Argentina v. Holland: The Beautiful Game with the Beautiful People

When I last walked into the Sweetwater Tavern, my lifestyle was decidedly different, and so was the Tavern’s. Once THE hole-in-the-wall tattoo parlor of a bar for all of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, it’s now an attractive and respectable bistro-ish joint revered by hoodrats for both cuisine and atmosphere. I'll refrain from speculating on whether I myself have evolved so gracefully.

The scene in there was straight-up Argentina, many sporting the blue and white strip, a whole contingent of the faithful sitting in the backroom glued to the pre-game on a six-foot screen.

At a table was an old Argentinian friend of mine, Santiago. When I came in I did not see him, and he greeted me warmly from his perch.

“Santi,” I said, “you’re here.”

“Of course,” he deadpanned, and I saw his point.

We small-talked it for a while but his heart wasn’t in it, and I left him to his business. Ten minutes to kickoff and his eyes had The Glow. He was elsewhere.

Two of the three owners of the place are Argentinians, the bartender told me. One of these owners prowled about in his Argentina jersey looking preoccupied, talking to anyone who would listen, laughing and drinking and gesturing aimlessly. As the first half wore on, with more fiery exchanges and up-and-down runs than you’d expect in an essentially meaningless match, the Tavern vibe turned from attentive to passionate to boisterous. By the 25th minute, the place was standing-room-only. Admirably loud, as well.

There was a World Cup special, two empanadas and a beer for ten beans. I substituted an espresso for the beer and was happy as an Argentinian lamb. The empanadas were rich and flaky, the espresso was as good as I’ve had in months, and I washed it all down with a bitters and soda just as the halftime whistle blew. I felt well-cared-for on the whole. You want to watch an Argentina match in the Burg, I tell you folks, you may as well do it there.

For the second half, I biked over to Marlow and Sons, the ultra-hip grocery store/oyster bar on Broadway that adjoins the beloved Broadway Diner. Same owners, both places possessed of the same effortless style. The Marlow pub was filled with locals watching the match, and though there was nary an Argy in sight, there weren’t a lot of Americans either. An ex-pat mood prevailed, accents clashed. An Englishman sat down at a table with his mates and some indefinable Euro said to him, “Congratulations, you’re through,” to which John Bull rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thrilling innit. I think we’ll go all the way.”

I suspected him of sarcasm.

Football conversations abounded. The demise of Michael Owen. One striker versus two. Americans chances with the Ghanaians. Should Argy have shelved Requelme. Announcers are crap aren’t they? British announcers, now they know football…

I had a mint tea and a rhubarb muffin from the front grocery, and though the earth did not move with my selections, I was all in all satisfied. As the play wound down and it became clear that the two sides were content to draw, John Bull offered his opinion for general consumption. “Dunna look like they’re even tryin does it?” Agreed mate, but still, if that’s what not trying looks like, let’s just give Argentina the Cup now and get back to our lives.

A postscript – the overall attractiveness of the patrons at these two venues was off the charts. Women abounded at each locale, beautiful women with unkempt hair and a continental air of availability and poise. Especially at Marlow, this was true of the lasses, and meanwhile, the lads were all Lads, scruffy and unconcerned and a hair’s breadth from underwear modeling. On a scale of one to ten, it is my impression that I am a solid six, and I was easily the ugliest fucker in that place. Football Lotharios, you have been warned. Don't any of you five-and-unders head to Marlow and Sons with a flatmate in mind.