"Right," says the taxi driver, as the cab door slams shut. "Where do you want to go?"
"Well, the thing is," begins Layne Mosler, as she slides into the back seat, "we want you to tell us. You see I have an unusual request …"
And Layne begins to explain her quest – to find the most interesting restaurants in Buenos Aires without the help of guidebooks, online tip-sharing sites, and travel-networking websites. Instead, she goes straight to those who know the city's ins and outs better than anyone: the taxi drivers.
The 34-year-old Californian has been living in Buenos Aires for four years, and for the past two years she has been taking weekly taxi excursions to eat at the places recommended by the drivers and posting the details on her blog, taxigourmet.com.
Enamoured with the idea, I make Layne a proposition: one Saturday in the city, one taxi-gourmet marathon, with lunch, afternoon tea and dinner all dictated to us by our drivers. After more than 60 taxi adventures, Layne is unfazed by the challenge, and so we find ourselves jumping in our first cab from the cobbled streets of the Palermo district.
Our first driver, a young literary type, is a complete antidote to the hard-bitten cabbie stereotype.
"We're looking for your recommendation for somewhere to eat," explains Layne. "No, it doesn't matter where it is. Somewhere that isn't touristy, somewhere you go with friends and family." Hernán, 33, thinks for a moment and then suggests a personal favourite on the border of the southern barrio of La Boca, El Viejo Derby (Martín García, 401).
At the age of 15, Hernán was going to the city's bohemian cafes, like El Viejo Derby, to mix with intellectuals and travellers. "I grew up in the 80s, an era of new democracy, so these were the places where I learnt about what happened here before," he explains. It was also where he learnt about a spectrum of foreign culture, from Kafka to Joy Division.
El Viejo Derby is not so bohemian these days, but, behind its sprightly red-and-green frontage, it is smart, unpretentious and perfect for a leisurely lunch. And just when we conclude that the picada (Argentinian tapas) menu, framed photos of football players, and unhurried service couldn't make it more "Buenos Aires", the owners start unfolding a banner they've made to hold up at the next Boca Juniors' game, addressed to Maradona.
With Hernán's recommendations in mind, we order merluza a la romana (battered hake) and aglonotti (big pillows of pasta stuffed with chicken in a house-specialty sauce of cream, leeks and pancetta), which, according to Layne, "explodes in the mouth like a big, rich bomb". We finish it off with queso y dulce, two slabs of cheese and sweet-potato paste - the most traditional local dessert, a favourite of Hernán and, so he tells me, Jorge Louis Borges, the country's most famous writer. It's a taste I've yet to acquire, but Layne declares it a great success. "Awesome" apparently.
Next, we have the good fortune to flag down Victor, a man who, as Layne later says, provides "one of the most amazing taxi rides ever".
Unassuming and softly spoken, this 54-year-old, bespectacled gent is initially taken aback by our second mission: to find the city's best medialunas (Argentinean croissants). Ultimately, he does not just that, but he also puts his entire life on a plate for us.
We're so drawn in by Victor's story - semi-pro footballing career ended by injury, university career shortened when his friends started "disappearing" during the dictatorship years, failed bar, the joy of adopting a child - that we end up forgetting why we got in the cab in the first place. So does he - almost. "Ah, the medialunas!" he says slapping his forehead as he suddenly remembers he's on a job.
There's no doubting Victor's genuine and we'd happily pay a few extra pesos for him to finish his tale, but I wonder if Layne has ever had drivers taking advantage of her request and driving her miles across town to bump up the fare. "No, just the opposite," she insists. "It sounds very Polly Anna, but it really does restore your faith in people. One time a driver refused to take me anywhere, saying there was a fabulous place right across the street, so he couldn't take my money."
We pull up outside Victor's recommendation: Banchero (Corrientes 1300 in Tribunales). It's large canteen-like cafe, with shiny brass fittings, black-and-white photos on the wall, and huge displays of cakes slathered with cream and dulce de leche caramel. The medialunas – soft and moist – comfortably pass the taxi gourmet's taste test.
We reconvene at 9pm for our final taxi ride of the day. Things get off to a slow start when the first two drivers simply don't get it. They look at us blankly and insist they don't know anywhere. "This happens sometimes," says Layne. "Some people just need a bit of coaxing, but if they really don't get it, it's best just to get out and try again."
It's only a 10-minute setback and then we find Miguel, another young driver and another character. He's cooperative, good-humoured, hilariously frank and, fortunately for us, he doesn't drive as quickly as he speaks. His first choice restaurant is closed, but his second choice does the job very nicely.
We're back in Palermo, but unusually for this tourist-saturated barrio, this is a purely Argentinian crowd. Parilla Gonza (Billinghurst 1098) is a traditional, no-frills parilla (steakhouse), where the air is permeated with the smell of sizzling meat on the open grill. A big hunk of steak here costs less than a fiver.
As she spoons on the chimichurri sauce, Layne tells me that, although her numerous taxi rides have given her incredible insight into all corners of this city, the time has come for a change. This summer she's moving to New York, a city where the taxi drivers come from all corners of the globe, bringing with them all manner of culinary tastes, and knowing all the best places to find them in the city. Imagine the possibilities for taxi adventures there.
