Meat me in Argentina
Argentina. Land of beef and football. I came to this country knowing little beyond its barbecues and its people's fanatic love for the world game; I will admit that that was reason enough for me to go. It is, I have since found out, a country of great diversity both in its culture and its landscapes*. I leave here knowing that one day I will come back.
(As a call-back to the previous post, you will see a lot of plans that get shifted around. Ahh, the fun of travel.)
Everything at steak
I had booked three nights at the Play Hostel in Palermo, a hip neighbourhood west by northwest of Buenos Aires's Centro. With little time to waste, I promptly crashed in my dorm bed, still exhausted from the night before.
My main goals for Buenos Aires was to get a steak, preferably several, and see a football match. I got onto the steak on the very first night. Less than a block away from my hostel was a parrilla called Don Julio. I quickly looked on TripAdvisor to make sure it wasn't completely crap. The reviews were generally good. Perfect. I headed there early to make sure I'd get a table.
"Sorry, we're closed."
Crap. It was only six and Argentinians do dinner very late. I went for my backup plan: beer.
Ok, so it probably wasn't a great idea to drink a lot after the previous night, but I had to check out some local beers. I headed to a place called Bodega Cervecera for a quick glass. It was a cool elbow-room type place (well, not at the time, as it was still early) with a few taps and a couple of fridges of mostly Argentinian craft beers. I still barely spoke basic Spanish and the barman had no English. Fortunately, beer is a universal language. Or something like that. I didn't actually figure out which beer I ended up having but it wasn't too shabby.
Seven thirty ticked over and Don Julio was finally open. I took my seat and ordered the entraña (skirt steak) with a side of vegetables. I asked the waiter, who spoke a little bit of English, what sauces were available, having forgotten that the word for sauce was salsa. He suggested one vaguely as being "very good" and I nodded my assent.
A short time later, the waiter came back with some sort of sausage. Oh crap. He thought I said sausage instead of sauce. Instead of complaining, I cut into it and ate a slice. It was the most delicious mistake I had ever made. It was so good that, for the rest of the trip, it became a pseudo-tradition to order a side of sausage with my steak.
The entraña came out perfectly cooked to my liking (medium rare) and despite being a half-portion--full portions are designed to be shared--it was quite an intimidating size, especially since I had already eaten the surprise sausage. Still, I was up for the task. Skirt steak is a bit chewy but very flavoursome and matched well with the (can't remember which because I'm not good with winery names) malbec, because of course malbecs match well with steaks. It was a good introduction to Argentinian barbecue. I also quickly found out that vegetables were far from a specialty here in Argentina, so I stopped ordering them with my meat.
The plan for the next morning was to take a walking tour of the city. As if cursed to be late for every single walking tour this trip, I got to the Subte (metro) station and found the doors shut. In a panic, I walked at a brisk pace to the next station on the line, which is not easy to do in Argentine traffic, far more aggressive than Chilean traffic. (It was only later in the day that I figured out the other end of the station had its doors open. Argentina. Seriously.)
I did end up making the walking tour, which was not quite as good as the ones I took in Chile, but were enjoyable and informative nonetheless. The tour group was pretty eclectic, and a few of us stopped by for (perhaps a few too many) empanadas afterwards. Two of the guys from the tour were also staying in Palermo, so I agreed to meet up with them for dinner.
Having some free time, I headed back to Bodega to check out more Argentine beers, which may have been a bad move.
Arriving at Campo Bravo for dinner, I was already a little intoxicated. The two guys from the walking tour were on a business trip, so they freely ordered more and more bottles of wine throughout the night. I devoured my steak while a couple of others struggled with theirs, to the point where I got a few free cuts from them. I wasn't complaining. The guys on the business trip insisted on footing the bill, which I also did not complain about.
The next bit is kind of blurry.
After dinner, we all headed to a bar and had several drinks. At a certain point, I said goodbye and headed off back to the hostel, where I found the party just getting started. There was, I think, a bottle of pisco going around, of which I was persuaded to do a shot. We all headed out but in bunches that were separated either by ill communication or on purpose. I couldn't tell and could not have cared less. The group I was with ended up at a bar and started chatting to some random Brazilian guys and it took me a few minutes to realise that it was the same bar from earlier in the night. It was probably then that I decided I better find my bed and lose consciousness there.
I woke up just before midday.
(The ojo de bife (ribeye) at Campo Bravo, was, incidentally, my favourite steak in Argentina. I think.)
Dropping the ball
Big city life in Santiago and Buenos Aires was great, but it was also starting to get to me. The nightly drinking was not helping matters. I ditched vague plans to take the ferry to Montevideo in Uruguay and instead booked a flight to Salta, a (literally) dusty desert city in the north of Argentina, in order to recharge.
Thanks to shenanigans of the previous night, my final lunch in Buenos Aires was at four in the afternoon. Erick had suggested a parrilla in San Telmo, so I decided to make it three steaks in three days. Sunday in San Telmo meant the markets spilled out onto the streets, with some roads closed off to vehicles. I strolled through the crowd of people towards Gran Parrilla del Plata. The cut for the day was a large chunk of bife de lomo (tenderloin). It came out a little more cooked than I wanted, but it was so damn tender that it didn't really matter.
Later that night, I went out with a couple of people from the hostel and had some tasting paddles at Antares, a microbrewery chain venue (go figure) in the area. We would have stayed longer but for the early (two in the morning) closing time on Sundays. Not deterred, we had a "quiet" beer at the hostel kitchen chatting about all things backpacking. Before long, it was almost four, and my flight was at twelve. Typical.
I got to the airport early despite the late bed time. There was a large throng of people crowding the LAN section of the check-in area so I got my boarding pass from one of the self-service machines. I hung around the monitor waiting for my gate number to show up.
After a while, I noticed that none of the LAN flights on the board had any up-to-date information next to them.
Almost at the same moment, the crowd began to chant some things in Spanish. Drums started thumping and the people began to march. It turned out the crowd of people were LAN staff members holding a protest, presumably for better work conditions. Brilliant.
The commotion went on for a while and eventually spilled out into the streets.
Meanwhile, apart from watching in amazement and taking the occasional photo, I began to wonder if my flight had been delayed. Someone was asking people in the LAN check-in line where they were headed and when he heard that I was going to Salta, he ushered me over to the front of the line, wherein another staff member discreetly told me which gate to head to. On my way to the security screening area, I noted that the LAN gate numbers had still not been displayed.
The flight boarded and left on time, and I was soon on my way north. I didn't quite understand the smoke and mirrors of it all--was the protest/strike just for show?--but it was a unique experience nonetheless.
I checked into a hostel called Salta Por Siempre and spent the day trying to get a few things sorted. I was too tired to go out for dinner, so I ordered some empanadas at the bar. They were made by Victor, the resident awesome dude.
I didn't like the way I was barely getting along on the most basic of Spanish phrases, so I decided to take some private Spanish lessons. I won't pretend to be any sort of expert after just a week, but I am at least able to understand a little bit more now. Locals who talk fast and/or have a thick accent still leave be blank-faced regularly.
Another benefit of the Spanish lessons was that the tutors would occasionally tell me things about the country that I may not know, like how to make mate (the drink), the landscape and climate in different provinces, and where to get the best steak.
Speaking of which, I was still in Argentina, so of course I continued to try more steaks. The bife de chorizo (sirloin) at Viejo Jack was delicious, the restaurant being Victor's recommendation. La Monumental was suggested by both of my Spanish tutors, so I went there and had the picana (rump cap), which was gigantic, although the only reason I couldn't finish it was that it was salted far too much.
The find of the trip in terms of food was locro, an Andean variation on the stew. I ordered the locro at Doña Salta, which had chickpeas, beans, veal, and pork. Delicious. It's something I'd like to try making when I get back home.
Unfortunately, I was struck with a mild flu when I arrived in Salta. Between all the resting and the time spent at Spanish lessons, I barely had any time to do the things a tourist typically does in the city.
Salta itself does not have many attractions for the average tourist--a few nicely-maintained churches here and there is about it--but it is a jump-off points for many other locations, with many tour companies offering similar trips to places like Cafayate, Cachi, or Salinas Grandes.
On my second-last day, when I was feeling well enough, I went on a day trip to Cafayate, mainly because it included a wine tour. The wine ended up being the least interesting part of the trip--the winery was boring, but the torrontés variety, which I had never tasted, is a cracker and needs to be further investigated in the near future--thanks to the gorgeous landscapes on the drive down and back. It evoked memories of the deserts of the North American southwest. Stunning scenes.
Unfortunately, the steak I had in Cafayate was barely worth mentioning, and it was followed the next day by possibly the worst meal I had in Argentina, a very average fried fish. That'll teach me not to get red meat.
You shall not pass!
This makes it three for three.
It's now my final night in Argentina, and Victor has offered to BBQ some ribs and chorizo for me as a sending off. While I wait in eager anticipation, I will share this one last tale.
Apart from the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, the other major location I wanted to visit was Salar de Uyuni, the world's largest salt flat. The original plan was to head from Salta back to Chile, to San Pedro de Atacama, one of the starting points for Salar de Uyuni tours. I was going to say "vague plan" again but this wasn't overly vague, and I almost booked my bus ticket online well in advance. It was a good thing I didn't.
When I arrived in Salta, I'd heard a couple of German backpackers talking about the road being closed due to snow. I figured it'd pass by the time I left so I went to the bus station later in the week to book my ticket.
"The road is closed," said the agent. Poor bloke must have been asked for the same fare for the past few days; he seemed grumpy.
So there goes that plan.
The new plan is this: head straight up into Bolivia. I'll be getting the midnight bus to the border then head to Tupiza after that.
That's it for now. I'll try to get to some more photos in the next few days, but here are the first bunch from Chile in case you missed it.
*Chile very well may have the same cultural and geographical diversity as Argentina, but I did not get to visit enough places to come to that conclusion. Perhaps in a future trip. Definitely in a future trip.
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