For two days now, we torture ourselves by pacing back and forth, salivating passes before this awesome little parrilla, a grill house of simple delectability, master chef in beret, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows for the master task–bringing a hunk of flesh to its most salient potential, working with the grain, the fat, honoring the animal in the final preparation before the sizzle.
To say Argentina is renowned for its beef is an understatement–this country seems to live, eat, breathe, and worship the bife de lomo, the cerdo, the chorizo, mostly asados, asadas, whole animal splayed open in front of blistering coals, a dry roast.
Tonight, we pretend it’s Valentine’s Day, ushering in Cupid’s arrow two days premature for the chance of a wine and dine on a long-haul bus ride is slim to non-existent, and what better way to say love than with a nice, bloody piece of cow.
Still fresh in our español exploits, we mistakenly order an asado de tire, and instead of skirt steak, we end up with a pleasant surprise, a half-order of crispy, succulent, fall-off-the-bone spare ribs, perfect partners to thick-cut fritas, Patagonia beer, and ensalada mixta, all served manly man style, sans frills and parsley curlies, perfection realized in its homage to simple goodness, meat and potatoes on cutting boards, ready for consecration.
Here we are, in a sister grail of holy grilling, the carne asada and parrilla South America’s corollary to the US barbecue, the South African brai, the Australian barbie. Hail to grill maestros everywhere, for there truly is nothing more satisfying than a flame-kissed steak, al punto, please.
‘Cept for maybe a tiramisu cake, the perfect exclamation mark to this amorous feast.