There´s nothing like a 12-hour flight stuffed with pappy bread, orange concentrate, month-old muffins and corner yogurts to make you crave food worth chewing - or just anything chewable even if it´s not essentially edible. And there´s times when only a fat, juicy steak will do. Especially when you´re in Argentina and know you´re surrounded by several tonnes of the stuff. Your teeth and gums are crying out for it. And once your taste buds get a whiff of it, then there´s no going back.
I´d already had it on good authority (my brother) that the best steak to be had in Buenos Aires is at a joint called Bar 6 in Palermo – and, of course, I will go there in time. But I wanted a local recommendation, so I asked Lara on the front desk of Hostel Carlos Gardel where I´d checked in for the five nights I´m here. “For steak, “ she declared, “you go to El Desnivel”. Two blocks down and two across. So I did. And I couldn´t walk fast enough. The air was thick with steaks frying, everyone was either eating or cooking the damn stuff. My mouth was starting to hurt.
El Desnivel is dead ordinary and laid back. Plastic-coated table cloths, yellowing plastic cruets, wicker baskets of bread, jars of pickles on the counter, flags draped over banisters. Bad music blares from under a table. Pretty make-shift and buzzing with city work types, the odd couple, the odd guy on his own. All shapes and sizes. As for the kit - imagine the the largest stainless steel chimney-style extractor fan then stick it above the biggest BBQ you´d ever find (probably in Tenessee) – and you got a grill. The bar on the other side is heaving with bottles of just about every alcohol ever invented.
I order the Bife de Chorizo – that´s a T-bone. The wait after ordering is pretty torturous. Smells become more intense, plates of chips piled with dark, dark meat sail by under my nose, and the whole time I´m picking at this pappy aeroplane bread that I can´t even taste, but it´s keeping me from chewing my pen to pieces.
The house wine arrives in a milk jug and I get talking to the French guy on the next table. The steak arrives. It´s big, fat, marbelled, juicy and tender with a good bite. Tastes pretty good, too. Just about every bit is edible. It´s medium not rare (I wasn´t asked) but I don´t mind. French guy gives me some of his chips. Good crunchy contrast – more appealing than lettuce that´s for sure (note to self).. And the wine´s just right, too. It takes me ages to eat it. The bill comes to 24 bucks with service. That´s around a fiver.
French fries with a Frenchie
This is Alexandre, the French guy whose chips I ate (see, he got loads). He´s 29 and from Versailles and is here on holiday for 6 weeks. Back home he fixes air-cons units. He normally gets an hour for lunch, though often takes up to two. But that´s normal in France. Of course, if there was an air-con emergency he´d be right onto it. He lives for his holidays. He´d like to have kids one day but right now there´s just so many places to see. Besides, his mate´s just got hitched and moved to Brazil, so that´s next year´s holiday taken care of.
I started to notice a funny thing. 
