Tea-up

In the afternoons all across Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay you see locals carrying a thermos to meet friends. They pass a leather cup with a silver straw among them. Odd you might think, but no, they`re partaking in the most South American of rituals - mate. It`s a kind of tea made from the yerba plant and it was adapted from the Inca culture, but as I`ve discovered there`s far more skill involved than a dunk and squeeze.
You won`t find mate in most cafes, it`s reserved for the street, house, park, bench and is rarely drunk alone. I meet a patient mate drinker willing to brief me in the art of this laborious infusion. We begin filling the cup three-quarters full with the green dried leaves. We then soak it with luke warm water and repeat this three times until the tea has expanded. Next the hot water from the thermos is added and my friend makes a well for the silver straw, which has a filter at the bottom. As a newbie, I`m not given the straw until round eight of filling the leaves with hot water as it`s really strong.
When I get my turn, it`s not the most pleasant flavour. In fact, it reminds me of an overstewed green tea when you forget to take the bag out. I`m told three attempts and I`ll love it. I persevere, but it still tastes too strong and bitter. Mate doesn`t contain caffeine, but it is a stimulant and about an hour later I`m chatty and feeling really calm about everything. We`re laughing away and I`ve got tons of energy. So now I know why you don`t drink it alone, you need someone to laugh with. Although the taste could get better in my opinion, I`ll be giving mate another go. The ritual of spending an hour laughing with friends and feeling happy is ok by me, bitter brew or not.

Operation Secreto

I arrive at a street with a number scrawled on piece of paper. There`s no sign of a restaurant. An old man is smoking in a doorway, I tentatively ask if it is the restaurant I`ve walked a long way to find. Minus teeth, he responds that he`s never heard of a restaurant here. This restaurant is part of Buenos Aires` exclusive puerta cerrado (closed door) dining scene. I`m all for covert cuisine, if only I could find the damn thing.
There`s a vaguely familiar symbol on a wall with a small door in the middle. I push the buzzer. Hola. I give my name. Footsteps. A door opens into a courtyard. Once the door shuts behind me it`s all smiles and welcoming handshakes. This restaurant is no longer particularly underground, most closed door restaurants appear in people`s living rooms, however, here they have converted a space the size of a garage - hold on it probably is a garage. There are seven tables, an open hatch kitchen and it`s eclectically decorated with model cars.
It`s empty, but it doesn`t seem to matter due to the small scale and homely ambiance. The draw to Almacen Secreto is regional Argentine cuisine and the menu is divided geographically. The north is fairly familiar territory to me as is the centre, but as the area I`ve failed to visit the south is most intriguing. I chose pickled trucha (trout). Inch square nuggets of pink trout have been given the vinegar treatment along with onions, peppers and garlic. The trout crumbles at the slightest touch and is very moreish with the crunchy onions and peppers. I heap piles onto warm homemade bread with some garlic soaked butterbeans.
As the only diner my main arrives a little too quickly, but I'm excited. I´m trying pork in frutas del bosco (fruits of the forest). Four pork medallions arrive in a light gravy speckled with mustard seeds and blueberries and some herb covered rice. Blueberries are grown in Argentina so their presence isn´t surprising, it`s just the pairing with the pork I'm not convinced about. Well, not for the first time, I'm wrong. The sweet yet flavoursome fruit stands up amiably against the nutty pork. I can taste something else and it takes me a while to work out the flavour because it's really subtle, it's mint. There are fresh mint leaves in the gravy, I'm shocked. It shouldn't work. It's a lesson in restraint, I think, the blueberries are minimal, the mustard sting slight and the fresh mint only hints underneath it all. It provides a light, but very interesting sauce, that keeps entertaining my tastebuds until the final fork.
The waitress hovers hawkishly at my shoulder as I sip a short black coffee, I'm still the only diner. I don't care, I wanted an exclusive dining experience and it doesn't get better than private service. I start to wonder whether it's a reward for years of dutiful serfdom delivered in one hit of playing "upstairs". One could get used to this.

Parrillas in the mist

A bad bus journey followed by a night having my face mauled by a savage pack of mosquitoes has left me less than enamored with Montevideo. It may be Uruguay's capital city, but old town Monty feels like the most rundown parts of Buenos Aires. But, the ciudad vieja does hold what must be the BBQ-lovers mecca - the Mercado del Puerto.
This is a covered market a stone's throw from Montevideo's port, now filled with parrillas instead of market stalls. The flagstone floor holds up wooden bars surrounded by stools at the centres of which are the slanting grills over wood burning fires. I take a seat at the coalface, it's a little warm, but I want to see all the action. For those not wanting to singe their eyelashes there are plenty of tables at this particularly upscale parrilla called El Palenque.
I'm buzzing with all the activity, it's a relatively small space and I watch trays of fresh fish being shuttled to workstations. The BBQ-maestro tosses a log into the fire at one end of the grills, this is burned for hours and the embers are chipped away with a scythe-like implement and shuffled underneath the steaks and fish. Nothing escapes the subsequent fire power, whole chickens roast, sausages spit and curl, fish sits up top next to potatoes and a whole charring butternut squash.
This is more than just a steak house and there's plenty of Spanish heritage in the menu. First up, I try a fat and crispy chorizo pimiento - a paprika spicy sausage. Orangey red inside with hunks of mauve fat, this is a traditional Spanish-style sausage. It's grilled within an inch of inedibly-burned and has the warm smokey tones of the grill. I love the way the sausage is dense and firm to cut, it's so much more robust than an English sausage. The meat is less ground, retaining the fibrous quality of fresh cuts of meat. Its picante spices tingle my tongue and lips satisfyingly - I'd be happy to eat five.
I'm still chewing the fat (literally) when my paella dish arrives bursting with yellowed rice and squid. I can pretty much smell the Atlantic from my seat, so I am hoping that's a good nod to the freshness of the squid. It's darker and saucier than its Spanish compadre and heavy with paprika and garlic. It's a little too oily, but the purple rings of squid are soft, not at all rubbery, with a reassuring tentacle count. They]ve used a heavy stock and lots of oil making this quite rich for seafood. It's tasty, though I only manage a plateful rather than the whole paella dish I've been assigned.
Some salted flattened chicken breasts are slapped on the grill as a guitarist starts churning out some Uruguayan country songs. The bar fills up with grey moustacheod, steak-paunched old men. Uruguay may share a lot in cultural-common with its neighbour Argentina, but it´s starting to reveal its identity as the bar joins to chorus the guitarist´s tune.
It might be the Uruguayan Tannat I'm being plied with or the favourable exchange rate (this meal comes in under £15), but I think I might be warming to Montevideo after all.

Welcome to the jungle

With a new found commitment to getting upclose and personal with my dinner, I thought it about time I went to the top of the food chain with some huntin´, shootin´ and fishin´. Well bamboo rod fishing in the wetland jungle of the Pantanal to be more precise.
My fishing expo begins with a 5am alarm call from approximately a thousand birds. Quite a shock for this city girl, but dawn is the busiest time of day in the jungle. I´m about 6 hours drive into the jungle. No phones. No internet. No one to hear you scream... somewhat dramatic, granted, but you get the picture.
We stroll to the river edge by 7am and set off in search of some fish. The Pantanal is swampland and the river is slow and infested with caiman alligators and the reason for the rods - piranha. Piranha arn´t as dangerous as Hollywood has led us to believe, or at least not at this time of year, I´m keeping all extremeties inside the tin can of a boat all the same.
My guide settles us in a corner and we bait our hooks with beef - for those discerning piranha. Soon my line is twitching and I feel a tug from the depths, I bring my rod up to find the beef gone and no fish. I continue to feed the fish in this way for several hours to the distress of my Croccodile Dundee-esque jungle guide. I sit and wait. It´s not all bad, the passing toucans and sound of the kingfishers make for excellent background entertainment. The occassional bellyflop of the alligators is more disconcerting, however.
After lunch, I´m determind to catch something and changing my rod tactics yields a King Fish within minutes and the illustrious piranha has his knashers around my hook shortly after. Neither are good enough for the pan, apparently. We save the gasping, glugging piranha at the back of the boat and a piao fish (I can´t find a translation for this fish, it has a distinctive yellow underside, though) my guide has caught gets three whacks to the face.
We toss the piranha to the alligator and I catch a live David Attenborough special. The alligator crunches all of the bones out of the piranha before swallowing it whole.
Back on shore, Dundee slaps the piao on his oar, produces a long knife from his shorts, scales and guts the fish right there. He washes it in the river and takes it back for the camp cook. The piao arrives at my plate in an hour cut into small steaks, coated in a lightly spiced batter (almost like a southern-fried spice) and deep fried. It´s a flaky white/grey meat fish and has the earthy taste of all river dwelling swimmers. It´s delicious and light, if a little on the boney side, but fish doesn´t get fresher than this.
It´s great to see so closely where your food has come from, it doesn´t get more organic than catching it wild (sustainably and responsibly, one fish fed the whole camp) and a few days around the jungle camp fire and I´m in full hunter-gatherer swing. Now, where´s that spear, I´m gonna get me a wild boar.

A pig´s ear

The first time I discovered fejoida, a smokey black bean broth, I thought I´d found an incredibly tasty Brazilian favourite - end of story. But, like so much Brazilian food there´s more than just soup in the pot - there´s ladles of soulful history too.
Beans are to Brazilians what rice is to the Chinese - it´s a staple side dish that goes with everything. Black bean broth fejoia can be eaten everywhere it´s creamy from a long simmer and broken crushed beans make it thick, with bay leaves and minimal seasoning it´s simple but oh so effective. Its elusive sibling fejoida, however, is often only served on a Saturday. This struck me as unusual. When I asked a chef why I am restricted to eating fejoida on one day of the week, she told me the story in the soup.
When slaves toiled in the kitchens of the Portuguese settlers, their food allowance didn´t stretch to meat items such as pork. During the week these cooks would squirrel-away cuts of meat such as ears, snout and tail in vats of salt. The staunchly Catholic Portuguese gave the slaves a free day on Saturday so that they could visit the church. This then also became a day of celebrations and time to dust off those precious pig´s ears and conceal them in the black bean stews.
Fejoida is often still made in this way, leaving pork in salt for most of the week to make fejoida on Saturday morning. In some places the ears, tails and snouts continue to be the cut of choice. This gives a salty edge to the black beans and for a modern twist is sometimes served with crisped pork croutons.
All over Brazil kitchens remain loyal to tradition and so the bubbling spitting pots of beans carry the memory of Brazil´s mixed and chequered history.

Tarts of Rio

Life on the road has peaks and troughs, just when you think you´re down on your luck a cake emporium changes the course of your day.
After a morning of being turned away by every tourist agency in downtown Rio de Janeiro I bump into a Brazilian girl who offers to act as a translator as we go to the airport. Erica spends 20 minutes trying to help me buy a flight before I decide that I can´t afford it. I offer to buy her a coffee by means of thanks, instead she offers to take me to a cafe where she needs to buy a tea cup for her husband in Canada. I´m sold when she mentions something about Portuguese pastries.
So, flights missed long forgotten, I arrive at Confeiteria Colombo. I´ve visited more than a few cake cafes in my time, but even my jaw thuds against the tiled floor on entering the enormous tea room. The high walls open into a balconied second floor with stained glass ceiling. The walls are all covered with grandiose mirrors that remind me of Parisian cafes. The whole building seems preserved in its decadent art noveau style from the late 19th Century. I fear my apparel of shorts and vest may be out of place among the starched-collar waiters.
At the entrance, in front of rows of round table tops, two glass fronted cake counters are laden with intricate and diabetes-inducing delicacies. There are tarts with carefully blowtorched meringue toppings, brigadeiro (sweet made from condensed milk) and gateux of various fillings, but the specialties here are the traditional Portuguese pastries and flans.
We sit down and Erica points out some traditional treats for me to try and we share a pot of coffee. I order the Pastel de Belem and a flan. The Pastel de Belem is essentially a custard tart, but it is far removed in sophistry from the rubber-middled eggy kind you find at Gregg´s the bakers. The pastry is a light crispy almost puff almost filo - I don´t know how they achieve this but it´s lighter than air. The custard centre, burnt slightly on top, is a confectioner style custard. It´s smooth and creamy with a velvet-vanillery warmth that coats the mouth. There´s also a barely perceptible hint of cinnamon. The tart disappears with alarmming speed.
The flan is a mini tower of custardy cake, although quite similar it´s firmer than a creme caramel. It has a grainier almost cake consistency with a nutty-almond flavour. It sits in a light, thin moat of caramel.
In the auspicious room with it´s serious waiters, marble table tops and ornate decor, I´m transported to an era of European splendour. Where furniture and decorations were shipped across the seas from Belgium to bring the best and latest styles to the cultural heart of Rio.
The cakes reduced to crumbs, I´m sad that I´ll probably never eat a Pastel de Belem here again and I bemoan the stodgy ineptitude of Gregg´s gelatinous custard offering. On second thoughts, it´s probably for the best - I´m not sure they´ve developed a pastry-gorgers anonymous yet.

Back to school

"In Brazil we have a saying, Put some water in the beans. It means, I´m bringing a friend to dinner so make the food stretch." So says my new Brazilian cooking guru Simone at the beginning of my cooking lesson at Cook in Rio. This phrase highlights so much of the open-hearted, open-doored warmth I have found all over Brazil and when you sit to eat at a Brazilian table you´ll find there´s more to Brazilian food than mere sustenance.
We start the lesson with fried mandioca or to give them their native Indian name Aimpim frites. Here is the first history lesson of the day, the main influences at work in Brazilian cooking are Portuguese, African and native Indian. Mandioca is a long brown root that is known in African cuisine as cassava. When the Portuguese first started to bring slaves to emerging Brazil they mixed with enslaved Indians and found many of the same foods in their cooking. The native people of Brazil used Mandioca ground into a powder like a rough flour. Back to the cooking pots, where long chips of mandioca are being par boiled as you would with potatoes before roasting. They are then added to soya oil for a light fry. While they cool off, we prepare a drink called batida de coco. This something else Simone is insistent on, that the chef always needs to have a drink to aid creative culinary juices. Batida de coco is one shot of cachaça and one shot of coconut milk with sugar and cinnamon. We sit down to our mid morning snack and shot and the chips taste like a British potato chip but with a firmer middle.
Creative juices stirred we get started on the main event, Brazilian favourite Moqueca. This is made all over Brazil but it´s really a Bahian dish. Bahia is the coastline with the first capital of Brazil Salvador at its centre. Bahia is the heart of Afro-Brazilian culture and Bahian cuisine is rooted in the traditions of the African slaves. Moqueca is a stew of fish and coconut milk usually served with rice and farofa. We make our moquecha with fish but it can also be made with prawns. We throw in a filleted fish followed by the head and tail, Simone tells me that all the flavour is in the bones so these bits are essential. Frying onions and garlic in orange palm oil I immediately see how the dish gets it´s beautiful pale sunset colouring. The fish is then thrown in with the coconut milk to cook and rings of peppers are added. A small amount of cumin is used for seasoning and fresh coriander is chopped in. We also fry chopped banana in mandioca flour and onion to make the side dish farofa.
Before we sit down to eat Simone shows us how to prepare the most Brazilian of drinks, the capirinha. Sugar, cachaça and some expertly mashed limes on ice for a taste so sharp and sweet it refreshes instantly.
After ten minutes of simmering, the moqueca is ready for the table. It´s beautifully delicate, the most prominent flavour coming from the palm oil, punctuated with the fresh coriander. I can´t affiliate palm oil with anything we have in the west, it´s almost like a nut oil but it has such a unique flavour. The fish and banana farofa are wonderful together, the bananas adding a hint of sweetness. The mandioca flour soaks up the ample coconut sauce and it´s all very light and heartwarming in the same instance. At the table Simone tells me how important the Brazilian dining table is, phones are left unanswered and the through-traffic of people who have been dropping in all day are dispelled for the important table talk.
I realise as Simone talks to me about her life, offering advice on everything from the best kitchen knife to who not to marry, that if you want to get to know Brazilian culture, history and social graces you should forget the museums and tour guides - it´s all right here in the orange soupy residue left on my plate.


For more information about the Cook in Rio cooking class, go to www.cookinrio.com

The wild north-west

As my bus travels north the view from my window gets more dramatic. The land becomes rugged and dry and communities are set farther apart. In the province of Salta huge mountains and canyons divide remote communities living in dustbowls hours from civilisation. With this, the topography of the cuisine changes and this diverse north-western province has developed an interesting culinary identity.
Maize plants dominate local agriculture and the corn from these is the key ingredient in two local specialities. Humitas and tomales are both made with mashed corn wrapped in their maize skins and boiled. They both have a slight spice, more of a picante paprika flavour than fiery chilli. The tomales adds pink shredded veal and the humitas a melted cheese middle. Their sweet pepper flavour is delicate - I enjoy eating both. The corn and paprika spice remind me more of Mexican cuisine than anything I´ve seen through the rest of Argentina. They have a mushy consistency, but with a splash of local relish of tomatoes, onion, garlic and vinegar they both make a delicious entrada (starter).
Another local specialty, Locro, takes the corn and veal in a soup with butterbeans, a root vegetable similar to a turnip and chopped chives. The colour of this soup is a durgy yellow that´s not immediately appealing. The first taste almost makes me recoil, it´s got an overriding flavour of animal fat. It reminds me of traditional British dumplings, it´s lardy infact. It dawns on me that there are white lumps of something spongy in my mouth, which could be lard or even mondongo (tripe). As I persevere the fat becomes moderately more bearable and I notice that the veal tastes very good and the underlying flavour of corn, cut through with the chives is pleasant. There´s an earthy almost manure flavour left on my tongue, that reminds me far to much of the cow´s habitat and starts to put me off again. This is peasant fodder good and proper, it´s not fancy it´s hearty and it´ll keep the meat on your bones in the chilly mountains, but the prevailing fatty taste eventually gets the better of me and two thirds remains untouched.
As the terrain becomes more dry and mountainous in the west the ubiquitous cow gets replaced with goat. This filters down to the table where empanadas are filled with queso de cabra (goat cheese) and restaurants advertise the other local hero the cazuela de cabrito (kid goat stew).
When I decide to try the cazuela in Cafayate, a small town south west of the city Salta, the only place serving the fabled stew looks none too salubrious. After gingerly giving my order, I await my meal watching the waiter stamp out bugs on the cracked tiled floor. Thoughts of food poisoning start to flicker across my mind, but I´m far too polite to leave without paying and perhaps the threat of a crippled stomach is the price a food writer must pay on occassion. I vow to have one mouthful, before a swift exit.
I almost laugh when the waiter brings me a near overflowing bowl of the most delightful looking stew. It´s got huge rougly hewn chunks of cabrito interspersed with long shredded carrots, red and green peppers and onions. It´s glowing with orangey colour. Its light watery sauce is tinged from the carrots and added pimiento, with small daubs of oil on the surface. I eagerly cut a piece of cabrito and find that it tastes like a less sophisticated cousin of lamb, it´s light and tender and streets ahead of the tough older goat you find in Caribbean cuisine. It´s firm to the knife but surrenders easily in the mouth. Heaped with the vegetables and some sauce, which I detect has a splash of local torrentes white wine in it, reminds me of food from the Basque region of Spain.
This stew has depth, rustic charm and bags of flavour, it could be made with lamb, but I can´t believe my own words here, I think the goat gives it its edge and idiosyncratic peasantness. Well who da´thunk it - I´m a goat convert.

NB This food writer experienced no food poisoning in north-west Argentina.

Butchery in Cordoba

The owner of my hostel in Cordoba informs me on my arrival of an invisible line north of the city I would be wise not to cross, however, I had to have a look around Mercado Norte. This covered market is a market proper, not a tourist attraction, it´s worts´n´all butchery. That´s the crux of Mercado Norte, meat. There is one fish counter, a couple of cheese counters and a grocers shop full of unidentifiable pickles, but there are probably more than 15 meat stalls and that speaks volumes about the Argentine diet.
At some of the meat counters there are queues of people waiting to pick up bulging carrier bags of bife. Behind the counter you´ll find ruddy faced, sausage-fingured, born and bred meat grinders. There´s a finesse to a seasoned butcher adept at their craft, I watch one dissect a cow´s leg in under 2 minutes with a bone-chillingly efficient saw.
This market is a great place to kill an hour or two just watching locals shopping, it also brings you face to face with your food, literally. I walk down one aisle and the carcass of a lechon (piglet) is hanging in my path and dripping blood all over the floor. This is extreme shopping, not a barcode in sight, it´s literally get inside the animal and sniff out your dinner. It brings out something excitingly primal.
The highlight of Mercado Norte, for me, is the accessibility of things you rarely see with such pride in the UK. There are whole counters dedicated to offal and every part of the animal is up for grabs. Now don´t get me wrong, I´m a true child of the vacuum-packed generation and therefore squeamish of all things innard, but I love this thriftyness that we´ve lost in some parts of Britain. There´s also a strong environmental argument for the usage of everything - I mean everything. Cow´s lenguas (tongues) still tinged green from grass chomping nestle with livers and intestines, huge folding blankets of yellow spongy mondongo (tripe) cushion the back of displays and hang over the counter. The line for me may be drawn somewhere between the basket of chicken feet and the tray of skinned sheep heads replete with eyeballs, but hey, who am I to judge I´ll happily sit down to a sea bass staring up at me from my plate, so why not a sheep. Food hypocracy is rife, and I´m probably its worst deciple, but seeing everything out in the open here certainly starts to breakdown some barriers imposed by years of supermarket sterilisation.
Surrounding the market, parrillas churn out their steaks and carne empanadas (small pasties of spicy meat) and after shopping old couples sit here over a glass of wine. It seems like a fun event of the week, not a chore. Here is a concept lost in the UK, where buying dinner involves a dreaded stop at the local super, instead of a trip to the very blood dripping heart of your food (I also saw hearts for sale, as it goes).
Mercado Norte could be the first step in an offalphobic rehab programme and perhaps next time I won´t wince at the sight of liver on the menu. I said perhaps.

A grape adventure

Vineyards. Check. Tree lined avenues. Check. Snowcapped Andean backdrop. Check. It must be the wine lovers paradise Mendoza. What better way to soak up the atmosphere than from the (albeit uncomfortable) seat of a bicycle. The vineyards are situated in El Maipu a 40 minute bus journey outside of Mendoza and the grape varieties grown here are largely Malbec and Cabernet Sauvignon.
The cycling begins at 11am when I pick up my bike and map, then it´s a short peddle to the Museo del Vino. Housing old harvesting equipment and barrels from yesteryear, a quick look around gives me an impression of how wine production started in this region. This is still a working winery making an aptly named bottle Museo, it´d be rude not to take up the offer of a free taster. The Cabernet Sauvignon here is fruity and pleasant, but I´ve got my tastebuds set on some Malbec so we push on.
The next stop is more a gourmet cottage industry than straight-up bodega, Historias Y Sabores (Histories and Flavours) makes jams, chutneys, liquors and chocolates from ingredients mostly grown on the farm. After witnessing the resident Willy Wonker hard at work in his chocolate splattered kitchen we head to the tasting room. Here I try some grapefruit jam and olive and pimiento paste, all are rustic with a homemade feel. Then my guide brings out the liquors - yikes it´s only 11.45am. A mandarin liquor was a bit too strong and lacking in sweet orangey flavour for my taste.
After a 12km cycle in the midday sun, throwing myself in the irrigation ditch once or twice to save being mowed down by impatient grape trucks, we arrive at Bodega Carinae. I´ve never felt less like a glass of red wine than entering this winery, I´m drenched in sweat and gagging for a good hose down, but this is my out and out favourite on the tour. A really knowledgable guide shows me the areas of the vineyard containing different grapes, then a tour of the barrels and an explanation of the process. She tells me they ship barrels from France for the good quality French oak for 900 Euros a pop, they only use them five times before they´re sent to some wine barrel graveyard. The more expensive wines get first dibs on the barrel and the fifth use is saved for the cheapest plonk. The tasting here was great, I tried a beautifully dry Malbec Rose, I´m told the skins are left in for only a few hours. A Cabernet Sauvignon Malbec blend is redcurrenty and light, but best of all an aged Malbec from those pricey French barrels. It´s almost sweet and syrupy and stays thick on the tongue for minutes afterwards - it´s perfect company for a 5 minute rest under a tree.
Back in the saddle and Bodega Tempus Alba is a little dissapointing. Looking like a millionnaire´s mansion, it´s all style and no substance inside. There is what looks like a very good restaurant, however, no tour, no tasting, pah, where´s my glass of free Malbec? Tempus Alba redeems itself when I realise I´m allowed to frolic a little among the vines. Myself and two fellow riders check over our shoulders before plucking the odd grape. Expecting bitterness, for some reason, I´m surprised by how wonderfully sweet these are. They´re almost like a blueberry in flavour and I scoff a handful or two for the road. Refueled and purple of mouth we hotfoot it out of there before Old Senor Tempus cottons on to our grape-thieving ways.
It´s only a short wheel across the road to Vina al Cerna, but it couldn´t be further removed in style. This place is rustic with a corrugated roofed shed full of smoke from a lunchtime asado (BBQ). We take a seat in the barn and someone explains the differing wines they produce, it´s all blending into one now. Wine, wine and oh something sparkly. We try a glass of each, a new Malbec is pleasantly fruity but not unusual and an oaky old (2003) Malbec is the stiffest of the day and finishing it brings on a bit of a headache. I have to say, the sparkling Chardonnay may be the winner here, it´s 4pm and its palette cleansing and refreshing citrus zing perk us up for the long ride to the finish line.
Head slightly befuggled, we weave our way back, thankfully it´s downhill all the way. Time to lean forward and let gravity do its worst.

Parrilla Time

On the corner of the streets Chile and Peru in San Telmo, Buenos Aires, I am initiated in the Argentine Parrilla at El Plato. The backbone of the gaucho country´s restaurant scene, the parrilla, is a steak house. Vegetarians need not apply the parrilla is puritan - it´s carne or go home.
Parrillas range from spit and sawdust joints to upscale restaurants. El Plato sits somewhere in the middle, but due to the abundance of well bred/fed cattle in Argentina, you´re guaranteed the steak of your life wherever you end up.
El Plato was once a butcher and evidence remains in the hanging meat hooks, cracked black and white tiled floor and photographs of sturdy men, meat cleavers at the ready, adorn the walls. Tables with white linen table cloths are packed tightly with chunky wooden chairs and a Friday night hub-bub of locals, gives a heart-warming atmosphere I never want to leave.
The menu lists a host of different cuts of beef and a couple of pork dishes. I choose the bife d´chorizo, which is the sirloin cut - not the Spanish sausage. My hunk of Argentina´s finest is thrown on the open grill I can see from my seat. Wood burning flames give the beef a wonderful smoked flavour. The quality speaks for itself, the sirloin is fibrous, juicy and blushing in the middle with a thick side of fat. The steak covers three-quarters of my plate and the strength and freshness of flavour is unrivaled by anything I´ve tasted in the UK. The beef seems to have more complexity to its flavour than its British cousin giving a deeper, richer, er well, beefiness. I am also given three accompanying salsas, my favourite is a thyme, garlic and chilli vinaigrette, which leaves a lasting citrusy tang. Accompanied by fried potatoes country-style and it´s a filling slap-up supper.
A glass of vanillary Malbec compliments the meat perfectly and the best part - the bill totals eleven pounds. Everyone should try a real Argentine parrilla - steak lovers should consider expatriation. It´s beef at its all time best.