Travel blog: Meat Me Buenos Aires
Food stalls in Buneos Aires, Argentina
Tuesday, 09, Dec 2008 12:00
In an attempt to avoid the credit crunch, the bleak prospect of winter and another final of X Factor, Greg Ash has gone to South America for 6 months. In his blog 'Searching for Waves and Other Friendly Hand Gestures', Greg travels through this vast continent, starting in Argentina and tracing the coastline as far round as his budget will let him.
Along the way, he describes the strange sights, wonderful peoples and the inevitable sunburns of an pale Brit passing himself off as a beach boy. This is his first blog:
If you are a Vegetarian, I suggest you avert your eyes, because Buenos Aires is a meat lover's paradise.
I do love red meat. Perhaps it's due to a distinct lack of it growing up. I think I can maybe count on one anemic hand the times my mum cooked it. Each evening I would run home from school, burst hopefully into the kitchen, only for my heart to sink as I saw the salmon fillet thawing out on the work top. I remember once we had steak. That was the night before I left for University.
Anyway, I'm in Buneos Aires and Mum isn't here, so this week I have mostly been eating meat. And I'm not talking about Tesco Value minced beef or limp McDonald hamburgers; I'm talking about proper meat. Juicy, tender beef steaks, huge slabs of grilled pork, empanadas stuffed with spiced chicken.
I actually came to San Telmo, Buenos Aires old town, to learn how to Tango. But somehow I've been distracted.
You can't escape food here.
The locals are proud of their cuisine, and the quality of their meat. Names of great parillas (grill houses) are whispered to you in hostels, huge chalk boards advertise daily specials at mouth-wateringly low prices, and, in the evening, you can't turn a corner without getting a whiff of something cooking.
Yet food here isn't a precious commodity. It's not doted over like it is in, say, Paris. Price doesn't seem to be an indicator of quality, and you are just as likely to get a good quality bite from a local street vendor as you are in a restaurant.
Don't be alarmed. These street stalls aren't like the burger vans you get outside a Premership football ground. You can tell just by the smell. I walk down past the food stalls that line the city's vast Ecological Reserve, and try and decide just which one to go to.
I have been told by an enthusiastic local girl to try the 'Bondolito Con Limon', and I'm not disappointed. I'm given a huge and tender piece of pork, sprinkled with lemon and served in a baguette. I sit on the wall of the Reserve, enjoying the surprising peace of this area of the city, and feel slightly guilty for eating something this tasty for under two pounds.
It seems half of Buenos Aires' construction workers are also in on the secret. A mass of hard hats and coloured bibs stretch into the distance. Around them, pigeons and parrots contest for the scraps.
There is a refreshing unpretentiousness to eating out in Buenos Aires. A lot of the restaurants here don't take bookings, and the best ones are visible by the queues that form outside them every night of the week.
So just look for the lines, and join the back and get excited. One of the longer queues is likely to be outside 'Desnivel', situated right in the heart of San Telmo. I have asked around a lot and this parilla seems to be mentioned time and again as the place to get a great steak.
I arrive at 20.30 to beat the crowds, and get my table straight away. Glancing towards the grill, stationed in the front of the restaurant. I'm pretty sure I see my steak wink at me as I pass. I order the Bife de Lomo, which is supposedly the best cut on offer, and it arrives on a huge plate, along with chips and a salad. Easily enough for two. I look up and check one final time that Mum isn't here.
Perhaps it is the Malbec, but everything about Desnivel seems laid back. From the endearingly tacky décor, to the laid back, yet efficient, waiters. Looking about me, there seems to be a nice mix of locals and tourists.
If this was London I might feel a little more self-conscious about dining alone, but here the tables are crammed so close together and the wine is so cheap that soon I'm chatting to the table next to mine. Two glorious hours pass, and we are just finishing our coffees, relishing the hungry, envious glances we are getting from those still queuing outside. We all agree, this feels like something you want to make the most of, and no one is rushing you out the door.
The bill comes to just over ten pounds and I have to pinch my, slightly flabbier, side to make sure I still awake.
A few days later I do actually make it to a Tango lesson. But for some reason, I don't feel quite as light on my feet as normal. By the time the two hours are up, we've worked up quite an appetite. Someone asks if anyone knows a good place to get a steak. I think I may have somewhere in mind.
Greg Ash