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.