Culinary Staples

The food in Argentina is both stunningly good and confoundingly awful.  It sorta depends on what you order.  Food, as it is anywhere, is a social and communal experience.  The people who prepare it take great pride in it and the people who share in eating it, enjoy it.  So the last thing I want to do is insult the sensibilities of anyone who reads this.  Food is an intensely personal preference.  Everyone has their own tastes.  That being said, don’t bitch at me, I don’t want to hear it.

Obviously, anyone who knows a smidgen about Argentina knows how sinfully delicious the beef is.  I’ll get there in a minute, with the minor caveat that vegetarians (I’m looking at you Lauren) will struggle in this city, but its not impossible.  The place I want to start is the food of Italian origin.  The two largest immigrant populations in Buenos Aires are Spanish and Italian.  And the culture that governs the VAST majority of the food prepared here is the Italian tradition. 

Every single café or resto in this city serves pasta.  All of them.  You can’t avoid it.  In fact, the culinary culture of this city makes it next to impossible to avoid carbs.  Atkins addicts, avoid at all costs.  You can’t walk a block in the capital without passing a bakery.  Walls full of delicious pastries, breads and desserts.  The diabetic me is cringing at the potential of a future without a foot.  They are all delicious, and they’re everywhere, so self control is the measure of the day.  To add to the carb binge comes every corner café, which far removed from the American definition of café, will serve you coffee and pastries as well as sandwiches, pastas and grilled meat.  Every.  Single.  Restaurant. In. This. City. has pasta on the menu.  When in doubt, order it.  It’s a decent standby.

The problem is, the Argentines can’t cook Italian for shit.  And its not their fault.  Let me explain why.  With such a massive influx of south western-Mediterranean cultures flooding this city, it was only obvioius that the city took up the mantle and an Italian food culture was born.  (While the residents speak Spanish, this seems to be a remnant of early colonialism as I haven’t been able to find paella or ceviche anywhere)  The problem, for me, is that it was so far removed.  From so many things.  So far from Italy.  Far from the US, where I’m used to that version of Italian.  But most of all, too far south for the spice trade to come through the port.  And as a result, most of the food in this city is pretty bland.  Like I said, not their fault, but a matter of circumstance.  There is just an absolute dearth of spices here in Buenos Aires.  The stuff I see at the grocery store?  Black and white pepper, oregano, parsley, garlic, salt and occasionally spicy red pepper.  Basically, the exact same spice cabinet a frat house has.  Actually, that’s not true, I’ve never seen oregano in a frat house.  Basil?  Forget it.  Cinnamon?  Never.  And heaven help you if you want a curry.

The next issue I take is how the food is prepared.  Italian food, such a staple of this culture, is not overwhelmingly difficult to prepare.  Mario Batali might take issue with that “easy” comment, but at the level its prepared in a standard sit-down restaurant, it’s not hard.  Tomato, oregano or basil, garlic.  Boil pasta, cover in sauce, serve.  Bread the chicken, sauté, cover in sauce, serve.  Dough, sauce, cheese, oven, serve.  Very little nuance if you’re paying six bucks for spaghetti.  BUT FOR GOD’S SAKE COOK THE PASTA CORRECTLY!!!!  The Argentines have never, ever, ever, ever, ever (and I can’t stress this enough) EVER heard of al dente.  If I had a 90-year old grandma with no teeth that didn’t know what spaghetti should taste like, she would keel over in ecstasy at the pasta here.  Seriously, is it so hard to take it out of the pot before it turns to mush?

Now that I have the tirade out of the way, I figure I can point out a few things that I do love about the food here.  And let me stress, for as cathartic as I think the rant above is, I love the food far more than I dislike it.  I have found a pizza place I enjoy (Pizzeria Guerrin).  They do pizza exactly how I love it.  Think Chicago deep dish; crispy and buttery outside crust, thick and doughy inside, enough sauce to flavor but not overwhelm and a healthy (or unhealthy) dose of gooey melty mozzarella on top.  The kind of pizza you have to cut and eat with a fork because it doesn’t fold.  Mmmmmm, lunch tomorrow I’m thinking.

But more than anything, the meat.  Oh my god, the meat.  Keep it simple stupid, right?  The great American BBQ argument flummoxes me.  I have come to the conclusion that we need the sauces, smokes, dry rubs and other things because our meat has no flavor.  Mostly due to the feedlot style of raising our hormone and antibiotic injected beef products.  Fortunately, BBQ doesn’t exist down here.  What’s the process for grilling?  Kill the cow, cut it up and throw it all over a wood fire.  Simple.  The single greatest steak of my life was served to me here in 2009.  I can still, despite the beer and wine, remember most of that meal.  And while nothing I’ve had so far during this trip has come close to that good, every piece of beef or chicken or sausage or organs I’ve had on this trip has exceeded anything I’ve eaten in the States in terms of flavor and quality.  I have a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with all of Argentina’s beef being free range, but mostly I just think that it is so ingrained in the culture that they can’t not be good at it.  America is too much of a hodgepodge.  We, as a nation, are a jack of all trades and master of none.

So how does one experience this, pardon the parlance, meat market?  Any one of Buenos Aires’s parillas are a good start.  Even the most mediocre, run of the mill, neighborhood restaurant will serve you a steak as good as any Texan can claim he’s grilled in his life.  But the best way is to grab at least one other friend and order the “parillada completo”.  Think big wooden slab piled high with an amazing array of grilled items; cuts of beef (ribs, skirt, sirloin, filet, ribeye), chicken, sausage (spicy [and I use that term loosely: see above], savory, herb, blood) vegetables (onion, squash, tomato, carrot, parsnips) and organs (kidney, liver, intestines).  Order a bottle or two of wine or some beers and indulge yourself in the greatest slow death by meat poisoning you’ve ever experienced.  Unbelievable.

That’s all I’ve got for now, but tomorrow night I’m going back to the restaurant that served me the “single greatest steak of my life”.  I’ll let you know how it goes.  I have high hopes, but one way or another I won’t be disappointed if this one fails to top the last time.