In New York, You Want Salsa With That?

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On Roosevelt Avenue at 11 on a Saturday night, my dozen trips through Latin America hit me all at once. Street vendors offered Salvadoran pupusas, Colombian arepas and Mexican chimichangas. In Ecuadoran, Peruvian and Argentine restaurants, people spoke Spanish in speedy Caribbean, curt Andean and lispy gaucho dialects. Taped inside a shop window across from the Banco Andino was a sign: "English Spoken Here."

I knew where I was heading -- sort of. On SalsaNewYork.com, the reviewer, another Manhattan Guy, had posted a disclaimer: "I have not been to any of these places. This is all hearsay. I hear these Queens clubs are fresh, but cannot confirm this." Give up his Saturday night at Copas to confirm it? ¿Estas loco?

One of the better-sounding clubs on his list was Chibcha, a "very nice Colombian restaurant serving excellent food, with a club in the back featuring live cumbia and salsa." Sounded perfect.

"A la rumba!" Chibcha's bouncer was calling out until he saw me and went mute. A gringo! He took me under his bulked-up arm and led me inside.

"We have 70 different women here. You like skinny-ones-tall-ones-fat-ones?" he asked, pinching a woman in a miniskirt on the behind.

I fled in horror. Outside, everything suddenly looked threatening. Strip clubs, narcos, tons of cops -- not my idea of a lighthearted Saturday night. Just about to give up and take a cab to Manhattan, I saw Hairos, another of the hearsay clubs from the Queens list, and on a whim ducked inside.

I asked the bouncer about the cover charge and he held up two fingers, murmuring, "dos pesos." I paid the $2, then headed for the bar and ordered a Cuba Libre, taking in the vibe.

Señor Manhattan Guy got it right this time. The narrow, mirrored joint was filled with a hundred or so people dancing to the freshest of Latin jazz. No Chinese salsa here, and nobody seemed to give a damn about fancy spins. I felt a certain tingle in my spine -- a sign of la joda in the making -- downed my Cuba and ordered another.

"¿De donde eres?" the man next to me at the bar asked.

"I'm from here, in Queens," I said.

"You don't look like it."

People gathered around, talking with me, curious. The man next to me, Juan, was from Bogota but had been working for 20 years in a midtown Manhattan restaurant. He invited me to eat there sometime and then turned to introduce me to his co-worker, a stunning 24-year-old from Medellin with almond-shaped eyes and long black hair. "Dance with her," he said.

I did, and the instant I sat down afterward I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see a barrel-chested woman in her mid-30s still breathing heavily from the last dance. "Bailamos!" she exclaimed, with a wonderful smile. "Let's dance!"

She was Angelica from Cali and was studying communications. We danced several times that night. Through my dance partners' references to their home cities, I revisited in my imagination beloved spots in Colombia: Bogota, Cartagena, Santa Martha, Medellin. Often we'd switch partners mid-song, or form wedding-party-style lines under a canopy of outstretched arms.

The energy built as more folks packed in. More Cuba libres. Lots of laughter. Everyone was out for la joda. At one point the music stopped abruptly. Hands reached into pockets for raffle tickets -- the ones included with the $2 cover.

The winner screamed with delight. The music kicked back in and my new friends and I danced until 4. Finally, exhausted, I collapsed into a taxi and said to the cabdriver: "A la calle ochentaitres." The Pakistani man grinned and shrugged. "To 83rd Street," I corrected, and we sped off down Roosevelt Avenue, the street stalls closing up for the night.

Would I give up the splendor of Manhattan's salsa for Queens? Not on your life. But whenever my soul aches for la joda, I don't have to leave home. It's right here in Queens.

In William Powers's most recent book, the Latin America memoir "Whispering in the Giant's Ear" (Bloomsbury), he visits Manizero, Bolivia's hottest salsa club.