Finally, the possibility of vegetarian cuisine looms large, for if in this self-professed hippie town we come up empty on meatless, the possibilities of eating green elsewhere in Patagonia are next to zilch.
So, lucky us, the massive gourds growing on our hotel’s vines promise sweet, vegetable flesh for dinner, and hallelujah, the prophecy rings true. Zuccinis, aptly named, delivers with an overflowing plate of sautéed eggplant, shredded carrots, squash, and more, and it is like a hypodermic needle of vitamins down the gullet.
Amazing, really, what a bowl full of something almost irony fresh with the smell of dirt does to my psyche, and for a minute, I miss India’s easy-access to healthy deliciousness, a budget meal meaning veggies and rice, not the rest-of-the-world’s take, budget the equivalent of low-grade, pizza, sandwich, and more pizza the only translation, starch with a smattering of tomato paste and smearing of bologna, a poor excuse for sustenance, if you ask me.
AHHHHH, so yummy, I fall asleep in a blissful state of reparation, neon green bedspread and stench of sewage blissfully downgraded to barely there, door to our bathroom closed in hopes of containing the fumes of some seriously nasty shit.
To be dealt with in the AM, por favor.