I think I got swindled in the land of steaks. Here I am in Buenos Aires, which bulges with unrepentant carnivores who adore their burgers, steaks and sausages, and I thought I’d try the quintessential meat experience at legendary parrilla, or grill, Don Julio. No meat maven, I’ve only been to a steakhouse maybe twice in my life (that’s including the Sizzler). Perhaps I fell victim to culinary naïveté.
The place and service were impeccable, if a bit frenzied, and I loved where they sat me and how I was treated in the classy, rustic setting. I ordered the basic ribeye, a side of mashed potatoes and one glass of Malbec wine. I swallowed it down.
What I choked on was the check, which came to $155 US — for three items, pre-tip. It was my second night in Argentina and I hadn’t figured out the exchange rate and the check came in pesos, so I really couldn’t tell what I was paying until I examined my debit card statement back at the hotel. Was that a $125 steak, I keep wondering. Or a $50 glass of wine? Or, erg, $75 mashed potatoes? (Dummy that I am, I didn’t keep my receipt. I rarely do.)
Despite being slightly miffed — the meal wasn’t that great — I’m over it, and the mishap is but a faint bruise on a smashing trip.
A metropolis of unvarnished beauty and unfailing hospitality, slathered in eye-popping street art and graffiti, teeming with leashed dogs that provide stereophonic barking and plagues of poop, Buenos Aires is a great cobblestoned colonial melange of Spanish, French and Italian — a splash of old New Orleans — that’s exhilarating in its swirling Euro-diversity. (For all that, I have to say how perplexing, and distressing, it is that in six days here I have literally seen only two Black people.)
There’s time left on the journey, but for now these are some snapshots, beginning with the offending but delicious $teak: