Los Bandidos

It was Dec. 8, 1993, mid-summer in the southern hemisphere. After 20 hours of travel, I was eager for some gentle cultural acclimation. The concierge of the Panamericano Hotel advised that nearby Florida Street’s array of shops and restaurants was well worth a visit.

I strolled the trendy neighborhood, appraising Lapis Lazuli and various leather goods Argentina is famous for, though I did not feel the prices were bargains. A mixture of freshly baked bread, jamon y queso empanadas, and a strong smell of coffee permeated the good air. I was hungry but decided to wait before eating, attempting to adjust to the three-hour time difference from Boston. Instead, I'll stop for a beer.

Una cerveza, por favor...

“Come in, come in!” the man beckoned. I allowed myself to be led down a flight of stairs into a darkened nightclub, the only light a string of white Christmas bulbs strung above the bar. Once seated in a booth and eyes adjusted, I saw I was the only patron. A woman with rudimentary English skills approached.

“What do you like?” she asked.

“Deseo una cerveza fria, por favor.”

Now get this straight – that's all I ordered. One cold beer. This is what I got: the woman clapped her hands sharply, then sat next to me. After some small talk, during which I realized more was sold here than beer, my una cerveza and her bottle of Champagne arrived. “No, no, no,” I protested, but the server smiled and opened them both. “No!” I insisted.

My personal protocol when entering sketchy bars is to show some respect and no fear. Have one beer only and then leave. When I had finished my Quilmes, I asked for the bill, and it was promptly delivered.

It was for $330.

Argument ensued – would not pay it. Funny thing is, I thought it was for $30 and wouldn't pay that; when I realized it was for THREE HUNDRED and thirty, I laughed. The man who had brought me in replaced the woman next to me in the booth. He was about six-foot-four, with an almost comical, menacing face. Reinforcements came from behind the bar as the man began firing a staccato of angry Spanish I could not begin to comprehend.

I shook my head.

The woman across from me became alarmed. “He is un hombre peligroso – a dangerous man – he will quarrel if you do not pay!” I watched the man make a show of turning his watch so the metal band covered his knuckles, and begin punching his other hand with it.

I laughed at him.

He punched me in the ribs.

My comprehension of Spanish increased dramatically.

I said no.

He punched me in the ribs.

I blurted that it was ridiculous, that they were bandidos, that I thought $330 was a bit steep for una cerveza.

He punched me in the ribs.

They began screaming in unison, a torrent of Spanish in a darkened room, my exit barred by the dangerous man, his reinforcements arrayed about us. One shook the bill at me. I protested still, but in truth my heart was sinking. I envisioned stab wounds, broken glasses, and an appointment with Argentine policia. And who would they believe, the local business owner or some wayward gringo? Hyperventilating, I asked to be left alone for a moment. To my astonishment, they nodded and retreated.

I peered about. I couldn't even see the stairs. The headline flashed: Local Man Found Dead in Argentina. Before I could determine any rational plan, the onslaught renewed. “You must pay! You must pay!” the woman shouted as the men fired words from contorted, angry faces. I decided to throw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and attempt an escape. I got my wallet halfway out when a women lunged across the table and grabbed it, then handed it to the hombre peligroso. And with complete and utter mortification, I watched as he removed every last dollar.

Thrown out onto the sidewalk, I stood in shock: one hour into a two-week stay in a foreign country and I'm penniless. I rushed back to the Panamericano and urgently sought the concierge.

“Ah,” he nodded. "We have many complaints as this." An American I met earlier overheard, approached and said, "They got you too?" I asked the concierge if the policia could do anything for me. He shook his head. He does not believe so. Why not, how can they allow this to go on in broad daylight, in a licensed, open establishment in downtown Buenos Aires? He asked if I have a receipt for the money. Of course not! He shrugged. Then, when I cast the eye which demands the truth, he combed his fingers together, moving them in and out.

“These people and the policia...” is all he said, and I comprendo. He was good enough to advance me $200 against my American Express card. He tried to convey his sympathy.

“When I in New York, I no go to your clubs, either,” he said.

“At least in New York,” I snapped, “bandidos have the decency to kill you for your $300, not try to tell you it's what the beer cost!”

The man smiled sadly and shrugged once again.

“I am sorry for Argentina.”