My
recent absence from blog-writing may suggest I have been slacking in my gourmet
duties, but on the contrary, since the arrival of my madre to Buenos Aires I
have been successfully eating my way around the city sampling new restaurants,
revisiting old favourites and trying to include at least one of the main Argentine food groups in each day's diet: empanadas, beef, ice-cream, medialunas, dulce de leche and
the most important of all, Malbec. All in the name of being a tour guide of
course.
I could probably write a
book about the places we have frequented, the food we have devoured,
the wine we have sipped, but time is lacking so over the coming days I
will be rounding up the many varied dining experiences. Starting with…
Touted as a Spanish-Argentine
tapas bar slash restaurant, El Preferido has that warm homely neighbourhood
restaurant feel. An antidote to the generic über-slick bars of Palermo, it
offers cluttered ambience and messy charm. The place is made up of two separate
dining areas, a sit-down-at-normal-height area at the rear and a bar stool
furnished room at the front. We choose the front bar, shelves stacked ceiling
high with vessels of olive oil, jars of pickles, vat-sized tins of tomatoes and
other curious non-identifiable foodstuffs and sit ourselves down feeling like
kids in the proverbial sweet shop.
Serrano ham with pickled garnish |
As the bar slowly fills up, we order a simple dinner of Serrano ham and rabas con papas fritas (calamari rings with chips) as well as the obligatory bottle of Malbec. We conspiratorially decide to forgo all salads or vegetable-related dishes telling ourselves that we will make up for it tomorrow.
On the next table an
Argentine man, balding but making up for it with curly-haired abundance and
beard, engages in familiar banter with the waiter. They go way back. Once in a
while he peers at us through his thin-rimmed spectacles, trying to ascertain
who the two gringas are that appear to have imposed themselves on his local.
The Serrano ham arrives with
a garnish of vinegary pepper, extracted from one of the huge glass jars I
imagine, the calamari a monotonous pile of yellowish pale against the fried
potato slices. The cured ham is smoky and deep-flavoured, the vaguely stale
bread brought with it adds nothing to the taste. The calamari is mostly tender
and the chips are nicely golden but need a lot of salt.
It is said that Argentines
eat far too much salt. Government bodies have been waxing lyrical about it
to the point of passing a law that prohibits restaurateurs from putting salt-shakers
on the tables as default. Only once a customer has asked for salt can they
bring it. In truth, most places adhered to this for a token week or month if at
all, and now salty order has been restored. It seems to me that the problem lies in
two causes: Firstly, Argentine food lacks spices and herbs, so there is a
general need to over-compensate for this lack of flavour. Secondly, the
salt-shakers all have remarkably large holes for sprinkling. Even a cautious
sprinkle can yield unforeseen quantities of salt.
Our curious neighbour |
We polish off our food, the dryness of the wine nicely cutting through the greasiness of the fried food. Having no room left for dessert, we leave the cluttered old-school charm of El Preferido and go off into the balmy Palermo night. The lights of the generic neon slick bars are ablaze in anticipation of the Friday night drinkers that will surely come.
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