Restaurant - Buen Ayre
Location - Hackney
By Boeing : 6322 miles
By Boris Bike : 8.6 miles
I had intended to remain in Africa and move south west from Algeria to the former Portuguese colony of Angola. However, the proprietor of the sole Angolan eatery in London, a ramshackle restaurant that only opened on request, called me to say he had closed due to disagreement with the taxman. The recession has clearly made existence at the margins of marketable cuisine a hand to mouth affair.
As I took the jubilee line to Bethnal Green for my next destination I wondered whether London will lose its multicultural flavour in this double-dip downturn. Will the culinary outposts that make this journey so rich in discovery disappear off the map? How sad it would be if London’s diversity of cuisine was reduced to only those familiar staples of mass consumption, such as Chinese, Indian and Italian, and if, god forbid, at some time in the future this journey would yield as many unique aromas in Croydon as London!
Broadway market, in Hackney, is a bustling thoroughfare of eclectic trends and al fresco dining. The market abuzz with pre-prandial pleasantry and po-faced pretension I found my way through the cultural milieu to Buen Ayre, an Argentinean asado with an unassuming entrance but crackling atmosphere.
A lithe, lascivious waitress met me at the door and asked whether I had booked. I was taken aback. It was just past six and I was struggling to find a table. Then it struck me: Argentina is the first place on my journey that is a bona fide tourist destination; a place people chose to visit. If people dream of visiting this South American utopia then of course they will book early and often for a night sampling its culture and cuisine.
Led to a rustic brushed wood table I had pride of place by the vast open barbeque that was the focal point of the restaurant, already loaded with steak. Charcoal, imported, I was proudly informed, from Argentina for its unique aroma, glowed as the effusive chef, surrounded by patriotic paraphernalia such as football scarves and photos of tango dancers, flirted with the waitresses. In Argentina every sense is not only entertained but entertained to excess. Argentineans simply don’t do restraint. To them to abstain is to forego pleasure.
As I sampled my starter of deep fried empanadas I watched agape as huge ribs of steak and bulbous sausages were loaded onto parillada, large sizzling platters for entire tables of salivating diners. Looking up I noticed a wire mesh bulls head protruding from the wall, like a pagan idol, venerated by an entire nation.
To a Londoner growing up in the eighties a steakhouse means red velvet, high-backed benches, battered, bone dry onion rings and a solitary grilled tomato. Meat would be well done to the point where you needed a hacksaw rather than a knife to attack it. Every arid morsel would scrape down your throat and lay as ballast in your stomach for months. Thus raised I naturally asked for my steak ‘medium well’. This request was met with a stern rebuke. In place of chips were flame grilled sweet peppers and a piquant oregano pesto called chimichurri. In an Argentinean restaurant groups chatter rather than sit in silent concentration trying in vain to chomp through rigid, risible rump.
Although a Spanish colony Argentinean food and festivity is most influenced by the waves of Italian immigration that arrived in 19th century. Now roughly 60% of the population are of Italian descent and adopt the custom of supper as a social rather than purely culinary experience. The Asado barbecue is far more than a neighbourhood nosh: It is where friendships are affirmed, family allegiances strengthened and the very fabric of society woven. Food is never an after thought or eaten for convenience. It is said that cheese with quince jelly is the favoured snack of Buenos Aries truck drivers!
From architecture to sport European influence is felt more than anywhere else in Latin America. From the Spanish they got horsemanship, from the Italians flavours and fashion and from the English a penchant for high tea and polo.
Eating my steak, with a glass of Malbec in one hand and a Quilmas beer in the other, I chuckled as I reflected how we went from larger than life in his playing days to larger in life in middle age. I suspect that what took him from over-bearing to overweight was Dulce De Leche, a national delicacy. For desert I ordered pancakes smothered in this milk caramel. It was, without question, the richest, most decadent dish I have ever eaten: toffee with the density of diamond. You couldn’t create anything more filling if you tried, not even if you smothered a cornish pasty with syrup and threw it in a Glaswegian deep fat fryer. As if this wasn’t indulgent enough It was accompanied by helado, a rich and creamy Italian style ice-cream.
In Argentina you are not meant to leave wanting more, rather you berate yourself for not ordering less. It is nothing short of state endorsed gluttony: not a deadly sin but a rights of passage through paradise.
