I’m in the wrong restaurant.

You know the kind – salt, pepper and Kikkoman on the table. Dragon-adorned, printed-paper placemats providing cultural factoids. Servers who, while competent and friendly, greet me in Spanish. Predominantly white patrons whose gaze follows me as I seat myself.

At least one patron continues to stare at me as I eat. I stare back.

I’m in the Dragón Porteño, the last stop on my tour of Buenos Aires’ Chinatown. I would have turned tail and sought another establishment at the first signs of trouble had the hunger pangs not finally traversed up from my stomach to my cerebrum. I had to eat.

Most of the guidebooks I read refer to Buenos Aires’ Barrio Chino almost dismissively. Fodor’s omitted it from the index, though refers to it in a sidebar as “small and tame.” Lonely Planet’s Argentina guide affords it a paragraph, describing it as “growing.” But to some, a visit to Chinatown in another country is not a matter of tourism: it’s a matter of having a cultural home no matter where we are, someplace to find the right ingredients to make our staple dishes and comfort foods. And it’s a place for momentary respite, a place to rest for a moment and eat as if we’re at home. Kind of like what Starbucks is to a travelling yuppy.

Based on the guides, I expected Chinatown to be sparse and quiet. Wrong – Chinatown here is small, but for the handful of city blocks it covers, it packs a punch. It’s dense with trinkety stores catering to porteños in search of exotic knick-knacks (Torontonians: think Spadina, west side, north of St. Andrews St.) and Chinese herbalists. A few Chinese grocery stores are here, too. I found it hard to find a few of the ingredients I’m used to – namely, 生抽 and 老抽 – but eventually I found them at the largest grocer, Asia Oriental.

Asia Oriental

I won’t be returning to Asia Oriental on a Sunday afternoon anytime soon: apparently, that’s the day every Chinese restaurant chooses to stock up on goods. The check-out tills were all overwhelmed with customers pushing carts brimming with large bags of meat and vegetables. After waiting for the better part of an hour in line, I finally reached the conveyor belt. I opted to keep my groceries safely in my basket to avoid mixing my groceries with the meat-juice puddles.

Next time I’m in the Barrio Chino, I’m going to try for a Saturday. And I’ll be sure to eat before I get desperate. Not to be hard on the good folks who work at Dragón Porteño, it’s just not home to me. It has its place. Especially for those with a physical dependency on MSG.