Feffo’s pieces, the picture is bad.  They look better in person.

               Shortly after midnight we rendezvoused with Brennan’s friend Feffo, at a restaurant in Lujan.  His parents own a small hotel and restaurant which he does food deliveries for, as well as adorning the interior and exterior with his paintings, murals, and sculptures.  Feffo was just getting off work, and I hopped into his jalopy, a thirty plus year old Citron, while Brennan followed behind in his car.  I would be hard pressed to remember a more rickety car ride.  It was a rag top, and Feffo popped it open a bit to let the night air in and his cigarette smoke out.  I was sure not to put my weight on the door when he made left turns, out of a genuine fear of flying out.  He lived in nearby Chacras, and we pulled into his long, bumpy, dirt driveway in no time.  Feffo is a bit of an eccentric.  He built his house, or is in the process of building his house, it’s about 90% complete, with only a couple missing windows at this point.  The windows the house does have are reclaimed antiques, the front door a beautiful, old, eight foot tall, peeling pair of French doors.  All the doors inside the house are specialty homemade gothic arches, a form for which Feffo has a particular affinity.  

             His wife and kids were having a sleepover at his inlaws, so the house was empty except for the dog and cat.  He opened a bottle of cheap wine, and we got to some music making.  Feffo was on the guitar, I on the bongo, and Brennan on a wooden xylophone type instrument Feffo had made.  There was also a homemade ukulele, crafted with noteworthy skill, which had to sit idly by; because of its peculiar tuning I doubt anyone besides Feffo could play it.  More than a couple times, a bat flew into the living room due to a general lack of glass in the windows, did a couple laps and took off.  Feffo didn’t even seem to notice, the only time the bats seem to border on an annoyance is when they fly into his room while he’s sleeping and startle him.

                The objective of the evening was for Feffo to do some painting, his primary “occupation.”  He showed us some photos of previous works, all incredibly extraordinary.  Many he had done on a painting excursion to Arcadia, California some time before, where he was able to draw inspiration from the general Humbolt vibe.  He had done two painting the previous night, he seemed to be on a native peoples kick at the moment.  One painting was of a Bolivian type face, the other of a Black Foot Chief, Bear Bull, whose picture he had found in a book on American Indians.  He cut canvas in preparation for the evening’s session; I felt I was watching Van Gogh or Picasso work, admiring his strange genius.  Efficiency is not a character trait of Feffo’s, and Brennan got a call from Nadia around 3:30am summoning us home, just as the real painting was about to begin.  Feffo bade us good bye and returned to his hands and knees, and canvas spread on the floor, to paint and create until morning.

            While out commemorating our Irish heritage on St Patrick’s Day, at the only Irish Pub in Mendoza, Brennan and I made an interesting acquaintance, which would turn out to be quite fruitful.  Saying the pub was filled to capacity would be a tremendous understatement.  There was a mob half a block long which bulged out into the four lane street so significantly it bottlenecked traffic.  Needless to say purchasing a beer was near impossible; consequently we bought a bottle of wine at a neighboring kiosk, as the kiosk didn’t have any cerveza.  While mingling in the sea of humanity, which periodically erupted in cheers of unknown origin, we met Ale, his sister Katarina, and a couple of their friends, all in their mid 20s.  They took to calling me El Capitan, don’t ask me why, but they seemed genuine, and weren’t derisive about it.  Ale invited us back to his house to admire his three gigantic cannabis plants, and partake in some of the harvest. We took this to be a blessing from St Patrick, as green buds are a rarity here; where the standard fare is dirt brown brick weed which no self respecting Northern Californian would look at twice.  The after party at Ale’s was lively, and we eventually arrived back at home shortly before sun rise. 

         We kept in touch with Ale, and he invited us to an asado at his family’s farm a week or so later.  We caravanned from Ale’s house in town to the supermarket to stock up on meat—somewhere in the ballpark of a pound and a half per person for our party of nine.  Additional provisions of beer, potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and some cheese and salami appetizers were also acquired.  We then continued our caravan to the family finca.  We didn’t quite know what to expect, we knew it had some olive trees and grapes, but anticipated a humble affair.  Boy were we wrong.

                The property was a vast 60 acre estate with a castle sized stone edifice, somewhere in the range of 150 years old.  Most of the manor was his family’s private museum.  The tour kicked off with a thriving 400 year old olive tree, supposedly and plausibly the oldest in Mendoza, which was planted by Jesuit missionaries in the 17^th century.   We proceeded into the historic winery, where fifty or more ancient, giant wooden casks lined the cellar.  The kind of casks any California winery would kill to have as a display piece in their tasting room.  This portion of the museum was complete with informational plaques on all the antique equipment: hand crank pumps, punch down plungers, a bottle/jug filling set up, the list goes on.  The tour continued to the residence of the estate with pictures from the mid 19^th century, as well as appropriate historic office and living accoutrements.  Our exploration concluded with a gifted reprint of the original 100+ year old label, which had been placed on all the barrel heads.  Thus concluded the tour, and began the asado.

                A relative of Ale’s, who seemed to be the caretaker of the impressive estate, took the reins, and his extensive asado grilling experience was obvious.  He jammed the potatoes, whole, without preparation, into the fire, where they blackened and smouldered for the duration of the grilling.  We snacked on salamis, cheeses, bread, and green and black olives grown a stone’s throw from where we sat, sipping ice cold Andes (they are exceptionally good at keeping beer just above freezing here), and enjoying, of all things, Pearl Jam’s Ten album on the stereo.  When we all sat around the outdoor table for the main course, it was somewhere around 11 o’clock.  One of Brennan’s Malbecs was opened, to rave reviews from all.  The singed potatoes were quite delicious, despite their carcinogenically ashy, crisped skins.  Ale walked around the table with a platter of meat, each person selecting a piece of sausage, rib, or steak.  The rounds would be made every fifteen minutes or so, as more meat came off the grill, until we were all at the point of explosion.  A trio of dogs milled around the table, patiently waiting for the rib bones and potato skins to be tossed their way.  Not enough comparisons are made between Argentine asados and Viking banquets – lots of red meat gluttony, tossing scraps to the dogs.  After dinner Ale pulled out his guitar for some jamming, while some of his bud made its way around.  It was an incredibly satisfying night, and when we got home around 1:30, I drifted off to sleep, pleased to have fallen in with Ale and his circle of friends.

Pretty typical view around Mendoza

Puente del Inca

            With the house stuffed to the gills with of out of towners, touristy activities were the order of the day.  We piled into two cars (Nadia’s brother, apparently quite a road dog, had driven his Camary the 600 miles from BA), and drove west into the Andes.  We hit a minor snag in that all the gas stations in town were bone dry, not an unusual occurrence, but fortunately we found a petrol station outside of Lujan that was still pumping.  We stopped in Potrerillos, 45 minutes down the road for lunch.  The bulk of the group went with lomos, while a couple opted for milenasa sandwiches (the same thing but with the steak breaded and baked rather than grilled).  Young Ollie, substantially outgoing for a two year old, with minimal “terrible two” outbreaks,   loves cheersing.  He wants to “Chin Chin!” every sippy cup he drinks with every person at the table.  In this case, he wanted to chin chin lomos.  I felt quite special when, after celebratorally knocking food with everyone else at the table he said, “Erik esta lejos,” and got up to walk to my end of the table to complete his round of cheers.

                We continued on winding Route 7 towards Chile, passing through Uspallata, which bears such an uncanny resemblance to the Chinese highlands that Seven Years in Tibet was filmed there. We turned on to a dirt road and the geologic formations became more and more unusual, until an exceptionally curious plateau appeared around a bend in the road and our caravan came to a halt at the Hill of Seven Colors.  Splashes of red, purple, green, white, orange and I guess two others, painted its gaudily made up face.  Numbers may have been fudged and inflated during the counting of colors, but it was a natural wonder none the less.  Brennan and I scaled the top of the mount, where a valley of seven colors revealed itself behind the hill.  We received hurrahs from our group below on our successful apexing.  After some more pictures we continued onward.

              Los Penitentes, Mendoza’s closest ski resort was the next location of note on our journey.  A few chairlifts and ropetows were visible on the brown mountain slopes.  In winter it makes for incredible treeless ice sheet skiing.  Shorty afterwards, once we slipped through an army check point, we arrived at Puente del Inca.  The Incan Bridge was our second geographical marvel of the day, a natural stone archway created by the burbling sulphurous thermal waters, spanning the cliffs over Las Cuevas River.  An abandoned stone day spa sits at the base of the bridge, slowly being emulsified by the minerals and disappearing into the mountain under layer upon layer of yellowish stone.  A small mercado of Incan ponchos, alpaca sweaters, and other souvenirs existed in a shanty town of colorful, scrap sheet metal stalls.  We did some browsing, stimulated the local economy, and made the acquaintance of the resident 180 pound St Bernard, Syrah, who disappointingly was not outfitted with a cask of brandy around his neck.  We then turned our fleet around; 40 miles shy of the Chilean border and headed for home.  The setting sun at our backs smeared vibrant reds and oranges on the summits in front of us as we meandered our way back to Mendoza.    

The Crew at the Hill of Seven Colors

Let me begin by saying in this Full House scenario, as much as I would like to be the Uncle Jesse, I am more like Joey – the one who appears to belong the least, but everyone seems to be glad is there anyway.

                Nadia’s brother Leanardo road tripped it into town with a Camary full of family from Buenos Aires.  He brought his girlfriend Carolina, a chef who speaks Spanish, English, Italian, and Portuguese.   She brought her two year old Oliver (or Ollie), who was well tempered, and the only person yet that I have been able to converse with in Spanish at an appropriate level. The bulk of this discourse consisted of him asking “Que es esto?” So inquisitive.  The fourth member of this crew was Leanardo’s eight year old son Valentine, an outgoing, quick witted youth with a serious hammy streak.  I know kids tend to have heads that are disproportionately large for their bodies, but Valentine takes the cake — like an orange on a toothpick!  He was more than willing to practice his Spanish with me, debating our favorite type of movies.  He was very absorbed in a Facebook game where you build your own city.  When he found out I was from San Francisco, he immediately sent his entire fleet of cargo ships there on a mission of global trade.  The next day, he made sure to alert me to the ships successful return, loaded with cargo.  The type of cargo I never discovered.  To round things off, we had Nadia’s 11 year old cousin Lulu.  She spent the vast majority of time on Facebook or playing Grand Theft Auto.  I graciously and appropriately surrendered the guest room to this gang of Porteños (Buenos Airians).  Two double mattresses were laid down on the floor for a giant communal bed, although I think Ollie slept in the crib that’s set up for Brennan and Nadia’s soon to arrive daughter.

My twin mattress found a home in the living room with my temporary roommates, Matias and Silvina, two visiting  Porteño friends of Nadia’s who set up shop on the futon sofa.  Matias is the only ginger Argentine I have yet seen, a full-on redheaded, pasty skinned, freckled colorado.  They were an outgoing couple, and my wingman and wingwoman when we went to the nightclub or boliche.  I proved myself to be quite the enjoyable third wheel that evening, although they wanted to pack it in a little earlier than I did, around 5am.  I mean come on, we didn’t even get there until 2am!  When we got home we watched Treal TV in our room.  They enjoyed it for its anthropologic value, and were impressed with the superfluous use of F-bombs by Mac Dre and the Crestside Creepers.

                Living with ten people in a two bedroom, one bathroom house makes for close quarters.  Jockeying for the bathroom is a little tricky, but we’ve been eating well, and the full house has been just about as enjoyable as Bob Saget made it seem. 

Lomo, pizza, or empanadas.  Those are the choices offered at nearly every cafe in Argentina, invariably and without deviation.  My clear favorite is the lomo.  The core of the lomo is grilled flank steak, topped with cheese, ham, lettuce, tomato, and a fried egg, sandwiched in pan Arabe, which is similar to cibbata bread.   The one area restaurants have some freedom to make the sandwich their own, is in the decision to apply mayonnaise, salsa golf, or leave it up to the customer.  Salsa golf is an inspired combination of ketchup and mayo, and is a staple condiment here. 

Pizza would be recognizable by any American.  My one note on pizza is linguistic in nature.  The word pija, pronounced nearly identically, with a slightly more guttural, phlegm inducing hack, is a crude term for the male genitalia.  This is a hilarious homonym, which has been cracked every time we’ve eaten pizza – and it’s always funny.

Empanadas, as I have explained before, are similar to hot pockets in the states.  Small round sheets of pastry are stuffed with one of two fillings: ham and cheese or a seasoned ground beef (sometimes with diced hardboiled egg).  They are then baked to a golden brown.  Brennan and I were invited to a dinner at a vineyard manager’s house and his wife prepared enough empanadas to feed an army.  Homemade out of the oven they are hard to beat.

There’s a young vineyard here, two and a half years old, which Brennan sourced last year at the tender age of 18 months.  Most vineyards don’t come online till Year 3.  The vineyard is owned by a jet setting American couple, currently based in South Africa, involved in the fast paced world of global finance, Armand and Wendy Todd.  The vineyard is planted to a majority of Malbec—the Pride of Mendoza—with a solid chuck of Cabernet Sauvignon, and a mixed back corner of Petite Verdot, Cabernet Franc, and a single row of Tannat—the Pride of Uruguay. 

                The Todd’s were in town to attend to various affairs and visit Argentine based jet setting friends.  They invited Brennan and Nadia out to dinner to discuss the wines he’d made with their fruit last year, and what the future looked like.  Brennan took it that they probably meant to invite me as well.  Nadia bowed out last minute, sighting the third trimester pregnancy, but more likely because she had some out of town friends over.  Brennan and I arrived at the restaurant punctually and first.  The restaurant, a high end affair which has been well reviewed in papers as far flung as the New York Times, coincidentally bared the name of Brennan’s lady, Nadia. We were taken to the courtyard dining area, which had a 35 foot table constructed of ancient timbers sitting on three stout legs, I felt a bit like a giant dining at Stonehenge.  The chairs were made of barrel stave wood.  Three parties of four were to be seated at this antique banquet table.  We opted to wait for the rest of our party in a lounge area in front.  Armand and Wendy arrived, and we could hear them tell the host they had a reservation for three, maybe four people.  They came around the corner, greeted Brennan, kindly inquired as to the whereabouts of his girlfriend, then evaluated me.  Clearly I was unexpected.  I shook Armand’s hand while clearly reading his face, “Oh good his girlfriend didn’t come so he brought some Dude.”  I would have to earn my keep tonight with witty conversation and expert wine knowledge.  Don’t fear, I delivered. 

              The meal was fixed course, an indication of its classiness. It began with steak tartar, paired with a Torrontes of Brennan’s.  It was excellent and the Todds, particularly Wendy, loved the Torrontes, even though it could have afforded to be a bit chillier.  It was at here I made my only faux pas of the evening.  Wendy asked if I like steak tartar, to which I foolishly and regrettably revealed my lack of gastronomic sophistication by admitting I had never tried it!  But quickly added, I thought it was delicious.  Around this point Wendy leaned in and whispered to me that the Winemaker and Proprietor of O Fournier Winery was dining just down the lintel from me—one of Mendoza’s bigger wine celebrities!  He had a passing resemblance to a cleaned up prospector, with untamed curly black hair, a bushy beard, and gold, round framed spectacles.  She explained that his wife was the chef whose cuisine we were enjoying.   

                The second appetizer was sweetbread with greens.  I was apprehensive, as I had never eaten bovine neck glands before, but they were savory, albeit chewier than anticipated.  At this point we popped a bottle of wine Brennan had made from the Todd Estate.  It was young but deeply red, with a fruity, aromatic nose, and full body, with minimal oaking  allowing the grapes to speak.  The Todds were pleased with their first vintage, as we quaffed it down with our rabbit confit or rib eye—chosen at the diner’s discretion. 

                At this point there was a bit of a snafu.  Brennan had brought what we thought was a second bottle from their vineyard, of a different blend.  Upon tasting, he quickly realized we had accessed the wrong pallet, a mistake we eschew responsibility for.  The pallets were not correctly labelled at the warehouse, many lacking the vintage, the fault of the facility.  Some malbec-cab sav blends from 2009 had the vintage and some did not, while 2010s all lacked a vintage.  We grabbed the wrong vintagless blend!  The Todds were disappointed, but impressed with the wine none the less.  Armand remarked twice, how at least it was a nice opportunity to taste a younger and older wine side by side. 

                At this point Mother Nature felt we should move the party inside by delivering a dashing of precipitation.  We took both rounds of dessert inside, lounging on low couches, the deceased bottles of wine now delivering more frequent rounds of laughter.  Brennan and Armand talked some quick shop, he picked up the check— for which I profusely thanked him—and our parties parted ways, with plans to meet up in the near future to deliver some Todd wine, and a standing invitation for me to visit South African wine country.