First off, the word “barbecue” is a lousy translation for the carnivorous Argentine concept-lifestyle of the asado. The North American barbecue, so easily foreshortened to a mere “BBQ,” has the two most basics in common with the asado: food cooked outdoors, and people gathered there to eat it. But there are no hamburgers or weiners at an asado, there are no charcoal briquettes fueled desperately by zippo fluid. And I’d be willing to bet that there is not one single over-priced, tank-like, gas-fuelled BBQ, like the ones so many Gringoes up north are so proud of, with their extra burners, and their side sinks, and their bullet-proof silky silicone covers, no Colemans or Brinkmans or Char-Grillers, in this whole country (not owned by a self-respecting Argentine, anyway.) I’m not being an ungrateful cunt here—some of the best moments, and meals, I had back home were driven by a barbecue on someone’s deck or in their backyard...warm summer afternoons with hot Italian sausage juice dripping down my neck, or crisp fall nights with grilled salmon brochettes and foil-wrapped potatoes, or even that Christmas turkey we had to cook on the ‘cue because the electricity had gone out.
But here, BBQ is beyond all that. Here, the asado is not just an important part of Argentinian life, but it is an actual Way of Life, an all-encompassing socio-religious philosophy type thing. To begin with, it’s an integral part of Argentine history—think sexy Gaucho on the plains grilling up one of his twenty thousand heads of cattle, no cutlery, no plates, no accoutrements, just the knife unsheathed from his hip and a couple co-Gauchos gathered around the fire, feeding themselves under the stars in the most sophisticatedly primitive way imaginable. Nowadays, maybe the lead-up has changed, but the asado itself remains basically the same.
Anything can call for one of these meat-driven gatherings, a kid’s birthday, a 50th anniversary, an average Wednesday night after work, any and all occasions, and while an asado is no big deal, it is at the same time a full-on party, no matter what. Each one, big or small (though really, there are no small asados) is a unique, down-home celebration of humanity and the dead animal(s) that it’s managed to acquire. [I won’t get into the modern-day problem of the mass sowing of un-mouth-watering soya for sale on the Chinese market, replacing vast tracts of traditional cattle-grazing lands, driving the price of meat up by 50 or 60%. Just the word “soya” is enough to drive an average Argentinian into a passionately angry tirade, especially if he has a chunk of meat in his hand. And yet, if the worst thing that can happen at an asado is to run out of meat, these people, hearty and crafty and true to their land, despite the rising costs and bad economy, always somehow seem to manage to find a way to grill up a surplus of carne. Ironically, it’s also a big faux-pas to have any meat left over at the end of an asado, encouraging excess and over-gorging for all. Everybody’s broke, but their bellies are full and their arteries stay hard. Way of Life.]
The fire, the heart of the asado, never gets started before sunset, which comes very late in summer (hypoglycemics, take note and bring a secret sandwich). The wood must burn itself down to a very specific size and quality of coal before any meat can be placed on the grill. And the grilling area can really be anywhere—I’ve had fantastic asados downtown Buenos Aires cooked completely on a piece of corrugated tin on the cement—but most people have built a long, waist-high, brick grilling-bed somewhere in their yard, where all the holy meat-fire action takes place. The point is: none of this can be rushed. The pace of the asado is always slow, deliberate, and invariably pregnant with plenty of human revelry and chamuyo (useless blah-blah-blah). (Most people would also cite the necessity of several bottles of wine to accompany the meat and the night, but this seven-year-sober chick doesn’t feel that necessity anymore. But hey—go ahead! Salud!)
When everything is perfect, the grill burned clean, the coals just right, the people on fire with hunger, then and only then are the sweet potatoes and onions tossed straight and naked into the coals. After that come several of a dozen cuts of beef I’ve never even heard of—vacio, palomita, nalga, matambre—all doused with rock-salt (hypertensives should maybe think of doing a double dose of Lipitor) before being placed lovingly on the grill, alongside spurting homemade sausages, thick and gloopy blood sausage (I’m still not quite there yet), fatty pork solomillo, and sometimes chicken. The key to perfect grilling, I’ve been told by some men (there seem to be no women asadoras) is not to watch or smell the grilling, but to listen. If you can hear the meat’s fat dripping onto the coals in perfect intensity and rhythm, you’ve got yourself a proper asado.
Once the first round is cooked (there are always at least three), the whole lot is laid out on a big wooden board in the middle of the table and people reach in and help themselves. No pass-me-this-or-pass-me-that manners required. Forks and plates are also optional. Sometimes there’s a salad, but who fucking cares. It’s ALL about the juicy, succulent, carnivorous perfection that has gifted me, time and again, at every single asado I’ve ever been to, with the best meat I have ever, EVER put into my mouth. Piece after chunk after slice after wad, sweet grease blotting my chin and knuckles, my chest afuckingglow with the best that Argentina has to offer, asado makes me stupid, giddy, alive on death, and I wonder, retardedly, how the country’s eight vegetarians manage to do without.
I’m drooling while writing this.
And I’ve never been fatter in my life.
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