CHRIS WALKER VS. WHERE VEGETARIANS DARE NOT VENTURE
Maybe it was because of how unfulfilled I was in Chile; maybe it was the large quantities of meat. Whatever it was, I loved Argentina. No, I didn’t get to drink vodka with penguins. No, I didn’t attend campfires with suspiciously gay seeming Gauchos (a la Bourdain) however; I did eat some of the best meat of my life. I also found quite possibly the best bartender in South America.
Before I continue, though, I have something to admit: I ate at a Hard Rock Café. Only a few weeks ago I was bashing chain restaurants, saying there’s always something better and local around the corner (which is still true) but I just didn’t care. On our last day in Chile two young guys who looked like Flander’s kids from The Simpsons told me about a huge futbol (or soccer) match scheduled on the day we arrived in Argentina. After a week of mediocre food and aggravating meetings I couldn’t think of anything better than drinking cold beer in a bar, watching sports. The match had already started when we landed in Buenos Aires. We passed tourist trap after tourist trap after tourist trap and I eventually got discouraged. Then I saw the Hard Rock Café. It was like a beacon of light at the time; I thought, “They have TVs, they have beer, fuck it, let’s go.” It turned out to be okay and I got to drink a couple beers and watch some sports. No harm, no foul.
Of course, I proved my theory that there is always something better, something local, around the corner is true. Welcome to Porte Zuelo: a dark, cozy restaurant on the same block as a McDonald’s and a bunch of pizzerias. Aside from its inviting atmosphere, it had a bar that looked like this:
We stuck around to drink and watch the Argentina v. Scotland rugby match (Argentina won) and I made it a point to go back a couple days later to eat. Easily as good, if not better, than any chain restaurant.
The meat in Argentina is nothing short of amazing and, honestly, would you expect anything less from one of the world’s major producers of beef? It seemed like every restaurant we went to (or passed by) specialized in some sort of braising or slow roasting or grilling. My Mexican Distributor and I were all too happy to reap the benefits of their craft while indulging in Malbec wine, which Argentina is well known for. I tried everything: matambre, luomo, sweetbreads (thank you pancreas of baby calf, you’re delicious!), asado, juicy pink pork that falls off the bone. As I told my friend Fanlo in a text message: “I’ve drank enough booze down here to drown an orphanage and eaten so much meat PETA is waiting to throw paint on me when I cross US customs.”
Sadly, after all the great food in Argentina, my final meal was quite possibly the worst dining experience of my life. Enter shit– excuse me, CHE. I’d seen CHE out on a run and thought the décor looked cool so my Mexican Distributor and I stopped by on our last night in Buenos Aires. I’d eaten just about all the meat I could handle at that point so I ordered a Caesar salad. Romaine lettuce, Caesar dressing, some croutons, pretty harmless and moderately healthy. Not to mention, pretty hard to mess up, right? Wrong. My Caesar was made with soggy lettuce, cold strips of chicken (which I hadn’t ordered), slices of apple, stale provolone cheese, burnt pieces of toast passed off as croutons, and no dressing. It was inedible. I couldn’t believe they served it. The “lasagna” my Mexican Distributor ordered wasn’t much better. We sent both of our meals back, virtually untouched.
What made the dining experience so horrible was the indifference of the waiter. We obviously hated our food. You might expect him to ask, “Did you not enjoy it? Was something wrong? Can I get you something else?” Nothing. The waiter smugly took our plates and walked away. Nothing was taken off the bill. The immense indifference, the complete lack of pride, infuriated me. When you spend most of your time on flights reading about the restaurant industry, gaining respecting for servers and line cooks and so forth, it’s a smack in the face when you realize they’re not always the respectable, hardworking people they’re portrayed as. Sometimes they’re giant assholes. I should have known things would go horribly wrong at CHE when I ordered a Manhattan and the waiter started listing off the gin selection.
Speaking of Manhattans, I found the best bartender in South America, in a district called Palermo Hollywood, in a restaurant called Magno. I had a good feeling about Magno when I looked at the cocktail menu and saw there was no Vodka Martini, no Cosmopolitan, nor an Appletini. Instead, the menu was full of classics: the Negroni, Tom Collins, the Americano, and even the Grasshopper and White Lady (see the menu here). However impressive the drink menu was, the bartender was even more so. He looked like any other shitty bartender who specializes in pouring Jager shots and popping the tops off Bud Lights but he was really a craftsman in disguise. When I ordered a Mint Julep he hand-picked only the best looking mint leaves and lightly muddled them; he measured his alcohol carefully (like you should); when adding soda water he didn’t pour from a bottle, he carbonated the water on the spot with a carbonation device. I was in awe the entire time. The drink was refreshing and delicious. I followed that up with a Manhattan and he crafted it with the same precision and dedication as he had the Mint Julep. If I hadn’t gone to Cleveland I’d still call it the best Manhattan I’ve ever had, but more on that another time.
In the end, I found it comforting to be in a city where meat cooks over giant grills in every window, there are no salad bars in sight, and you can smoke indoors. Not to mention, get great cocktails. I may not have made it to the end of the world and had vodka with penguins. I saw no gauchos, no farmlands, no “great outdoors” however; I spent enough time in Buenos Aires to know it’s an amazing city; I ate enough Argentinean beef to know it’s delicious. And if you hadn’t gathered yet: Argentina isn’t really a place for vegetarians. Or health nuts. I love it for that.
NOTE: If you meet a hot chick at a bar in Buenos Aires you may not be able to find a condom dispenser in the men’s room but at least you can clean your teeth in the morning.
Posted: October 17th, 2007 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Alcohol, Argentina, Food | No Comments »