Uruguayan Fried Fish

It's a thirty-five minute flight from Buenos Aires to Montevideo, which I believe is the shortest flight I've ever taken in my life.

Montevideo on a Sunday evening in early January is an overwhelming horde of people lounging, wading, eating, sunning, swimming, biking, and walking along the 20Km stretch of beach that makes up much of the city's border.

Our cab driver probably cheated us by taking the long route (along the coast) from the airport to our hotel, but it was very helpful in helping us decide between the beaches of Punta del Este or the historic town of Colonia. The masses on the beach made it clear -- we were going to head for the sleepier northern town on the river rather than the crowds of the beaches.

We walked to dinner at El Fogon. E's pulpo a la gallega was amazing. My order of merluza a la marinera came as a lightly fried filet without tomatoes or any kind of sauce.

Assuming I knew what I'd ordered (to some degree, expecting at a minimum some tomatoes) I told the waiter that my dish was not what I had ordered.

After a look of confusion, he apologized profusely. He took the dish away and returned, triumphant, 5 minutes later, with the same fish, obviously much more elaborately battered and fried.

At this point, I remembered that a la napolitana was what I wanted, and E laughed hysterically at the likely conversation in the kitchen, because clearly, in this restaurant, a la marinera just meant *fried*:

Those Americans sent this marinera back because it isn't fried to their standards. You know Americans. They invented KFC. Could you please fry it some more for them?