Restaurante El Establo
Actually. the guidebooks have it all wrong. Vegetarian food may not be easy to find in Buenos Aires, but it's here. We're in a cosmopolitan city with an international community. Good Italian restaurants are common. You can get a nice salad anywhere. Excellent (but fattening) desserts. Gelato. Exquisite crepes called panqueques. Better coffee than in Mexico. I found eight Japanese restaurants in the yellow pages. You don't have to pig out on rare beef.
But if you eat meat, you'll want to try the charcoal-grilled steaks. Judy took us to a parrilla restaurant she had discovered on a previous trip: El Establo.
El Establo is one of those places that gives travelers a smug, insider feeling. It's for regulars. It makes no effort to cater to foreigners. The decor is utilitarian.
It reminds me of Original Joe's Restaurant in San Jose, CA, an institution for over 50 years, where most of the waiters have worked for almost that long and none of whom are impressed with you. At El Establo, you get a table for as long as you want it. A waiter of supernatural competence remains at hand for your entire meal, taking orders, making recommendations and serving you flawlessly, without fuss or attitude.
Well, unless you get in his way to take a picture or something. Then he shoos you off to the side. El Establo is for good food, good conversation and good company. It's not a place to bring Tiffani for her 27th birthday, guests posing around the table flashing party picture smiles.
We arrived at dinnertime: 11 PM. Bill and his Mom, familiar with the local cuisine, ordered starters: Riñones and provoleta.
Riñones, the dish with the lemon wedges on top, are grilled kidneys. Now, I've never been a fan of them, owing to an unfortunate childhood incident involving my mother and a plate of kidneys she had failed to "boil the piss out of." But Judy ordered enthusiastically, and having myself consumed, not one month ago, a handful of deep-fried braided pig guts, I went along with the program. Of course, the kidneys were excellent: smoky, savory, lean.
Provoleta is a potato torta: layered potato slices with ham, cheese, roasted red bell peppers, fresh tomatoes and basil. I don't have to tell you how yummy that was.
Bill tried to place orders with the waiter for the entire meal when he ordered the riñones and provoleta. The waiter gently corrected him: No need for hurry here; the whole evening lies ahead; order when you're ready for it.
Argentineans have a refreshingly direct approach to preparing steak: Cow —> Fire —> Plate. No marinades. No sauces. No seasonings. You order it a punto—medium rare. Any other way marks you as a cretin.
It isn't Kobe beef. It isn't corn-fed Kansas City beef. A few days ago it was a half-wild, muddy, burr-encrusted steer somewhere out on the Pampas. An animal of no pedigree, it munched wild grasses and drank silty water until some gaucho caught it. Wouldn't surprise me if he shot it. Apparently, to the gaucho's practiced eye, it wasn't good enough for his own dinner, so he sent it on to Buenos Aires for undiscerning city slickers.
It tasted divine.
At an adjacent table, four friends shared dinner. They were in the restaurant when we arrived at 11. This photo was taken at 1 AM. Still going strong.
They were having a great time, telling jokes, arguing, enjoying the meal and each others' company. They ordered continuously and in no particular order whenever their appetites moved them: a little blood sausage, some arugula salad, a steak, maybe some ribs, coffee, crème caramel, a piece of grilled salmon, a plate of onion rings, some ice cream... where did they put it all? Only two bottles of wine for the four of them, but I've never seen a group enjoy themselves more.
We Americans are less prone to languid meal-taking. There's a school play to get to. We gotta get up at 6 to make it to the morning status meeting on time. Grab a tub of extra-crispy KFC on the way home and sit in front of the tube watching House.
Eat in a restaurant until 1 AM? On a Monday night? What, are you crazy?