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Meals and pace of life in northern Argentina dictated by merciless heat

By Alison Lapshinoff It is three o’clock and my stomach complains loudly that it has not been fed since nine, when it was given its usual morning offering of croissants and coffee.
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Don't cry for me, Argentina. Alison Lapshinoff checks out the other down under.

By Alison Lapshinoff

It is three o’clock and my stomach complains loudly that it has not been fed since nine, when it was given its usual morning offering of croissants and coffee. Not my first choice, nor my stomach’s, however, this country leaves little room for debate when it comes to breakfast.

The ruthless, late afternoon sun beats mercilessly on Anywhere, Argentina, the buildings shuttered and businesses locked up tight. I imagine their inhabitants within snoring in their beds or sprawled languorously on beaten couches while fanning the sweat from their collective brow, whiling away the sweltering afternoon. Around six, they will begin to arise from their long siesta. It will still be hot but bordering on tolerable. Businesses will reopen and shoppers will emerge from the corners of the city. At this time, it will be only two hours until the first of the few restaurants open for dinner, and about three until they are actually full of happy, well rested, dining Argentinians. My growling, impatient stomach is not in agreement with this new, forced dining schedule!

As Argentina has not yet been endowed with western conveniences such as McDonald’s and Starbucks, one must work a little harder to find mid-afternoon nourishment. Generally, a gas station or corner store can provide a few meager provisions between the quiet, hungry hours of two and eight o’clock. At these oases of air conditioning, the dehydrated, heat affected traveler might find bottles of water, bags of nuts, chips and cookies and perhaps a large bottle of Quilmes, the nation’s beer of choice. Offered in the agreeably large size denominations such as 750 ml or 1 L, two people can easily stave off hunger with one or two of these before the dining establishments finally open their doors to the hungry populace.

Most every city in the northern part of the country seems to be necessarily well-endowed with shade trees flanking luxuriously wide, tiled sidewalks leading to the central focal point, a large, shady plaza, ideal for whiling away siesta time. Here, children play amongst regal statues and stately fountains while adults sit idly and chat on benches, often sharing a cup of the nation’s traditional beverage, yerba mate , a bitter loose leaf tea, drunk through a metal straw with a filter on its bottom end called a bombilla .

In many towns such as this, travelers are rare and locals exist on relatively little. Although we conspicuously carry a guidebook and a camera, and ogle at our new surroundings in a way no local would, no one follows us around trying to sell us trinkets or coerce us into parting with our pesos for an overpriced tour. And although Argentina seems to employ a disproportionate amount of policemen who stand on patrol around the plazas and on street corners, ensuring all remains peaceful and quiet, they do not seem intimidating and they, too, pay us no mind.

Against the sage advice of our trusty guidebook, we had rented a small, economical car at the airport in the nation’s bustling and polluted capital of Buenos Aires, gravely underestimating the amount of time, stress and fierce concentration it would take to finally find the six-lane freeway that would shoot us out of the metropolis in a northerly direction.

This is not an undertaking to be taken lightly. Our shiny French Peugeot had little more than 2,000 km on the odometer as we cautiously entered a city full of reckless drivers who disregard lanes and drive at an average speed of 130 km/h. In fact, if it weren’t for a friendly Argentinian driving an ATV through the city, as though this were a normal and appropriate vehicle for this sort of travel, who graciously led us to our necessary exit, I would probably still be there driving in circles and trying to ward off frustrated tears instead of seated comfortably at my kitchen table here in Canada!

The two-lane highway that heads north for about 1,000 km to Resistencia does not deviate from its course. The land is flat and scorching and remains so for about three full days of driving.

Only upon arrival in Salta, the nation’s northwestern hub, does the flatness give way to rolling hills, then dramatic gorges and eventually the snow-laden peaks of the Andes. Here, one can bump along dirt roads for days, the cactus-studded landscape home to many indigenous villages whose inhabitants live in homes of mud and brick, many of which have been standing for centuries. This is the oldest and most historical region in Argentina, briefly part of the mighty Incan empire, when the bustling capital of Buenos Aires was little more than a backwater, its potential as a great port city not yet realized.

The pace of life here feels worlds away from the chaos and hustle of the capital. Small towns discreetly cater to the traveler, however there is little in-your-face commercialism and the lifestyle seems largely unchanged by tourism. The word “authentic” comes to mind. If approached and asked in halting Spanish for directions, a smiling local will go out of their way to help. Generally they are proud of their country, pleased to see visitors and expect nothing in return for their graciousness.

By the time eight o’clock rolls around and the restaurants open their doors, my hunger has evolved into a dull emptiness in the pit of my stomach, briefly satiated by beer and snacks but yearning for more.

One must not aspire to a healthy diet here, for restaurant meals rarely deviate from a few, select items. Breakfast options are limited to croissants, croutons (a version of toast) and coffee. Period. Pizzas are generally quite good, however if you have an aversion to copious amounts of gooey mozzarella and green olives, they are to be avoided. Sandwiches are thin, anemic affairs of deli meat and cheese on flattened white bread, and if that does not satisfy, lunch can be rounded out with a few meat or cheese stuffed empanadas . A common dish is the milanesa , meat pounded thin, breaded and fried, usually accompanied by a pile of french fries or papas fritas. Although one will not find an egg in the morning, they are abundant in all other meals; hard boiled on your ensalada , fried with your steak and even chopped up on a pizza! Argentina has a thriving cattle industry and boasts the best beef in the world, hence the nation’s signature dish, the mixed grill, or parrilla, a massive platter consisting of beef, chicken, ribs, spicy sausage and the like. Vegetarians beware.

It is 10:30. Sated and content, my belly full of meat, cheese and deep fried goodness, my body is only vaguely aware that it hasn’t consumed a vegetable in the better part of a week. The night air carries the residual heat of the hot afternoon and the streets are bustling with cars, pedestrians, scooters and people doubling on bicycles. This is when the towns and cities bustle.

On the corner a large, brightly lit ice cream parlour is gearing up for a busy night; already the lineup snakes out the door and inside, smiling families enjoy their wares. At close to 11 o’clock at night a multitude of small children are happily devouring enormous, elaborately adorned ice cream cones while their parents sit back and simultaneously nurse a cold beer. A smile touches my lips as I take it all in. Only in Argentina!