¿Tacos de Jamón?

I have written before about the marvels of Buenos Aires' cuisine, and I can nearly guarantee I will do it again. It's a pretty serious deal here, after all. For food is an experience; something to be revered, to be nurtured over a several hour-long meal. It’s a thing to cut lovingly, chewed neatly, and seasoned with a hearty laugh and roll of the r. Yet what it is not seasoned with?

Spices.

It is difficult to understand, this national obsession with blandness. This isn’t to say that all the food is flavorless. But as a general rule (and this describes only Argentine food in its purest state) details like spices are of last concern. Beef is the number one priority, followed by bread and rice as white as the ideal bloodline. Pungent cheese and sweet onions follow somewhere down the line. But pepper? Who needs it...

A perfect case study comes in the form of a Mexican-Argentine fusion restaurant located in stylish Palemo Viejo. When I walked in the door last weekend, it felt vaguely Mexican, thanks to the orange walls, rustic wood tables, and visible mounds of guacamole. My hopes rose. After settling into a seat (and waiting a typically Argentine time for a waiter to approach our table), I began to fully appreciate the “fusion” quality of the venue. From the wall, a Warhol-ized Marilyn Monroe smiled seductively at me, her breathiness matched only by the pop-chic Madonna cd throbbing throughout the small eatery. The Beatles grinned dopily from the opposing wall.

Needless to say, a Day of the Dead skeleton was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, a basket filled with slices of baguette and thin breadsticks appeared before us. Nestled in the middle were small toasts dabbed with what appeared to be a sun-dried tomato spread. In lieu of butter was a vessel of cilantro carrot relish, sprinkled with a few kidney beans. Not quite chips and salsa, but the combination managed to meld surprisingly well with a margarita, regardless (Yet a glass rimmed with sugar? Honestly).

The true test came with the tacos, burritos, and enchiladas we beckoned our way. The tacos, though entirely edible — quite good, in fact — were like nothing “Mexican” I’d had before. The corn tortillas were fried to a crisp, rendering them tasty if a bit grease-laden. The steak was hot off any Argentine parrilla, while the shriveled peppers were indicative of the attitude espoused by my host mother, who thinks vegetables “are a bit stupid.” Weirdest of all, though, was the pashmina-like draping of ham hugging the beef. Only in Argentina.

To be fair, the guacamole, bright with lime and cilantro, ranked up there with the finest Tex-Mex institutions of the American southwest, and the tortilla chips held their own. All in all, it amounted to a fascinating, and quite enjoyable, intercultural experience.

So, the next time you lump all Latin American food into the same pot of spicy refried beans, think again. And pack a bottle of Tabasco sauce.