Bear Grylls has been talking this week about his ingestion of meat and organs, eschewing (or rather, ‘no longer chewing’) his flirtation with veganism. Naturally, that got me thinking about steak and then writing about steak.
A couple of years ago I entered the AA Gill Award for emerging food critics because a) AA Gill’s restaurant reviews were the first thing I used to turn to in The Times and regularly rendered me incapable of speech because I was laughing so much; b) I fancied writing about food (along with pretty much anything else) and c) I hadn’t yet acquired the snarky inner editor telling me the 101 reasons why I shouldn’t. I noted, with a wary raised eyebrow, that Jeremy Clarkson was on the panel and thought, ‘Well I suppose I’m writing the very opposite of silken tofu; I’m going primal. It might appeal!’
I wrote a piece about a visit to Don Julio in Buenos Aires, which was ranked 14th in The World’s 50 Best Restaurants last year and 2nd in Latin America’s 50 Best Restaurants. At the time of visiting in 2019, I had no idea of its significance, which is probably the best way of experiencing something; no preconceptions. We just went because someone recommended it and we’re still talking about it.
It didn’t get anywhere, but I vividly remember the joy of writing it. It’s been languishing on my laptop ever since despite efforts to pitch stories around it. So, given I’m my own commissioning editor in this space, I’ve decided to publish it here and hope you’ll enjoy the meal too (which I appreciate you won’t if you’re vegetarian).
Primal Dream
Seductive yet vaguely menacing. This is what emanates from the three words standing proudly on my laptop screen: ‘Restaurante. Carnes. Vinos.’ If I saw the English equivalent (‘Restaurant. Meat. Wine’), I would find it unimaginative, pedestrian and unappetising. A bit like popping down to one of those supermarkets the size of a small town. Here though, I have already been ensnared in a passionate embrace of a rolling ‘r’ and a sibilant ‘s.’ As my eyes flicker over the word ‘carnes,’ it morphs into ‘carnal.’ There’s an immense swagger and pride here that renders all other words superfluous. I straighten my spine in response. I’m being reeled in by three simple words that take on the form of an incantation. The restaurant is 7,000 miles away. I book a table.
We arrive in Buenos Aires having spent a couple of weeks exploring the silent expansive landscapes of Chile. It’s like the door to a nightclub suddenly thrown open. This is a city as performance art, from the ghostly echoes of Eva Perón addressing the crowd from the Casa Rosada, to the elderly couple steeped in the city’s history, performing a self-contained tango in the middle of the San Telmo antiques market. Even the El Ateneo Grand Splendid bookstore is housed in a former theatre, complete with a café gracing the stage. Dog walkers strut with mystifying ease attached to an average of ten canines. Your eyes widen in an effort to absorb the vivid graffiti on the ground and the elegant rows of balconies up high. Your synapses fizz to life to help you defy death as you negotiate crossing the Avenida 9 de Julio, up to fourteen lanes in parts. Even in death, the city still puts on a show with the elaborate tombs at the Recoleta Cemetery. However, we’re keen to get to the beating heart of the city, to brush up against its soul. Food is what will transport us there.
It feels wrong to call Don Julio a steakhouse, although that is precisely what it is: a ‘parrilla’. To the English, the word ‘steakhouse’ conjures up unfortunate memories of Bernie Grills and Angus Steakhouses where mastication was taken to new heights in an attempt to extract flavour from the shoe leather on offer and avoid death by gristle. Don Julio, however, is a carnivore’s wet dream.
My fears that we may not experience it at its best due to our reservation early on a Sunday evening disintegrate upon arrival at the nineteenth century building in the artsy Palermo district. It’s only 7pm and yet it’s already throbbing with life, a queue starting to form outside. We’ve brought our carnivorous offspring which clearly delights our waiter on the basis that our parenting skills must be sound if we are priming their tastebuds with Argentina’s best.
This is a place that exudes bonhomie from its beams. A vast chandelier made from a wooden wheel casts a soft golden glow reflecting its diners in their best light and enhances the tobacco tones of the stone and wood décor. The mezzanine level of diners draws the eye to the endless rows of empty wine bottles decorating the walls. A giant meat weighing scale hangs from the ceiling, the sort of thing hipsters might call ‘abattoir chic’ if they bothered to glance up from contemplating their perfectly curated navels. Centre stage, under the spotlight for all to admire, is the kitchen. It’s manned by chefs who display a level of care and devotion to the giant rotating grills that is usually reserved for first loves, newborns and puppies.
If you’re one of those people who like to pretend that meat is an abstract concept and in no way relates to an animal, then this is probably not the place for you. The front of the menu presents a crash course in butchery: a drawing of a cow sectioned into all its associated cuts. The list of starters catapults you into a Dickensian parallel universe: kid goat chitterlings and steer sweetbreads. We opt to share the offal selection, blood sausage and kidneys. The children have recently sampled llama tongue in Chile, so they are up for an immersive experience.
Whilst we sip our complimentary glass of Prosecco, the waiting staff stride by purposefully holding aloft trays of steaming beef empanadas, the comforting meaty tang trailing in their wake. These, along with more glasses of Prosecco, are taken to the people patiently queueing outside; perfect little parcels of promise as a teaser for the delights within.
Our plates of organs arrive and are unapologetic in their simplicity. No distractions by way of sauce or artfully scattered leaves. What may be lacking visually is more than compensated for in taste, the delicacy of the kidneys contrasting with the earthiness of the blood sausage which crumbles under its own richness. We squabble over who will bag the last piece of liver.
The choice of main courses is substantial. Unless you are a vegetarian. In this case, there are a few salads and one sole pasta dish. It’s the equivalent of the menu giving a cursory shrug and saying ‘meh – if you absolutely must.’ Bringing a vegetarian here would herald the death knell of any relationship.
The meat here is so off the scale happy it could wipe all the Scandinavian countries off the Happiness Index. It comes from grass fed cows who freely roam the Argentinian pampas. They are so well looked after that I imagine someone reads softly to them from the works of Jean Louis Borges at night.
Helping you to navigate the choice on offer is where this place really shines. When my son asks about the different cuts, he is whisked to the open kitchen where a chef resembling Obelix proudly tilts a huge board displaying glistening cuts of raw meat. As he gestures to each one, like a TV weatherman, the other chefs briefly gather round to participate in this moment of shared glory. They even pose for a photo, the platter of meat the star. I am transfixed by these chefs throughout the evening as they constantly monitor with laser focus the array of meat on the rotating grill. Despite the countless times they must do this, they admire each other’s work as they slice the requested cuts. Passion and pride reign supreme here.
Between us we choose a Tomahawk, rump and sirloin steaks. The Tomahawk is the size of a continent, its bone hanging off the edge of the plate. It is the cuckoo of steaks, allowing no room for any other food. Here, we are but Lilliputians in the land of giant hunks of meat. The rump and sirloin are also generous and are accompanied by silky sweet potato purée and vibrant wilted spinach, the colours showcasing the rich hues of the meat. We fall into a reverential silence as our glinting Don Julio embossed steak knives slide effortlessly through the meat. The nine-year-old turns her nose up at my medium rare steak as there is “not enough blood.” We’ve gone primal. I’m concerned I may glance up to find everyone tearing the food with their hands. The meat is so succulent that, accompanied by a bottle of smooth Malbec, there’s an intense tango of flavours in my mouth. We concur that we have arrived at steak nirvana. I temporarily forget my concerns about the methane output of the happy cows as our waiter looks on, nodding approvingly like a kindly Uncle. We’ve passed the test.
Given we are already two-thirds dulce de leche from vigorously sampling it in all its forms during our stay, we finish with gossamer thin crepes (panqueques) drenched with the national delight, accompanied by a dessert wine from Mendoza which cuts through the cloying yet comforting sweetness. It also gives us an excuse to stay longer.
As is tradition, at the end of our meal we are given our empty bottle of Malbec for us to write a message on its label where it will join the ranks of the others and leave something of ourselves behind. Just as well, as we are so reluctant to leave. We’ve been here nearly four hours enjoying the theatre and conviviality of it all, luxuriating in the gastronomic soul of the city. Despite how busy it is throughout the evening we have been positively encouraged to linger. Like those empanadas, we’ve been wrapped up in a parcel of genuine warmth that will continue to glow softly within us after we’ve left.
Restaurant. Meat. Wine. A whole city behind those three words. Not remotely menacing. I have been totally and utterly seduced.