The border crossing between Chile and its beef-loving neighbor is high in the Andes. A lower atmospheric pressure, combined with mandatory tipping in the customs building restroom compelled me to skitter outside and dash to the edge of a mountain to piss. My foot sank seven inches into a snowbank on the otherwise dusty-red peak.
Murphy and I returned to customs after hucking a few obligatory snowballs at each other. There the rest of us were shoving oranges, bananas and apples into each other's mouths, unable to carry them into Argentina. Shortly, we were back on the bus, speeding through the country, not making heads or tails of a Pelé documentary playing on the TV monitors.
At the terminal in Mendoza a fat young man with a mullet elucidated the many delights of his boss's hostel, convincing us with the offer of free transit there and all the wine we could drink. The boss arrived in a shiny grey van and hauled us in two trips to a clean and homely building with a ping pong table and swimming pool. Present was a boy of eight or nine who referred to the owner by his first name but appeared in all other mannerisms to be his son. Other notable mannerisms included whistling at the girls in our group, cursing proficiently and flipping us the bird whenever leaving the room. On occasion, he would pass such offensive gas as to make us concerned for his health.
The wine flowed from large glass jugs with plastic handles, and wasn't so bad that you couldn't drink until it tasted good. We set off in search of dinner, my head dancing with rumors of Argentine steak. Arriving at Las Tinajas, a buffet recommended by fellow hostel patrons, and finding it packed, the gang surrendered to a Chinese buffet a block away. Murph and I, ensnared by the siren call of the asado, remained behind, and were admitted within ten minutes to a table for two. The "tenedor libre" style restaurant entailed paying a fixed price for as many plates of whatever we liked. The layout was a single open room, ceilinged two stories above, full of tables, people, and livelihood. We marched off to retrieve plates, and I dutifully reported to the asado.
Argentina, unlike Chile, is fat and flat. The fruitful plains sustain beef of unimaginable quality, and the locals have expertly harnessed Prometheus's gift of fire to take full advantage of their superior steer. The Argentine asado employs not flames, but embers to cook meats with a patient and even heat. Beside the grill is a separate area where specifically-chosen firewood burns recklessly into glowing orange nuggets which are then shoveled out underneath the meats nearby. The chefs tend this arrangement with an unyielding hand, constantly adjusting the heat and the height of the meat above. I watch with the primal reverence of a neanderthal to his chief.
"Bif de chorizo?" I ask hopefully. The chef shakes his head. "Que es rico?" I substitute, and he turns silently to the grill, removes a large cut and slaps it on the counter before me. With a deft hand, he chops off a few ounces, slides them onto his knife and then my plate. I smile gleefully and restrain myself from running all the way back to my table to begin.
Most astonishing is not the texture, though the cow led a placid life on perfectly flat ground, nor the moisture, though the epochs over a gentle, caressing heat have facilitated more juice retention than a glass pitcher. It is simply the flavor that defines the meat. The fat is rich but not salty. The beef is simple, natural, and inescapably... beefy. It tastes like an animal should, and satisfies a primal yearning that has never before been entirely fulfilled.
After four plates, I settled in to the only line I'd waited in that night- the crepe station. Bananas and sorbet, flambeed with rum. I returned to the table with my caramelized bounty to find an envoy from the Chinese buffet group rushing Murph along: they were ready to continue on to the bars. After much urging and crepe-sampling thwarted by a persistent wait staff, I threw my napkin to the table and settled the bill, knowing I would return.
At the bar I nursed a single glass of beer, reveling in my gastronomical satisfaction. The night ended early and the sleep was deep.
I spent the following day on my own wandering through Mendoza's many plazas and tree-lined streets, sampling a bif de chorizo vastly inferior to anything Las Tinajas had offered me. That night, we did our best to make the "all the wine you can drink" offer un-cost-effective. Guy, unable to palate any more, pleaded with Murph to skate to the gas station with him to buy beer, and I announced that I wanted to come.
"You don't know how to skate, Ben," Guy argued concisely.
"I'll show you who doesn't know how to skate," I replied obscurely. I made it all of the ten blocks there and back and didn't fall once. Thus ignited a passion in yet another "-boarding" activity which has endured into my sobriety (interestingly, my balance has not). Also purchased from the gas station were all the Kinder Eggs on display. Kinder Eggs are candies of German construction which contain delightful toys which our hosteler's son tried unsuccessfully to steal.
Our final day in Mendoza consisted of a three-hour horseback riding trip into the Andean foothills where I discovered myself to possess what I suppose is an innate TeRondean affinity toward the equine. Our gaucho guide wore a seasoned and sweaty leather hat, and a wide leather belt with a knife stuck diagonally in the back. He saddled a white and brown piebald and motioned me toward it. "Sabes?" he asked, and I lied to the affirmative, uncharacteristically confident in my hypothetical knowledge. "Es un poco loco," the gaucho warned, and I shrugged it off, swinging myself into the saddle. As he saddled the rest of us, I familiarized myself with my equipment, and shortly after we hit the trail, found myself leading the group.
We took it slow through the scrub, single file on narrow paths. We climbed gradual ridges and descended through the infrequent gully, breathtaking views abounding. Shortly we reached the cabin of a friend of our gaucho. He invited us in and we shared mates and were impressed with the gaucho's story of killing a puma. "Men use the knife and the dog; only the women use the rifle," he explained, and we were humbled further. Outside, we met the dog, Achilles.
Back in the saddle, we headed down a wider road back to the ranch. The gaucho and our guides were entertained greatly with the sport of trying to keep the gringos behind them, and eventually gave up and we took great galloping strides toward home. The gaucho told me I hollered like a cowboy.
We embarked on an overnight bus back to Santiago that night and got home with time enough to shower before class.
NEXT
PART 2: SAN PEDRO DE ATACAMA, CHILE
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