Argentina
- Red Politics not Red Meat and No Apologies
'Barbecued tripe?! Mmmm, mom!' Here, even
kids love the whole cow.
By
Richard O'Mara | Correspondent of The Christian
Science Monitor
SAN
JOSÉ DEL RINCÓN, ARGENTINA
– A food critic for a prestigious
American newspaper reported recently about
how much he enjoyed a rare steak in a Buenos
Aires restaurant.
A
rare steak? I've been in and out of
this country for 40 years; lived in Buenos
Aires for three. I've never had a bloody
steak.
Argentines,
probably the most food-minded people outside
France and Italy, dislike undercooked meat.
It's a cultural thing. If its changing,
which I doubt, it must have to do with the
invasion.
For
years Argentina was off the map for tourists
from outside the region, left alone to cultivate
its oddities. People of the north cared
little what went on down at the bottom of
the world where the tango was born, the
politics were impenetrable, and the water
swirls down the drain counterclockwise.
Nowadays
tourists arrive in squadrons, pouring out
of airplanes, swarming off cruise ships
like ravenous bees, hungry for the fruit
of the Pampas: Argentine
beef. The government tourist office
reports that the number of visitors to Buenos
Aires in the first two weeks of January
amounted to double those who came last year
during the same period; most were from the
United States, Canada, and Europe; 2.3 million
are expected in the first three months of
the year.
It's
to be expected some of the locals would
bend tradition to meet tourists' tastes
- by serving raw meat. But the tourists
are missing the point.
Beef
in Argentina is different from that
of most other countries. For one thing,
the cattle feed on the grass of the Pampas,
which is to say their last days are spent
in a field, not a feedlot; for another,
the cuts are different. But most important,
the meat is cooked and consumed fresh. Argentines
find the thought of aged beef unpleasant.
Here the time between the slaughter of an
animal and the moment it appears on the
table is much shorter than in the northern
countries, where it can extend to weeks,
even months.
Fernando
Fascino, the best butcher in this little
Pampas-bound town, says he gets his meat
at local cattle fairs and from a man who
raises beef on the island across the Arroyo
Ubajai, an energetic stream near here. That
means a few hours after the animal is dispatched,
it is hanging in Don Fascino's shop. Not
long after, it is being served in homes
throughout town.
Don
Fascino doesn't sell his meat wrapped in
plastic, resting on a bed of Styrofoam.
He cuts it for the customer from the carcass
hanging on a hook behind his counter.
As
to the cuts, an American butcher - or one
trained in, say, France - might have difficulty
locating or recognizing the cuadril (on
the back, forward of the rump), the matambre
(above the ribs), the peceto (on the rump),
and the costilleta (the ribs). The latter
is the most popular cut, preferred even
to the lomo (filet mignon).
In
America, the costilleta are called short
ribs, meat for stews. They are cut along
the line of the bone. Here, the cut is made
across the ribs. The costilleta are the
climax of the asado, the word Argentines
use to describe the cookout which is in
high season now, in the Argentine summer.
This
desire for fresh meat is the practical reason
Argentines require that it be thoroughly
and slowly cooked. Fresh meat is full of
integument, which makes it tiresome to chew.
Aging meat allows time for the dissolution
of this; it makes the meat more tender,
soft enough at times "to cut with a
fork." Aficionados north of the equator
find this desirable. But putting it in terms
unpleasant, yet quite real, aged beef is
decayed beef. Argentines avoid it.
ARGENTINE
ICON: The asador - the meat barbecuer
- is revered and applauded as he conducts
the national ritual, now in high summer
season.
In this village of about 5,000 souls, every
house, rich and poor, has a parrilla, a
big steel grill, usually outside in a sheltered
place. Our grill - three feet by four feet
- sits in a waist-high fireplace on the
back wall of a white brick pavilion with
a thatched roof, open to the air on three
sides. Above our grill is the skeletal head
of a steer. Sometimes I think it grotesque,
at others quite appropriate: I whitewashed
it and hung it myself.
We
have an asado every Sunday, often with family
and guests. Our cook, or asador (and every
male considers himself one) Oscar Ochoteco,
my brother-in-law, insists on it. We went
on a long motor trip up to the Andean part
of Argentina near Bolivia one year; every
night we ate at a parillada, a restaurant
that specializes in grilled food. "Ocho"
needs his meat. Up there, the main thing
offered was goat (chivito).
The
asado is a cultural experience as much as
a culinary one. It reveals the broad range
of the average Argentine's appetite. All
Argentines - even the smallest children
- eat nearly every part of the cow.
Ocho
usually begins around noon by igniting a
small mountain of charcoal (not briquettes,
they burn too hot) in a corner of the fireplace
beside the grill. When that mound is burning
bright, he breaks the large coals into small
embers and shovels them beneath the grill.
Half an hour later, he lays on the small
intestine (chinchulin), and later the sweet
breads (molleja), maybe a kidney. These
are the achuras, or organ meats. They include
the large intestine (tripa gorda) and the
udder of the cow (ubre), neither of which
our family favors.
Two
kinds of sausage go on: chorizos and morcillas,
black blood sausage.The costilleta are on
the grill almost from the start, and possibly
another cut, such as the sobreasado (which
runs along the top of the cow's ribs).
The
meat is never marinated, never sauced, and
only occasionally given a dash of mild seasoning
during cooking.
"Ocho"
feeds the fire throughout the process with
small embers; he doesn't allow it to get
so hot you couldn't put your hand over it.
Flame never touches the meat. The slow and
thorough cooking tenderizes it. "Ocho"
usually covers the whole thing with a sheet
of newspaper, to keep some of the heat inside.
The paper never catches fire.
The
entire process, including the preparation
of the fire, takes nearly two hours. While
the asador tends the grill, the younger
guests or family members kick a soccer ball
around or swim. The older ones discuss food.
Their reminiscences could be put in a book
titled, "Great Asados I've Known."
The
food comes off the grill and is eaten in
ritual order: chorizos, morcillas, achuras
(a little for each person; too much is cloying).
The asador cuts and distributes it himself,
first one, then the other, to all the seated
guests.
The
costilletas - the heart of the asado - are
usually the last received. After the first
bite, many people applaud.
The
asador feigns modesty.
I
do not recall you requesting the Abalone
Story be also in the Nutrafoodies section.
I will link it, today.....
©
2006 The Christian Science Monitor
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