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.