After a nice lazy Sunday rise at 12 pm Stuart and I made coffee and planned out our day. We felt a bit cooped up this week and jumped at Bruce’s invitation to take a day trip to Mataderos.

In English Mataderos translates to “slaughterhouse”. Mataderos is a section of Buenos Aires traditionally known for its live stock market and meat packing. Cattle were brought to Mataderos to be killed and shipped to other parts of the country. Some times Mataderos is refered to as the new Chicago.

Our day however had much more to do with merriment and gaiety rather than carnage and gore.

Every Friday and Sunday the neighborhood of Mataderos hosts a bustling street fair.

We descended into masses. Street vendors, artisans, and entertainers packed in around the center square as passer bys made there way through. Unlike San Telmo we saw far less tourists, mostly just Argentine families spending a day outside for great food and shopping.

We were surrounded by smoking grills, traditional song and dance, artisan wines, massive knives, leather goods, mate gords, trotting horses, leather faced toothless gauchos with riding crops the size of base ball bats. At one point we even saw a performer charging people $2 to beat a fake cat with a stick.

We stopped to watch dancers perform Zamba, a traditional folk dance. Couples line up facing each other stepping forward and back. Quick steps take them circling around eachother as the women playfully wave scarves above their heads.

Stuart and I were impressed by the quality of the crafts. Especially  the hand made leather bags and engraved knives. We wandered around admiring the artisanship before looking for the group. We were told “ 3 pm pink café on the corner.” And laughed when we discovered half the buildings are one shade of pink or another.

We found Bruce waiting on the corner of the hot pink café directly across from the band stand. We all agreed to be hungry and headed for the smoke. Mataderos is a great place for parilla. You can also find traditional foods from the province like tamahles (steam corned husks stuffed with xyz) and locro ( a delicious meaty white bean stew). 

We opted for churipans and an $8 peso bottle of Vino Patero, Cab Sauv. The vendor informed us they produce less than 4,000 liters per year. Fruity but better than what I could produce in my basement.

Much more talkative after having been satiated we made our way to the track. We missed the spectacle but Gauchos, which are essentially Argentine cowboys line up and bolt like bats out of hell towards the finish line. Each carries a small metal spear which at full speed they must pierce through a metal loop dangling from the finish line. They charge closely past grandmothers, bundled babies and clumsy children, very exciting.

As they wrapped up gauchos paraded around on their horse as a few children pranced around on ponies and mules. We even saw a dog riding a horse. We made our way back and finished out the afternoon with a beer at the hot pink café.

Thursday normally marks a trip to Nigel’s for his wine tastings.  However it was a guest tasting and the price was a little high and in an effort to save a little bit of money we just went out to dinner with Bruce instead.  Bruce brought along 3 of his classmates from Spanish class.  We returned to the same Peruvian restaurant that we ate with him the week before and between the six of us we ate one and a half chickens, a few pounds of French fries and salads and two bottles of Malbec that Bruce donated to the cause.  One of Bruce’s classmates was Canadian and she unfortunately was on the receiving end of a large number of poorly crafted Canadian jokes.  His other two classmates were Brazilian.  One of them spoke six different languages (in varying degrees, but 3 fairly fluently).  We talked a lot during dinner, much about comparing cultures, how men and women related and what to do in Buenos Aires (Ashley Edit: And mostly about how much Canada sucks.)
On Saturday we headed off with the intention of going to the modern art museum, stopping by the English book store and picking up a canvas for Ashley to paint of (as I hauled all her paints here for her and she has yet to actually touch them).  Unfortunately the modern art museum was closed for renovations, the English books store was a little pricey and low in selection, and the art store was closed.  Instead we purchased a book aimed at “young adults” in Spanish, and made a trip to a Parrilla that Ashley wanted to show me.  I obliged her request, and struggled through my greasily delicious blood sausage sandwich. 
We spent the afternoon butchering the Spanish version of “Artemis Fowl” out loud to each other.  Sunday we are planning to host an Asado, which we had to research both how to cook and what to cook.  The first answer was complex, as some parts you cook slow and some hot and fast, but the second was easy: everything.

Checking the weather report everything was a go for Sunday. Saturday night we sent invitations to some friends for an impromptu bbq on our terrace.

Sunday morning we set out for fresh pickings at our local supermarket. The butcher seemed skeptical of two eager Americans preparing an Argentine asado. Where were we going to grill? And what were we doing buying meat on a Sunday? Everyone knows the fresh kill is delivered on Saturday.

 He interrogated us some more as he portentously hacked at slabs of meat with his colossal gleaming knife. He filled the order giving us one last quizzical look before wishing us luck.

We turned the lock and Stu bolted to the terrace, setting to work immediately heating the coals. I took a second trip to the store for wine, beer, soda and other fixings. My absence left me in the dark about much of the grilling ritual. I returned to the smell of seared meat and the sound of Skynard.

We read online about cooking a few of the curious cuts. One site instructed the following “Lay meat on grill. Leave it alone and drink a beer. Finish beer, turn meat” Done.

By 2:45 Stuart had single handedly prepared a full Argentine asado. We relaxed a bit and chased Carlos around the terrace as we awaited the arrival of our guests.

We became nervous after an hour passed with no sign of our guests. Worse yet the sky darkened and it began to rain. We had enough meat for 10-12 people.

As we moved the food downstairs we became scared that the rain had deterred our guests. As we calculated ways to use up the meat during the week we heard the doorbell. Moments later our kitchen was filled. Bruce brought some of his friends including the Canadian, the Brazilians and his son. We uncorked the wine and carved the meat.

We had a great time and made merry in traditional 4^th of July fashion. The festivities carried on into the evening. We wound up at a near by bar called El Federal. Stu and I returned home proclaiming the day as a huge success.

We really need to get better about the frequency of our blogs. Where to start, probably with something funny…

Saturday morning, or rather late Saturday afternoon Stuart and I woke up and set out on a misson. Operation “Eat Delicious Churi Pans and Find Stuart Pajamas Pants because Buenos Aires is Cold.” 

The original plan also included a stop over in the city’s Armory Museum, which unfortunately was closed.

We set out to Maipu Street where Stuart brought me to a whole-in-the-wall parilla, our favorite type of place.

He had passed the dive early in the week and insisted I try “The best churi-pan”.

For those unfamiliar with this delicacy a churi-pan is a typical street food in AR; spicy chorizo sausage grilled and placed lovingly in delicious bread, topped with chimichurry, Argentina’s tangy sauce.

He may have been right. The Churi pan was pretty good, even better with beer and the giant veal sandwich he ordered to go along with it. Grando total $22.50 pesos

(Stuart’s Note:  If you are not aware of what a “parrilla” is I will fill you in.  A parrilla is, in essence, a grill, and that is all that is necessary.  Some parrillas are sit down restaurants frequented by tourists, others are… not so much.  Some are single rooms, half of which are a giant grill, where the remains of various animals roast merrily on a carbon encrusted grate.  You order directly from the guy at the grill, and pay at the cash register.  If there is a place to sit down (normally in short supply, and occupied by grizzled Porteños gobbling meat, bread and beer) you may do so as you wait for your order.  There are a variety of things to order, but we stick to the Churripan (Chorizo sandwich) and sandwich de Lomo (Steak sandwich) though in this instance I ventured WAY off the reservation and got a sandwich de Milanesa (veal sandwich) for which I was rewarded with a giant sandwich, which ACTUALLY contained vegetables.)

With full bellies we wandered up Florida Street, avoiding the people hustling leather products and passing out flyers. After stopping in a few shops and listening to Peruvian Flute Players pipe out “Ava Maria” we found a pair on sale.

Upon check out we learned the 49 pesos pants were bottom to a set. The clerk returned with a traditional button up top, baby blue size XL.

Later that night after we returned home. I heated up dinner and forgot about our purchase. Looking up from the stove I noticed Stuart strutting into the room in full garb. I am not sure which description works better; 1. an over grown baby dancing around shaking his butt or 2. a tired old man in grandpa-jamas. Either way hysterical.

During the time between pajama shopping and our return home we headed to Las Canitas. We had some time to kill before my 7 pm in-company tasting for Anuva. So, we walked around the neighborhood I mentioned once before, this time armed with cameras. We stopped into the Natural Deli, an organic restaurant/ whole foods shop/ yoga studio.

At 7 we met up with Daniel and Lourdes. The tasting was short only 9 wines, 6 were from Lourdes’ trip to Salta. I tried my first Argentine dessert wine. The smell reminded me of Halloween candy or Mary-Jane caramels. At the end of the tasting we took 3 bottles including the dessert wine.

Stu and I arrived back safely from Mendoza. The bus trip was cozy and included all the before mentioned comforts. However on the next excursion I might consider another bus line. We used Chevalier. I passed on my greenish steak served at dinner. Life is too short for such risks. We noticed they turn off the AC in the middle of the night then crank it 1 hour before arrival. The sensation of being cooked alive can be easily justified as a nightmare. Stu was drenched when he woke up.

 I offer no sincere complaint because I was still elated from the vacation in Mendoza and slept well. 

We spent the next day lounging around the apartment before going to Cristina’s house. Cris’ family invited us for an asado, a traditional argentine bbq. Niether of us had experienced one and were enthusiastic about the invitation.

We brought a bottle of wine from our trip and greeted Cristina’s parents and siblings. We sat outside in the courtyard at a big table. The stars were out and as we looked us we noticed the massive roof top parilla,. Most Argentine homes have a large grill for such an event.

An asado takes hours to prepare and is some what of an art form. Senora Alberti set out salads and home made breads while her husband labored over the meat. Cristina’s dad made his way down the steps carrying a large silver tray of meat including several types of sausage, ribs and inards.

Half way through my plate Stuart had to intervene. I had trouble breathing. As I explained my satisfaction Cristina’s brother informed us these were only appetizers. Moments later a second platter of thick cuts of steaks and more intestines appeared before us. The table began to look like the diagram of a cow.The food was remarkable. The wine we chose was quite manly and worked perfectly to cut through the grizzle of the meal.

As at most Argentine dinners a political discussion arose. They asked a lot of general questions that are nearly impossible to explain in English let alone Spanish. I let the political science major approach many of the questions. However I abused my power as translator to interject my own opinions which occasionally differ from Stuart’s. These broad topics were intersected with many tangents including the social dilemmas of native Americans and reservations.

Their questions stem from an innate curiosity. They wanted to know all about life in the US from the education system to the availability dulce de leche. We talked about our trip to Mendoza.

I could not think of a better last night in Buenos Aires for Stuart. His partiality to Carolina bbq did not overcome his obvious approval of Argentine style. Cristina’s dad said he felt honored to see only bones left on Stuart’s plate.

We came back to my apartment and stayed up for a bit discussing the trip. We woke up and spent the day relaxing before his flight. We opened a bottle of wine I bought on the trip. I finally made a good choice! Stuart 5- Ashley 2? The Weinert 2002 Gran Vino is one of my top picks from the wines I have ever tried.

It felt weird loading his suitcases into the taxi. Goodbyes are always hard but the weight of the wine bottles made me excited for him to share our trip with people back home.  Argentina is a pretty amazing place; my envy of the Blacksburg winter exemplifies the concept of greener grass. I plan to spend the rest of the weekend relaxing before resuming a normal pace of life on Monday. I laid in my bed listening to the watermelon truck make its rounds and thought about what a great time we had together.

Last night Matt joined me for the concert. We had a late start. I showed him my master route to San Telmo.  Upon arrival the musicians played their last piece. We continued to make our way through the neighborhood and stopped at Chile st. for a drink.

            On the way home we stopped at the Parillia I mentioned a few posts back. Once again the place was packed. I recommended the “mini beef” and ordered a pitcher of wine sans ice. We broke bread and scattered our table with crumbs. I watched the cook throw two gargantuan steaks from the cooler onto the grill.  I love how the waiters don’t ask how you take your steak. They simply assert their mastery of the art form.

 

At the end of the night we met the owner, Omar. I had pointed out him out during the meal. He walked past us and made his way to the back of the restaurant. He picked up a microphone and began to sing tango. And my how he sang. The kitch on the walls suddenly made sense. I recognized him as the man in all the small black and whites.

            After 5 or 6 songs he made his rounds and greeted all of his guests. When other customers dispersed at the end of the night he came over to chat with us. Turns out he worked in a factory before. One day he decided to follow his passions for music and became a successful tango singer and grill owner. We walked out feeling a little table wined and inspired. I carried 2 lbs of left over steak and a copy of his cd.