Five A.M. in Buenos Aires

At 5 a.m. on a cobbled street in Buenos Aires, the night is still young. We've found the same scene in bar after club after bar—hordes of 20-somethings in trendy clothes swaying in strobe lights to electronic beats, hipsters and yuppies sipping colored cocktails on plush furniture. We've made the rounds in Plaza Serrano, a famous hub of Buenos Aires nightlife. Coming out of any bar, we could just as easily be stepping onto a street in New York, London, Paris or Tokyo. It's fun, but it's a global culture we're enjoying—a worldwide ritual. We could find the same music, the same dancing, the same ambiance in different continents the world round.

Hunger drives us back out into the street. Surely porteños (Buenos Aires natives) get the late-night munchies as well. We wander down the block. A pizza fugazza would hit the spot—thin, sauceless crust topped thick with melted mozzarella and onions. But all the pizzerias are closed.

A simple café doble (double espresso) flanked by a few flaky medialunas (pastries) stuffed with jamón and queso (ham and cheese) could have filled us, but the grates have all been pulled down over the café fronts, not to open again until after the sun comes up.

Even a greasy choripan (sausage sandwich) from a street-corner grill would do. I can almost taste it, the grease from the thick halved chorizos soaking through the toasty bun, chimichurri (Argentine sauce) dripping out the sides.

But we find ourselves at the end of the block, stomachs still empty. A few more left turns and we're in a lonely alley, out of the hustle of Plaza Serrano. Orange streetlights filter through the eucalyptus trees lining the sidewalk. Then I spy it: a small sign that says, ‘Empanadas,' with a little picture of one of the half-moon pastries.

"There," I say, pointing. "Finally."

The door is heavy, wooden and foreboding. We can't even find a sign to tell us the name of the bar and give us some idea of what we might find inside. Hunger overcomes. We crack the door open, slide inside and suddenly, we're in a different world. A blue haze of cigarette smoke hangs in the air. Empty wine bottles litter the table and floors.

The interior is all old wood and raw brick. People cluster around the tables; at each one, somebody plays a guitar. At a few tables, percussionists pound on animal-skin drums. For everyone else, hands have become instruments. People clap in counter time and double time. The music is all of the same style—traditional folk songs with driving melodies and poignant lyrics of country life. Each table plays a different song, with no collaboration between the groups. There is no pause. If one table finishes a song, five other tables are still playing. At first it sounds like a cacophony, but soon I find myself tapping my wine glass to some underlying rhythm, the heartbeat of the place. It's as if all the music floats up to the ceiling of the bar and hovers there, congealing into a song greater than the sum of its parts.

We squeeze into a small table along the wall and sit back to watch. There are so many types of people, all lost in the music. An old woman in a black widow's veil. Businessmen in pressed suits with tie clips. Dark-eyed gypsies. Long-haired hippies. In one corner, the tables have been pushed aside to create space to dance. A gorgeous woman in a flowing skirt moves in intimate twirling steps with a short bald man.

We finally flag down a waitress, who asks for our order in a lightning-fast porteño slur. She doesn't even appear to be listening as we order. She looks toward the other end of the bar, watching a young man strum a guitar while an older man in a suit sings in a rich baritone. The waitress taps her feet and claps her hands in rhythm. We can tell she would rather be dancing. We quickly ask for a dozen empanadas de carne (beef) and a bottle of red wine.

The empanadas come soon after, still too hot to touch. There are far more than a dozen, piled high. The wine is rich, with hints of plum. In hungry impatience, we bite into the empanadas before they are cool enough.

A wisp of steam rises out of the empanada when I bite into it, floating toward the ceiling like a musical note. The outside is crisp, but not burnt, and slightly flaky. Inside, the carne is warm, with soft chunks of garlic the size of guitar picks. Ground beef stuffed into breading never tasted so good.

When we finally leave the bar, the music is still driving as hard as it was when we came in. The sky is lightening and morning birds are chirping. We consider going to another club. After all, it's not rare to stay out until mid-morning here in Buenos Aires. But ultimately we decide to go home. Not because we are tired, but because for a short while, we heard the city's heart beat, and that's enough for one night.


Will Suto graduated in 2007 from Dartmouth College. He is currently living in Buenos Aires and enjoys Flamenco music, running, and traveling.