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 17th 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 19th 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.
