Vamos BUE | Argentina Part II
Vamos Buenos Aires. The slogan of the city appears all over, visible on all the official signs and park placards. The irony is that the going is really a slow dance and one is wise not to rush the tempo. Meats take a good half hour to cook, which equates to a glass or two of Malbec at a normal pace. Without the stress of service, waiters like to take their time, and the night waits until morning to get underway. You move but never seem to be late. After some anxious struggles, I accepted the conundrum and settled in just fine.
Physically, the city is located on South America’s eastern shore, and is about smack-dab in the middle of Argentina; there is a quite a bit to the North and lot in the South to see. Walking their Avenidas (little avenues that are quite big), you sense that parts and pieces have been imported from Europe. Like everywhere else on the continent, the Catholic Church has left its mark, and the tombstones with surname modifiers of ‘Von’ and ‘di’ are testaments to the families who carried the cross from overseas. The ballooning balconies seem Parisian, however, they have made croissants their own. While streets have a German efficiency, the drivers still have a penchant for Latin chaos. Their pizza would make an Italian scoff, but the arches and columns are definite nods to Rome and her empire. Everything is inherently Argentine but inherited from somewhere else.
There is a strong appreciation for the arts that has naturally filtered its way into every aspect of Argentine life. The immaculate parks are curated with rose gardens and decorated with sculptures. Parthenon-like monuments are home to academic institutions and buildings of grand architectural detail house the day-to-day minutia government administration. Cemeteries seem like little cities, with crypts resembling houses constructed with incredible skill and diverse design tastes. The museums showcase a wide collection from masters of craft but the real mastery is the works on display outside; on the walls there are vibrant displays representing the real democracy of art. This is how I spent most of my time in Buenos Aires, chasing spray paint down alleyways, and admiring the stories painted on the streets.
Meats are a central part of life here, and traditional cooking takes place around the Asado. A suspended grate can be moved up and down with a few cranks of a wheel and on the side sits a chimney to get the fire going. What looks like a rudimentary barbecue is actually a genius contraption that allows a chef to control the heat of the cooktop and the temperature of the food, which means that a range of proteins can be grilled to their specific perfection with ease; you can feed hordes of people too. On my first night I was treated to a proper show of what an Asado could do, and the remaining meals I had revolved around the grill in some way shape or form. For lunch, choripan (literal translation: meatbread) sandwiches are roasted and toasted on them; at dinner, blocks of cheese and mountains of sweetbreads sizzle as flames lick nearby steaks to the desired color of your choice. I noticed that the chefs serve their dishes a touch under what you ask: as the meats rest, they warm to what you want, but if you wish for more color, there is no problem in sending it back for a few minutes. Unlike in the States, the request isn’t met with discerning eyes. It also means that you can indulge in half of your plate, sit for several minutes enjoying a few glasses of wine, and then ask for the rest to be reheated. I asked a the sous-chef at Don Julio’s what the secret to a perfect steak was. “There is no secret, it just takes time.” It seemed to be an appropriate answer to all things in Argentina.
****
My final few hours in South America were spent strolling through Buenos Aires’s parcs, munching on medialunas, enjoying empanadas and taking many photos of building balconies. Ever so often, I’d find a bench, sit down and admire the traffic passing by, finding joy in an otherwise pedestrian life. A day that started as an anxious attempt to do everything imaginable as quickly as possible had become a meditative practice of stopping to smell the roses and savor my surroundings.
I was sad to leave but stoked to have been. The past few weeks were a blur, but the pictures are sharp: they are evidence of a dream realized. And while the words haven’t been as regular (or timely) as I wanted, the scratchings in notebooks here and random entries into my iPhone there cobble together into a mosaic that I am excited to work on. The best part is that the real adventures have only begun.
