Oh, I have many issues with the bread that gets plonked on your table pre-arrival of food in bustling Buenos Aires. Often the rolls are so stale that you could probably knock someone out with them, only very occasionally is one presented with some tasty, non-stale selections. The biggest issue I have is with the pots of ‘stuff’ that come with the bread.

Hidden in the labyrinth of Buenos Aires, there lies an enclave of Bolivian immigrants who have transformed four Argentine blocks with their vibrant culture and delicious foods. Unknown to even most porteños, the heart of this Bolivian community provides, among other perks, a relief to taste buds bored of parrilla and other sometimes-bland porteño cuisine.

love Buenos Aires because it’s truly a party city. However such is my booze intake this weekend that my brain seems to have dehydrated into a small nut, knocking about inside my delicate skull. My eyes are tiny currants trying to retreat away from the light, whilst an ever-tightening clamp grips my temples.

I have just been in New York where the issue of service is absurd. You must tip. Surely this is not the point of tipping, I mean even if your waitress takes half an hour to notice you and then another to bring you your drinks, you must tip. My father has been chased down the street by an angry NYC waiter who didn’t deserve a tip in my pa’s eyes, and so didn’t get one.

After three weeks in Buenos Aires you sit down to yet another when you realise that the last time you ate a vegetable was, well, three weeks ago. In the land where cow reigns king and Malbec practically flows from the tap, our little green buddies are quickly forgotten.