The Final Asado

One thing that has been on my mind lately, almost as much as the economic crisis in the states, is the drought in Argentina. Buenos Aires and La Pampa have endured an over year long drought that has resulted in water shortages, poor crop yields, and worst of all from my vantage...over a million head of cattle have died because the pastures on which they feed are drying up.



The Argentine way of raising cattle, grass fed and free range, is the right way. I won't argue that it's environmentally friendly, but it's better at least than the filthy feed lots in the states. And the resulting taste of Argentine cows is a thing of beauty, something that makes me feel thankful for every day I have here. As ridiculous as that sounds, it's true. When you're passionate about something, you're passionate.

Along with my passion for Pampas meat has come a passion for preparing it the Argentine way, the asado. I have been training under the tutelage of my former host father, Guillermo, for months now.

He taught me how to buy meat, which charcoal to use, the difference between using wood and charcoal, how to build a fire, how to light the fire, when the coals are ready, how to spread the coals around depending on which cuts of meat you're cooking, how to clean the grill, how to use excess runoff fat, where to put the meat on the grill, how to cut the meat before putting it on the grill, the different points at which to flip the meat, and finally, the order in which the meats come off the grill to serve and how they are cut and presented. Guillermo has been my Yoda of Asado.

One thing I never understood, however, was why Guillermo seemed to be possessive of his parilla or grill. Every time I tried to do something myself, he would insist on metaphorically holding my hand while doing it. I've had the desire many times to tell him that I know what I'm doing and that I can do it myself, but I try to be polite and so have held back and accepted his micromanaging approach to teaching me. It wasn't until in San Martin de Los Andes that I finally understood the origins of this parilla possessiveness.

As I mentioned before, the hostel at which I stayed in San Martin had its own parilla. Upon first look at the parilla, I was a bit disappointed. It only faintly resembled Guillermo's parilla and consisted very basically of a large warped concave metal grill, a concrete surface, and three walls enclosing it. The area around the parilla was littered with trash and was not at all ideal for the process of making asado. No matter I told myself. All I needed were the basics. When I returned to the states I would build a glorious parilla. But the Puma Hostel in San Martin was a good place to hone my skills on a very basic apparatus.

I made asado 3 times in San Martin. The first was a success, but was easy as I cooked more chicken and sausage than real meat cuts. The second asado was a personal asado in which I cooked up rack of lamb for myself. The last asado was a biggy: Chicken, tira de asado, vacio, morcilla, trout, provoleta, onions, and calabaza (butternut squash). We held this particular asado 2 nights before we were to leave San Martin and I prepared a day in advance by collecting wood from the forest 1 km away. I wanted the coals to be straight from wood as opposed to charcoal because I'd heard that it resulted in better tasting meat.

Because I was going to be arriving late from an adjacent town, Villa Traful, I had to relinquish the buying of the meat to a 30-year-old Argentine guy named Hernan. We'd met Hernan at our hostel a week before and one of our female group members took a liking to him so he'd been hanging around ever since. I talked over with Hernan the type of meat we wanted for the asado and judging from the conversation, I could tell that he'd do a good job of buying. The only problem was that he equated buying the meat with the honor of being the night's asador (grill master).....I quickly and quite immaturely shot this dream down. I let him know that making asado was quite possibly my favorite pass time and that I had already spent hours collecting dry barkless kindling from an apple tree in the forest. In other words, it was to be my asado. He'd better not start the fire. And if he did, I might just throw a 2 year old tantrum. And so I began to understand Guillermo....

I spent the day of the parilla exploring Villa Traful with a few friends, but I have to admit that during the hikes I was thinking and planning for the evening. What construction of fire would I make to prepare the coals: tee pee or log cabin? What order would I put the meat on and how would I distribute the coals? How would I cook the trout and would it be too delicate to flip? Nevertheless, I was able to enjoy Villa Traful and live in the moment... but the moment I was back in San Martin, I felt an urgency to return quickly to the hostel to ensure that I had both claimed the parilla for the evening and started the fire by myself.

We ran into Hernan and Erica(the budding couple) on the way back from the bus station. Hernan was carrying a bag of charcoal in one hand and the meat in the other. He was excited to show me the meat cuts he'd bought: Tira de asado, morcilla, and vacio. He pointed out the parallel lines of meat and fat on the tira de asado as well as the bright blood red of the meat. He also explained how he had bought it all at Pil Pil, the butcher shop (carnicerea) that I had recommended to him, which had been recommended to me. He had done well. And even better, he was not home before me to intercept my plan of starting the fire.

As Erica and Hernan left for a Fruit/Vegetable stand to buy veggies, I walked impatiently back to the hostel and back to the parilla. There waiting for me, undisturbed was my lena, or wood, with tape around it that I had labeled with my name (What kind of geek labels wood that he collects?). I quickly began building a log cabin fire with a solid log base and plenty of tinder underneath to ensure that it would only take one match to light.

Exito or success. One fosforo (or match) later and the log cabin was roaring a good six feet into the air. Hernan approached from the hostel and said astonished, 'Mucho Fuego!'

'Si', I responded with an ear to ear grin.

And then he started with what would shortly have the two of us in clear conflict.

'Hay carbon en el fuego?'

He was asking me if I'd put charcoal in the fire. No, I hadn't put charcoal in the fire. I was planning on putting a little in, but I was letting the fire grow strong before doing so. Before I could respond, Hernan was putting large chunks of charcoal on my beautiful flames. I was not pleased, but I said nothing. I thought to myself, 'You should share this experience. Maybe Hernan likes it just as much as you do. Let him be part of it.'

And so I held my tongue while Hernan added piece after piece of charcoal to my fire and then manipulated the charcoal continuously with one of the long iron parilla tools, similar to what you might use with a chimney. I hoped and truly thought that Hernan would leave the asado, would play a bit and then return to Erica, with whom he seemed so smitten and vice versa. Yes, go find Erica I thought. And leave me with my love, the parilla.

But he didn't. He kept fumbling with the fire and 15 minutes later, unable to control myself, I snapped.

'Hernan, el fuego esta bien. Para para.' (Hernan, the fire is ok. Stop!)

I immediately felt badly. What happened to letting Hernan share the experience? Something in me wouldn't allow it. Hernan looked hurt. He made one last poke with a long iron tool, put it down, and sulked away back inside the hostel.

In the meantime, my team of meat cleaners and veggie prep chefs was bringing out the raw ingredients, grill ready. The coals were bright red and so I began distributing them under the grill to warm it up.

At the same time that the meat came out, the hostel's dog followed and began whimpering for snippets. No amount of commands in English nor Spanish seemed to make any impact on this dog. In addition, she ignored my attempts to pull her away by the collar. She would not be deterred. (Later I learned that the owner had her on a diet because she was 8 kilos overweight. However, this only made her crazy for food and the hostel guests more or less gave her whatever she asked for-except me.)

With the grill red hot, I began placing the cuts. The tira de asado, rib bones down. The vacio, fat side down. Both the aforementioned in areas with plenty of coals underneath to ensure that the thickness of the cuts would be penetrated by enduring heat. The chicken I also put a great deal of coals under. Chicken requires a good deal of heat and you can cook the heck out of it because of all the skin and fat. The morcilla or blood sausage is more about warming it up and so I placed it on a cooler area. It's precooked and there's no real reason it even needs to be on the parilla, but better the grill than the oven or microwave. Then I put the trout on skin side down and hoped it would not tear or get stuck to the metal. I finished with the veggies, placing them wherever I could find space. They were not the focus and some would have to wait until the meat came off. And all the time, Adela the dog watched patiently from a not so distance.

A few minutes after placing the meat, Hernan returned. He seemed to have forgotten my previous berating and I was happy that it hadn't impacted him terribly. It would have upset me if I were him, but apparently he saw it differently. He wanted to take a picture of us at the parilla, but after doing so, I saw his hand return to the iron parilla tool. Hernan was back at it, pushing the coals around under the grill and placing more charcoal on the coals that I kept in reserve in the corner of the parilla for preparing more coals. After a few minutes of painfully watching him, someone called him back to the hostel and for this, I was thankful. For a few precious moments, the parilla was mine again.

Soon after, however, Hernan was back, and with doubts.

'Patrick. Debes poner mas carbon en las brasas, no? Hace un poco frio la parilla, no?' The truth was that he was right. The wood coals that I was relying on had died out and become cold and needed to be replaced by new ones, but I couldn't for whatever reason bring myself to agree with him.

'Esta bien,' Hernan, I insisted. And then I decided to just have it out with him, to be honest with him about my wishes for the evening. 'Mira Hernan, esta es mi parilla, mi fuego. Tenes que dejar mi parilla. Ya se que soy muy joven, muy imadura en este sentido pero es asi. Yo quiero hacer todo asi que anda! Por favor.' I told him in spitting Castellano that it was my parilla, that I knew I was being immature about it, but that that was the way it was and that I wanted him to go, to leave. He kind of smiled and laughed in response and I only half returned the smiles and laughing because really, I wasn't kidding. This was my piece of art, my project, and I didn't want assistance. Gone were my thoughts of diplomacy and maturity, replaced more by a desire to hog the pure pleasure of the creation myself.

Hernan left once again, this time kind of confused and bewildered.....But 5 minutes later he was back. Again, he made the recommendation to put more coals under the grill. I think for him, it had turned into a matter of....This Yankee thinks he knows how to grill but he's not doing it right and he had the nerve to tell me, born and raised in Argentina, making asados all my life, that I didn't know what I was doing and that I should leave....

My response was to repeat what I had said before. I was done with Hernan. He had distracted me enough and I felt that my focus was no longer on the process, but instead on my resentment of his trying to take the experience away from me. Hernan left again, this time for good.

The delivery of the asado started ok...I brought out the morcilla first, as you're supposed to in a traditional asado. You can't mess up morcilla. So far so good. Then I came back with some tira de asado. While the first piece to come out was more or less well done. The second, not so much.

Hernan pointed it out to me. 'Patrick, perdon pero es un poco crudo'. He was saying that it wasn't cooked. I walked over to him and squinted in the dark to see that he was right- blood red and raw on one side. Damn. He was right: I should have had hotter and more coals under the grill. I insisted that I take the meat back to continue cooking it. I ran back to the grill and stoked the fire in the corner with more charcoal and then put more coals under the grill, hoping to cook the tira de asado more quickly. In the meantime, the dog was now pacing and whimpering for a piece of the cooked meat.

I pulled the trout off the grill next. I was able to successfully flip it and tried a piece. Tender, juicy and delicious. Success. I delivered the trout to happy customers. Returning to the grill, I pulled off another strip of tira de asado and delivered it. This strip was rare, but edible and the hungry table put it down quickly. Next, I brought out veggies and provoleta cheese. And then some chicken thighs. Lastly, I cut off half of a portion of vacio that had been cooked through. The other half was too thick and would require more time on the grill. After I delivered the vacio, I took some time to sit down with my group and enjoy some of the meat for myself. After 10 or so minutes, the grill called to me. There was still chicken breast and a large hunk of vacio. I felt that the vacio ought to be ready, but when I returned to the parilla, it was nowhere to be found.

Puzzled, I looked around to see if Hernan had taken it off the grill, but he was back at the picnic table, had never left. Scanning all corners of the dark backyard of the hostel, I quickly found the culprit, Adela, in the corner where the two fences meet. She was clearly guarding something, licking and pulling off chunks. I walked closer and saw her with the beautiful remaining piece of vacio. 'Adela!' I screamed.

While I was enjoying the fruits of my labor, the dog had jumped up onto the red hot grill and stolen a pound of juicy vacio.

Horrified and literally in shock, I ran back to tell the group who erupted in laughter. I was glad they thought it funny because I felt a sense of guilt as the asador. How could I not only have delivered raw ribs, but also have allowed the dog to eat half of one of the best cuts of the night! Hernan was smiling.

After admonishing the dog more, I pulled the remaining chicken off the grill and returned to the table to finish my meat. Some members of the group had put a piece of vacio on my plate because I hadn't tried any and so I dug in, feeling defeated and suddenly not so hungry. At this point, my job as the asador was more or less done. All the food had been delivered and the remaining meat and chicken were balancing nearby in case anyone wanted anymore.

The only one who did want some more was the one who had had too much. Upon reaching for another piece of chicken, I again found Adela quietly and contentedly licking the remaining chicken breasts. She had eaten a pound of meat and was not done.

I freaked out again. Demon Dog! I thought, Possessed Wicked Creature! What was wrong with this dog? The group laughed, but I felt like a failure.

In the end, it was clear to me that I got what I deserved. My obsession and posessiveness with the parilla, my immaturity, my unwillingness to take advice all came back to haunt me. I'd served half raw ribs and let the dog eat and ruin a good portion of the meat and chicken. The night was not a complete failure, but for me, it felt like it.

I could see Hernan lying down to sleep with a grin on his face thinking of how sweetly justice had played itself out. My only consolation was that he would be going to bed hungry:)

(This blog entry is dedicated to Guillermo, my yoda like mentor and friend. I promise from now on Guillermo to understand your relationship with your parilla.)