Asado Does It

On the balcony of a loft apartment  overlooking Cordoba last Friday night, I tried grilled intestines for the first (but I hope not the last) time.

I was couchsurfing again and had just met Ugo, my host, and his friends when Ugo proposed an asado, or private bbq.  Would I like? he asked.  

If you’ve been reading my posts (particularly the ones pertaining to Argentina), you know the answer to this.

So after a quick trip to the local carniceria and corner store, we had enough carne for five, two bottles of red wine, eight onions, a bag of bread, several lemons, and beer for later.  

Franco was in charge of the asado, and none of the four other guys interfered or questioned as Franco and Franco alone guarded the flames, fixed the coals and watched the meat.  He tossed whole onions in a side fire and then let them sit close, the heat from the smoke roasting them to utter bliss.

It seemed to me that it was taking  an awfully long time; I wasn’t getting sober sitting there drinking the Malbec, and I was only growing hungrier as I sat feet away from the built in grill on the balcony.  But, what did I know about the traditional Argentine bbq?  Nada.  Only that I enjoyed it to crazy degrees.

It would be my third time partaking in an asado (and I’d yet to eat at a parrilla, which is a restaurant offering a parrillada, or assortment of meat at a fixed price–the formal take on the asado), but Franco seemed to take the responsibility of asadoro (I made that word up, but I don’t think cocinero would be quite fitting here) so seriously that I knew it was going to be the best asado yet.

I was not wrong.

It was some of the ridiculously best food I’ve ever eaten, and for those of you who know me well know that this is a bold statement that I wouldn’t make lightly or nonchalantly. 

We five ate cerdo that tasted like butter, artesenal chorizo sausage wrapped in bread with nothing else, blood sausage both cold and also hot off the grill (richer and rich), the aforementioned intestines drizzled with fresh lemon juice, crunchy, salty and , addictive, peeled onions tossed in oil, lemon, and salt and washed it all down with lots of vino tinto.

A few things were clear after this, my fourth incredible asado indulgence: one) we have a lot to learn back home  about the way bbq is done, and two) I’d have to run a marathon before I burned off half the carne I’d eaten in under an hour, and finally, three) this is why I travel.

Not in My Guidebook

I watched with a mixture of disbelief, disgust, and awe as he took a large swig of lighter fluid and walked into the intersection, two identical balls of fire hanging by his side, his hands fiercely gripping the chains that led to the spitting fire. The traffic light was red and Hugo, the performer, conducted his dance with the fire until the light changed. Swinging the flaming balls of fire up over his head and around, again and again, exhaling at last and letting out a breath of fire, the finale of his performance, he nonchalantly bowed and walked between the cars, graciously accepting applause but looking for monetary handouts.

Trying to appear inconspicuous, I stood half behind a tree and looked on with anticipation as car windows opened and admiring observers dropped change into his palm. When no one was generous, when no one stopped him, I averted my gaze, glanced across at the other intersection, where another young Argentine was doing a practical performance. His attempts at earning handouts were not magical, I noticed as he wiped down the windshields on vehicles of obliging drivers.

“No saca fotos,” Hugo said, passing me as he returned to the corner to drink more of the viscous, dangerous fluid and relight the balls, and, ashamed, I dropped my camera in my bag, inwardly berating myself for acting so foolishly. They were the only harsh words he’d ever spoken to me, and even now, I wish he’d never had to utter them.

I continued to watch him perform for the people of San Juan until the lighter fluid was gone and his coughing grew more persistent. After the first few times seeing him drink the same thing he used to keep the balls on fire, I had to stop looking. My stomach was turning for him.

Later, when he wanted to know what I thought of his performance–although we’d been traveling together for about a week and had, despite the language barrier, gotten to know each other well, I’d heard of his street work but never witnessed it firsthand–I was at a loss for words. I asked about the taste of the fluid, for despite his shower, the smell lingered heavily and when he kissed me, I tasted smoke and extinguished fire in his mouth.

“No es muy rico,” he said as though it was no big deal at all. And, for him, it probably wasn’t. How long, I wondered had he been performing, hoping to make just enough money for food and drink as he made his way around parts of Peru and all of Bolivia?

Once we’d parted, the performance barely providing Hugo with enough money to travel to Valle Fertil, near San Juan in Mendoza, let alone Tucuman, my next destination, I wondered about practical matters: the ingestion of the lighter fluid, the inhalation of so much smoke, the blisters on his hands from such tight gripping– all for a few pesos.

I’d never seen anything like it before, I admitted to myself, and tried to conjure up memories of all the crazy stuff I’d seen people do for money in New York City. Nothing came close.

This was the kind of thing my guidebook didn’t mention.

About a week earlier, I’d tried to express my delight at not traveling like a tourist to Hugo and his friend, Nelson, as they set up a fire by the river (sans coals), pulled out a huge plastic bag full of carne, salted it, and created an asado (bbq) for the three of us, and I watched the tourists giddily white-water raft past us.

They had only laughed and said that what we were doing was “normal” for them, but I don’t know that they understood how grateful I was for their “tipica” experience. If only they knew how far off the beaten backpacker path they’d taken me, maybe they’d have been pleased with themselves.

Later, when I found myself couchsurfing in Tucuman with Cintia–una buena persona– and her family, and having some much-needed girl time, I explained that I felt lucky to be experiencing life as she experienced it: drinking mate in the park, sharing an enormous Saturday almuerzo with her family, going to a regional fiesta with live music, getting in the siesta groove mid-afternoon each day, enjoying tea time with cookies and cafe con leche following siesta, and eating dinner at 11 PM at night during the week. I was “fortunada” in so many ways that it was becoming increasingly difficult to feel–and express– sufficient gratitude.

I learned months ago to trust my guidebook for tips on bus travel, weather patterns, and border crossing information, but mostly, its advice is useless. Why consult it for the best place to find pastel de choclo (a Chilean specialty) when I can ask Pam and Aaron, the hip, young couple I stayed with in Santiago? Why bother reading about the best place to watch tango in Tucuman when I can accompany Cintia and her girlfriends? Why try the listed heladerias when I can ask a local–and a friend– where he or she goes when the ice-cream craving hits? Why go on every tour the book suggests is “not worth missing” when I can live as though I belong among the people who do belong and not as though I am merely passing through until I arrive at the next destination, where another over-priced, only halfway decent tour awaits me?

No, my guidebook cannot lead me to a rich, authentic, typical experience; that, I need to find on my own.

Fortunately, I’ve got more than five months to continue seeking my “tipica” experiences.