Lost in Wine (and Thought)
I am sipping a glass of Vasco Viejo Vino Tinto from Bodegas Lopez (Fundada en 1898) in Maipu, Mendoza, Argentina, and I am thinking. About what you might ask? Well, "of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. Of why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings."
And, perhaps, also... about lunch and wine and the Andes, about being away and the resulting commingling of sadness and comfort in any homecoming. And, about people--those we meet for brief interludes like a dance or two on the ballroom floor, and those we hold onto for longer and either keep or eventually lose to the undulating tones of the world we live in. And, of course, as always, about food and drink and all things gastronomic.
More than one person has asked, "What was your favorite thing about your trip to Argentina?" Impossible! To wrap all the wonder and delicious savouring of far flung travels into a single defining circumstance! It cannot be done. Instead, readers, I present here a few moments--each somehow part of the tapestry of my experience of Argentina, and each, in some way, enhanced by the gastronomy of the moment...
Argentina, Day 1 -- Stand back, Buenos Aires!
My gracious friend J. was scheduled to meet me in the lobby of the Marriott Hotel on Plaza San Martin at noon, but I happened to spot him in the park near the hotel just prior. (For the record, I didn't splurge on the Marriott... the room was a result of points, most of which were a gift.)
J. is from Buenos Aires. We had met at my former job at the American Museum of Natural History. It was lovely to have a friend in town. I received a grand six-hour tour of Buenos Aires complete with lunch and an afternoon treat. It was by far more than I expected and extremely delightful!
From Plaza San Martin, we walked to Plaza de Mayo where the Casa Rosada and its famous balcony stand in salmon splendor. The plaza resonates with vibrations from the many occasions Argentinians have raised their political voices. I gladly soaked up the history J. provided as we wandered the neighborhoods of BA.
After properly admiring the Casa Rosada, we meandered through San Telmo, an area known for its antique markets. The neighborhood was once the thriving heart of the city where grand mansions housed the wealthiest inhabitants. A yellow-fever epidemic in the 1870's drove the rich north, and the neighborhood became a home for immigrants. On this recent contemporary Sunday afternoon, the narrow streets swarmed with tourists, who buzzed around the merchants and entertainers vying for their attention and money.
The buildings of San Telmo are lovely to my grit-loving eye, their age belied by the beautiful texture of stone and brick revealed in pockets beneath crumbled plaster. San Telmo also hosts splendid courtyards hidden just past the mouths of narrow alleys beyond normal-looking doorways.
J. led me to a restaurant that seemed completely perfect for my first lunch in Argentina. Sadly I failed to write down the name, and my notes about our the food are a bit of a mess, having been drenched in red wine during an unfortunate spill by a waiter later in the week.
I left the ordering to J., and as such, we had a fine authentic meal, which comprised of a watercress salad, proveletta (a thick piece of provolone grilled on a barbecue), matambrito de cerdo (grilled pork) and a type of chorizo sausage. We dressed the salad ourselves with oil, vinegar, salt, pepper and lemon.
My grand tour of Buenos Aires continued after lunch from San Telmo to several more parks and historic buildings and through the cultural center of the city. Sometime in the late afternoon, we stopped at a cafe on Corrientes to refuel. Although we ordered cappuccinos, the waiter misunderstood and brought us submarinos. I could not say that I was disappointed. Rather, I was secretly pleased.
The submarino is a cup of hot milk with a small bar of chocolate inside. You mix it furiously with a spoon until you have a luscious, rich cup of hot chocolate. With it, we split a churro (but better) that was filled with dulce de leche. (I will never say I do not like dulce de leche again! Flan too, but that is another story.)
After the submarinos, we walked to Recoleta past the famous cemetery and around back to the Marriott. It was about 6:00 p.m. What a fantastic introduction to a new city and it's culinary delights! Huge gracias to J.!
Argentina Day 4 -- Play me a song, piano man.
The opulent bar at the Marriott around 9:00 p.m. was nearly empty, but there was a piano man playing from the lobby just outside the bar entrance. I drank two glasses of Malbec while occasionally stealing sips with my eyes of the older gentleman around the other side of the bar. In a pin-striped grey suit, he sat, sometimes with his eyes closed, humming and swaying ever so slightly to the piano music. While I drank my wine he carefully enjoyed two glasses of Campari on ice.
Argentina Day 5 -- Cafe con leche y medialunas, por favor.
It was day 5. In the evening I was scheduled for a flight to Mendoza, but that morning I was sipping a strong, dark cafe con leche and slowly consuming three medialunas (mini croissants with a slightly sweet glaze). I was falling in love with the typical Argentinian breakfast. I had a few days left to savor the white flour and sugar before returning to the States where I would only allow myself whole grain cereal and fruit. The scene of that morning's indulgence was Gran Cafe Tortoni, a gorgeous cafe once home to famous writers and other creative types. I was alone and managed to order my breakfast and ask for the check in Spanish.
Argentina Day 7 - Pour me a glass and I'll pedal a squeaky tune.
Day 7. I was on a run-down bike with no gears, a hard seat and a squeaky wheel, but damn it, I was having fun. I had just visited the La Rural wine museum and tasted a nice glass of vino tinto and was starting to get hungry. I was riding behind two college exchange students from the East Coast whom I had met along the winery route.
We had all rented bikes from a company called Bikes and Wines. If you go to Mendoza, do not use this company. Instead, go with Mr. Hugo. Their bikes are much nicer, and I hear the overall value is as well.
With our cruisers, we received a map showing ten wineries within 11 KM from our starting point. My second bit of advice is to start early. I only made it to three wineries and a chocolate shop in six-and-a-half hours.
After a long ride, which took us from dry, hot, heavily trafficked streets to breezy shade-dappled roads, we arrived at Vistandes Bodega. Bikes and Wines had a deal with Vistandes that offered lunch and a glass of wine to bikers for only 25 pesos, which is approximately $7.
The walls in the restaurant at Vistandes were a deep red, and the tables and chairs were black and white. There was a large window at the back allowing patrons to see into the kitchen. I ordered the Malbec and my new-found friends had the Torronte. Both were excellent.
The meal was the best of my entire trip. Given a simple choice of bife or pollo (beef or chicken), I chose beef. The waiter delivered a hot ceramic dish to the table covered with a warm potpie-like crust over top. When I broke through the that beautiful golden tarp, I found bite-sized pieces of beef that had been stewed in red wine. Each bite was the best of Argentina, caressing my taste buds and soothing my dusty, travel-weary soul. The flavor of the wine was not cooked away or hidden but rather present and sensuous, and enhanced by each accompanying sip of Malbec.
Am I waxing dramatic? In that case, I'll save the story of the chocolate tasting for another blog since I may very well get carried away.
Argentina, Day 8, 3,000 meters and counting...
Day 8. Lunch was nothing more complex than a ham and cheese sandwich, a red apple, a juice box and a few assorted sweets. Lunch was eaten, however, against the spectacular backdrop of the Andes mountains. And, while I ate, I was hoping that I wouldn't a) pass out from lack of oxygen or b) lose my lunch like I tossed freshly fried and sugared donuts on the top of Pikes Peak in Colorado when I was seven.
I did neither, and my tour guide chuckled when I remarked how good the sandwich tasted. I was high on thin air and wonderful scenery. And, I was in great company. I actually had two guides. R. who grew up in Mendoza and Mork, the trusty dog who made sure I never lagged too far behind or fell down the side of the frontal range.
There was one other hiker on the four-plus hour trek, who was acclimatizing for two longer hikes within the following days. All of my companions were patient, stopping frequently so I could catch my breath. We climbed from 2,000-plus meters to just over 3,000 meters.
My head felt like it would burst, and I was dizzy and nauseous. On the way down, I slid on gravel, fell on my bum and placed my hand in a prickly plant. But feeling small and cradled in the grand striking aura of the Andes was worth the pain. And, for a city girl used to living near sea level, I held my own. (Though, for my companions it was clearly like a skip in the park.)
After the hike, I rappelled down a rock for the first time in my life. Now, that is fun. Scary, but fun. Following my adventure down the rock, my fellow hiker, who lives in Brazil, bought me a glass of Malbec. He asked a few times if I wasn't sure whether I couldn't stay a few more days. Sigh. You know, readers, that of course I did want to, but alas I felt obliged to return to the job that paid for my trip.
And, now, surely I have rambled on too long. I hope you digest these snippets of Argentina with patience and perhaps with a sense of vicariousness. Nothing soothes or invigorates the soul and the heart more than travel. And, of course, sometimes nothing creates more of a sense of restlessness with one's own seemingly static life than being on the move. Fortunately, there is wine (and chocolate) to be savored to remind us of our traveling times.
Before I sign off, a huge thank you to CM and to Jennifer and Kendal for their fabulous blogging while I was away. They were terrific, weren't they?
Stay tuned! For next week, words on the difficulty of understanding cuisine without speaking the langauge. (P.S. The quoted words above are from Lewis Carroll's The Walrus and the Carpenter.)
I am sipping a glass of Vasco Viejo Vino Tinto from Bodegas Lopez (Fundada en 1898) in Maipu, Mendoza, Argentina, and I am thinking. About what you might ask? Well, "of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. Of why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings."
And, perhaps, also... about lunch and wine and the Andes, about being away and the resulting commingling of sadness and comfort in any homecoming. And, about people--those we meet for brief interludes like a dance or two on the ballroom floor, and those we hold onto for longer and either keep or eventually lose to the undulating tones of the world we live in. And, of course, as always, about food and drink and all things gastronomic.
More than one person has asked, "What was your favorite thing about your trip to Argentina?" Impossible! To wrap all the wonder and delicious savouring of far flung travels into a single defining circumstance! It cannot be done. Instead, readers, I present here a few moments--each somehow part of the tapestry of my experience of Argentina, and each, in some way, enhanced by the gastronomy of the moment...
Argentina, Day 1 -- Stand back, Buenos Aires!
My gracious friend J. was scheduled to meet me in the lobby of the Marriott Hotel on Plaza San Martin at noon, but I happened to spot him in the park near the hotel just prior. (For the record, I didn't splurge on the Marriott... the room was a result of points, most of which were a gift.)
J. is from Buenos Aires. We had met at my former job at the American Museum of Natural History. It was lovely to have a friend in town. I received a grand six-hour tour of Buenos Aires complete with lunch and an afternoon treat. It was by far more than I expected and extremely delightful!
From Plaza San Martin, we walked to Plaza de Mayo where the Casa Rosada and its famous balcony stand in salmon splendor. The plaza resonates with vibrations from the many occasions Argentinians have raised their political voices. I gladly soaked up the history J. provided as we wandered the neighborhoods of BA.
After properly admiring the Casa Rosada, we meandered through San Telmo, an area known for its antique markets. The neighborhood was once the thriving heart of the city where grand mansions housed the wealthiest inhabitants. A yellow-fever epidemic in the 1870's drove the rich north, and the neighborhood became a home for immigrants. On this recent contemporary Sunday afternoon, the narrow streets swarmed with tourists, who buzzed around the merchants and entertainers vying for their attention and money.
The buildings of San Telmo are lovely to my grit-loving eye, their age belied by the beautiful texture of stone and brick revealed in pockets beneath crumbled plaster. San Telmo also hosts splendid courtyards hidden just past the mouths of narrow alleys beyond normal-looking doorways.
J. led me to a restaurant that seemed completely perfect for my first lunch in Argentina. Sadly I failed to write down the name, and my notes about our the food are a bit of a mess, having been drenched in red wine during an unfortunate spill by a waiter later in the week.
I left the ordering to J., and as such, we had a fine authentic meal, which comprised of a watercress salad, proveletta (a thick piece of provolone grilled on a barbecue), matambrito de cerdo (grilled pork) and a type of chorizo sausage. We dressed the salad ourselves with oil, vinegar, salt, pepper and lemon.
My grand tour of Buenos Aires continued after lunch from San Telmo to several more parks and historic buildings and through the cultural center of the city. Sometime in the late afternoon, we stopped at a cafe on Corrientes to refuel. Although we ordered cappuccinos, the waiter misunderstood and brought us submarinos. I could not say that I was disappointed. Rather, I was secretly pleased.
The submarino is a cup of hot milk with a small bar of chocolate inside. You mix it furiously with a spoon until you have a luscious, rich cup of hot chocolate. With it, we split a churro (but better) that was filled with dulce de leche. (I will never say I do not like dulce de leche again! Flan too, but that is another story.)
After the submarinos, we walked to Recoleta past the famous cemetery and around back to the Marriott. It was about 6:00 p.m. What a fantastic introduction to a new city and it's culinary delights! Huge gracias to J.!
Argentina Day 4 -- Play me a song, piano man.
The opulent bar at the Marriott around 9:00 p.m. was nearly empty, but there was a piano man playing from the lobby just outside the bar entrance. I drank two glasses of Malbec while occasionally stealing sips with my eyes of the older gentleman around the other side of the bar. In a pin-striped grey suit, he sat, sometimes with his eyes closed, humming and swaying ever so slightly to the piano music. While I drank my wine he carefully enjoyed two glasses of Campari on ice.
Argentina Day 5 -- Cafe con leche y medialunas, por favor.
It was day 5. In the evening I was scheduled for a flight to Mendoza, but that morning I was sipping a strong, dark cafe con leche and slowly consuming three medialunas (mini croissants with a slightly sweet glaze). I was falling in love with the typical Argentinian breakfast. I had a few days left to savor the white flour and sugar before returning to the States where I would only allow myself whole grain cereal and fruit. The scene of that morning's indulgence was Gran Cafe Tortoni, a gorgeous cafe once home to famous writers and other creative types. I was alone and managed to order my breakfast and ask for the check in Spanish.
Argentina Day 7 - Pour me a glass and I'll pedal a squeaky tune.
Day 7. I was on a run-down bike with no gears, a hard seat and a squeaky wheel, but damn it, I was having fun. I had just visited the La Rural wine museum and tasted a nice glass of vino tinto and was starting to get hungry. I was riding behind two college exchange students from the East Coast whom I had met along the winery route.
We had all rented bikes from a company called Bikes and Wines. If you go to Mendoza, do not use this company. Instead, go with Mr. Hugo. Their bikes are much nicer, and I hear the overall value is as well.
With our cruisers, we received a map showing ten wineries within 11 KM from our starting point. My second bit of advice is to start early. I only made it to three wineries and a chocolate shop in six-and-a-half hours.
After a long ride, which took us from dry, hot, heavily trafficked streets to breezy shade-dappled roads, we arrived at Vistandes Bodega. Bikes and Wines had a deal with Vistandes that offered lunch and a glass of wine to bikers for only 25 pesos, which is approximately $7.
The walls in the restaurant at Vistandes were a deep red, and the tables and chairs were black and white. There was a large window at the back allowing patrons to see into the kitchen. I ordered the Malbec and my new-found friends had the Torronte. Both were excellent.
The meal was the best of my entire trip. Given a simple choice of bife or pollo (beef or chicken), I chose beef. The waiter delivered a hot ceramic dish to the table covered with a warm potpie-like crust over top. When I broke through the that beautiful golden tarp, I found bite-sized pieces of beef that had been stewed in red wine. Each bite was the best of Argentina, caressing my taste buds and soothing my dusty, travel-weary soul. The flavor of the wine was not cooked away or hidden but rather present and sensuous, and enhanced by each accompanying sip of Malbec.
Am I waxing dramatic? In that case, I'll save the story of the chocolate tasting for another blog since I may very well get carried away.
Argentina, Day 8, 3,000 meters and counting...
Day 8. Lunch was nothing more complex than a ham and cheese sandwich, a red apple, a juice box and a few assorted sweets. Lunch was eaten, however, against the spectacular backdrop of the Andes mountains. And, while I ate, I was hoping that I wouldn't a) pass out from lack of oxygen or b) lose my lunch like I tossed freshly fried and sugared donuts on the top of Pikes Peak in Colorado when I was seven.
I did neither, and my tour guide chuckled when I remarked how good the sandwich tasted. I was high on thin air and wonderful scenery. And, I was in great company. I actually had two guides. R. who grew up in Mendoza and Mork, the trusty dog who made sure I never lagged too far behind or fell down the side of the frontal range.
There was one other hiker on the four-plus hour trek, who was acclimatizing for two longer hikes within the following days. All of my companions were patient, stopping frequently so I could catch my breath. We climbed from 2,000-plus meters to just over 3,000 meters.
My head felt like it would burst, and I was dizzy and nauseous. On the way down, I slid on gravel, fell on my bum and placed my hand in a prickly plant. But feeling small and cradled in the grand striking aura of the Andes was worth the pain. And, for a city girl used to living near sea level, I held my own. (Though, for my companions it was clearly like a skip in the park.)
After the hike, I rappelled down a rock for the first time in my life. Now, that is fun. Scary, but fun. Following my adventure down the rock, my fellow hiker, who lives in Brazil, bought me a glass of Malbec. He asked a few times if I wasn't sure whether I couldn't stay a few more days. Sigh. You know, readers, that of course I did want to, but alas I felt obliged to return to the job that paid for my trip.
And, now, surely I have rambled on too long. I hope you digest these snippets of Argentina with patience and perhaps with a sense of vicariousness. Nothing soothes or invigorates the soul and the heart more than travel. And, of course, sometimes nothing creates more of a sense of restlessness with one's own seemingly static life than being on the move. Fortunately, there is wine (and chocolate) to be savored to remind us of our traveling times.
Before I sign off, a huge thank you to CM and to Jennifer and Kendal for their fabulous blogging while I was away. They were terrific, weren't they?
Stay tuned! For next week, words on the difficulty of understanding cuisine without speaking the langauge. (P.S. The quoted words above are from Lewis Carroll's The Walrus and the Carpenter.)
Comments
Post a Comment