenida where a person may enter and for ten centavos (.042) buy a liter of milk either fresh or cooked. These belong to La Martona and other companies. Two ragamuffins one night entered the milk depot at the northeast corner of the Avenida de Mayo and Calle San José and begged some cracked ice from the waiter behind the counter. Upon his refusal to comply with his request one of the boys expectorated in a gallon jar of fresh milk that stood at one end of the counter, and which was for sale to prospective customers, and then ran out. Do you think the man behind the counter threw the milk out? I should say not. He merely took a large spoon, skimmed off the expectoration, and went about his business as if nothing had happened. I sat in a chair and watched three other customers, who came in later, be served from the same jar.
The lottery ticket sellers are the greatest nuisance. They used to annoy Mr. Lane something fierce. Packer, a man named Brown, and I noticed it so we put up several jobs on him.
There was a legless man who made the rounds of the cafés, being wheeled from place to place in a perambulator by an individual who might easily as to appearance be associated with the Black Hand. The cripple who was a middle aged, unkempt ruffian had a multitude of lottery tickets for sale, and was so persistent that he would absolutely refuse to go away until he had displayed all his wares. He seemed to take particular delight in tormenting persons who were anxious to have him move on. A few seconds before he was ready to be wheeled away, he would open up a torrent of abuse upon the person who refused to buy from him, and in this propaganda he was ably seconded by his comrade of Black Hand mien. Mr. Lane was of a nervous disposition and I do not believe the Canadian Club highballs he occasionally indulged in were any amelioration to this condition. He therefore was considerably annoyed with this particular persistent vagabond and his equally villainous confrère. They "got on his nerves." We, noticing his odium for this duo, one day when Mr. Lane was absent, hired the two vagabonds to come to him every time they saw him seated in front of the Tortoni and refuse to leave until ordered to do so by the police or the waiters. A few days afterwards while walking along the Avenida, I saw Mr. Lane seated in front of the Café Madrid, which is a block from the Tortoni.
"What are you doing over here?" I asked.