Founded in 1858 by the Frenchman Jean Touan, Café Tortoni stands as one of Buenos Aires’ most emblematic cafés. Originally positioned at Rivadavia and Esmeralda before moving to its current address at Rivadavia 826, the venue gained its iconic facade in 1898, designed by architect Alejandro Christophersen.
The Intellectual Roots of Café Tortoni
The cafe’s stature grew with the 1926 opening of “La Peña del Tortoni” in the basement. This space drew luminaries such as Alfonsina Storni and painter Quinquela Martín. Carlos Gardel, a frequent patron, famously maintained a preferred table tucked away from the entrance to avoid the gaze of his admirers. Beyond the written word, the basement served as a hub for jazz, hosting performances by the Porteña Jazz Band.
Restoration and Revival at La Giralda
Since 1930, La Giralda at 1453 Corrientes Avenue has anchored the city’s nightlife. Once a dairy shop, it shifted into a late-night destination under the ownership of Antonio Nodrid in 1951, gaining fame for its chocolate and churros. It became a haunt for figures including Mercedes Sosa, Leonardo Favio, and Horacio Guarany.
After a financial closure in 2018, the venue underwent a comprehensive restoration of its original Thonet chairs, marble tables, and boiseries. Following its 2021 reopening, the Buenos Aires Legislature formally declared the site a Sitio de Interés Cultural in October 2025.
Homero Manzi and the Tango Corner
The intersection of San Juan and Boedo is immortalized in music history as the site where the tango “Sur” was born. In 1948, poet and letrista Homero Manzi wrote the lyrics while sitting at a table in the cafe that would eventually bear his name. With music composed by Aníbal Troilo, the work transformed the intersection into a landmark of Argentine sentimentality.

Though the venue cycled through various identities—including El Aeroplano and Canadian—it was renamed the Café Esquina Homero Manzi in 1981. After closing in 1999, it was restored and reopened in 2001, functioning today as a cafe, restaurant, and stage for tango performances.
Cacho Castaña and the Myth of La Humedad
The history of Café La Humedad proves that music can preserve a legacy long after a building vanishes. The original bar at Gaona and Boyacá served as a haunt for a young Cacho Castaña, who drew inspiration from its damp walls and neighborhood atmosphere. Castaña immortalized the venue in his 1968 song “Café La Humedad,” cementing its status in local lore.
Although the original structure disappeared in the 1970s, Castaña inaugurated a new version of the cafe at Carlos Calvo 2500 in 2016, reviving a space that had long existed only in song.
The Birthplace of Argentine Rock
During the 1960s, the intersection of Pueyrredón and Rivadavia became the epicenter of the nascent Argentine rock movement. The basement venue La Cueva, located at 1723 Pueyrredón, served as a laboratory for musicians like Moris, Tanguito, and Litto Nebbia. These artists, alongside members of future bands like Los Gatos and Manal, used the space to experiment with rock music in Spanish.
When late-night sessions at La Cueva concluded, musicians frequently relocated to La Perla del Once at the corner of Rivadavia. It was there that the rock anthem “La Balsa” was developed. While both physical locations have since closed—La Perla in 2017—their roles as the nurseries of Argentine rock remain undisputed.
Bar Rodney’s Musical Continuity
Situated across from the Chacarita Cemetery at Rodney 400, Bar Rodney transitioned from a 1930s grocery store and beverage dispatch into a hub for the rock scene. Musicians such as Charly García, Pappo, and members of La Portuaria frequented the bar, with the latter group immortalizing the venue in their hit song “El bar de la calle Rodney.”
After closing, the bar was reopened in 2015 and recognized as a Sitio de Interés Cultural. It continues to host live music, featuring a performance stage named after La Portuaria leader Diego Frenkel, ensuring the venue remains a functioning participant in the city’s evolving musical narrative.
Related reading