AWASH IN MALBEC – The Favors and Flavors of Mendoza

(This is the fifth post in a six-part series on my November, 2019 trip to Argentina)

From Salta, Dan and I flew south to Córdoba and then west to the next stop on our excursion, the west-central city of Mendoza. The provincial capital and its metropolitan area comprise a population of a bit over a million.

Like Salta, this part of Argentina rubs shoulders with the Andes, but here the proximity seems more immediate, with the snow-capped peaks of some of the highest mountains in the Americas serrating the western horizon. At their feet, the broad sweep of the Monte Desert, rendered arable here by constant runoff from the glaciers of the Cordillera.

IMAGE: WinePedia.info

Mendoza is perhaps best known for its chief exports, wine—especially malbec, a robust, fairly dry red whose thick-skinned grapes were first brought to Argentina from France in the 1860s—and olive oil. Today, 75 percent of the world’s acreage of malbec grapes grows in Argentina.

Another of Mendoza’s draws is as a tourist destination. For the wine, yes, but also for a broader, bourgeoning ecotourism industry. The capital city also serves as a jump-off point for climbing expeditions to some of the Andes’s most spectacular peaks, just over 100 kilometers to the west.

(As we cabbed from the airport to our lodging, we spotted one especially stunning snow-capped peak. We assumed it must be Aconcagua, at 22,841 the world’s highest peak outside of Asia. Later we learned that what we’d seen was actually Cerro El Plomo, a mere pipsqueak at just 18,000 feet.)

Aconcagua – IMAGE: WikiPedia

  I discovered that—God strike me dead—
  I don’t really like malbec.

MORE MEAT
We stayed at Lares de Chacras, an elegant-but-unpretentious boutique hotel in the upscale south-metro neighborhood of Chacras de Coria. This part of town is considered the gateway to the Ruta del Vino, or wine route, with stops at a select 15 of the Mendoza area’s 1,500-and-then-some wineries.

(As if we hadn’t known we were in serious wine country, our hotel’s entrance foyer has a glass floor, showing off its own modest wine cellars below.)

Once we’d settled into our room, we headed to Lares’s very inviting patio, where we met two of our fellow guests, women friends from New Zealand, both wine enthusiasts. And here’s where Dan was perhaps most in his element, discussing the merits of various wines, including those of their country and of Australia.

After a nice glass of wine, we were summoned to the outdoor terrace dining area, now joined by a pleasant couple from England, for our asado Argentino, or Argentine barbecue. It appeared that, for most of this group, the wines were the stars of the show. I, with my less sophisticated palette, appreciated the wine, but found that the several-course presentation of various grilled meats gave the vino a run for its money.

(Ironically, it is here, in the malbec capital of the world, I discovered that—God strike me dead—I don’t really like malbec. Maybe it’s the dryness; maybe the ample tannins. But I prefer the somewhat lighter and sweeter Cabernets. In fact, truth be told, I enjoy a good strong mixed drink more than most any wine—though in this wine-centric country cocktails proved hard to come by.)

Five-liter jugs of malbec line the aisles of a small market.

A word about Chacras de Coria: Situated as it is on this broad sweep of flat, open desert, the town surprised us with its lush, oasis-like feel. The streets and roads, well-shaded by phalanxes of gigantic sycamores, pass a range of structures, ranging from modest homes and workaday shops to showy estancias, upscale restaurants, exclusive gift boutiques and of course wine shops.

IMAGE: Trip Advisor

UNDER THE TABLE
Next morning we headed out on our own little wine tour, to two wineries Dan had researched. First on foot to the small La Bodega Canepa, where the current co-owner’s girlfriend, Betiana, gave us a low-key, yet informative, tour of the facility, which has been owned by members of the Canepa family since the 19th century.

Betiana also provided us with a tasting, comparing of some of their styles and vintages, with the obligatory crackers to cleanse the palate between samples. Dan asked if they provided spittoons, one would assume to avoid having his taste buds dulled by inebriation. I and the two twenty-something  Argentine men who’d joined us had no such concern.

IMAGE: Dan Willius

The tasting room itself was memorable. We sat around a glass-top table whose large barrel base is full of corks. One wall is a work of art, a weave of curved barrel staves. Even some of the furniture is crafted of wine-stained staves.
 





   The wines were wonderful, but were
   all but upstaged by the spectacular 
   “tomahawk steak.”

THE HUE OF A VINTNER’S SMILE
After a nice picnic lunch, we called a taxi for the jaunt to our second winery, Piattelli Vineyards, located in Luján de Cuyo, a distinct wine region some 25 miles south of Lares de Chacras. (Lucky we’d opted against our original plan to rent bicycles for our wineries tour!)

Piattelli had caught Dan’s attention for a couple of reasons. First, he’d found and enjoyed some of their wine back home in Minneapolis. Second, it turned out the owners are actually from Minneapolis. Alas, they were not at the winery the day we visited. Nonetheless, we were treated to a private, two-and-a-half-hour tour and tasting experience.

Just outside the spacious, warmly decorated reception hall is a lovely patio which overlooks a holding pond—used to collect and distribute, as needed, the precious run-off from the adjacent mountains. And just beyond the pond—and all around—the vineyards. Somehow the lovely setting seemed even more idyllic when we noticed the pond is full of trout—good-size trout!

Our three-course tasting menu included salad, main course and dessert, each accompanied by either one or two Piattelli wines, most from this vineyard, but one from the company’s other vineyard back in Cafayate.
The wines were wonderful, but were all but upstaged by the spectacular “tomahawk steak” a bone-in rib eye that not only filled our good-sized plates, but whose bone extended six inches beyond.

The wines were poured by one of the bodega’s vintners who gave us an overview of each selection. Later, the head vintner made an appearance and chatted with us for another twenty minutes, going into greater detail about the wines, as well as their production and marketing. (I couldn’t help but notice how stained her teeth were; I suppose that goes with the territory.)

As unexpected as this unhurried, personal conversation with the vintners seemed to me, Dan had come prepared, with pages of questions for them. They appeared quite impressed with the sophistication of his questions, and I felt happy and proud to see him so engaged and energized in this, one of his chief passions.

BLUE FOUNTAINS 
Our last day in Mendoza we headed into the city center to explore and take pictures.

La Plaza de Independencia, along with a quadriplex of other, smaller parks surrounding it a few blocks away, was created following the earthquake that destroyed the city in 1861 as an open-air refuge for Mendocinos in the event of other such disasters.

There are several fountains, a couple of them spouting blue-dyed water—I think I like water’s natural “color” just the way it is, thank you. The largest fountain is the ambitious Friso de la Independencia, a sweep of squirting sculpture representing everything from indigenous peoples, to the Spanish conquest, to liberation, to more recent political and social strife.

One side of the park opens onto lovely Avenida Sarmiento, a cobbled, shaded pedestrian street lined with cafes and animated with street performers.

Next, we rode out to the western fringes of the city to the Cerro de la Gloria, a hill overlooking Mendoza, and home of the Monumento al Ejército de Los Andes, the Monument to the Army of the Andes. This colossal memorial stands over seven stories tall and embodies some 14 tons of bronze. It is the work of Uruguayan sculptor Juan Manuel Ferrari, who, along with several Argentine sculptors, created it from 1911 to 1914 in observance of the centennial of the country’s independence from Spain.

Among the dramatic allegorical depictions, dominant are figures of the soaring, winged Lady Liberty, the heroic General San Martin, leader of the victorious rebellion, and a huge condor that somehow manages to emerge, soaring, from under the pounding hooves of the horses.

(A word of advice: If you ever visit the Cerro de la Gloria by taxi, be sure to have the driver wait for you. Finding a cab back down to the city proved to be quite a challenge. We ended up having to share the one that had waited for an hilarious couple from Curaçao, who playfully demanded all but our first borne great-grandchild for the privilege.)

That evening, back in Chacras de Coria, we walked from our hotel to a restaurant with a lovely, tree-canopied deck. Over a beer and a light meal we culled some of the day’s worst photos from our cameras and recapped our brief time in this memorable place.

Tomorrow, poignantly, we’re off on the final leg of this incredible two-and-a-half-week swing through Argentina—to Bariloche, San Martin de los Andes, and some amazing—we hope—trout fishing.

STRATA – The Many Colorful Layers of Salta

(This is the fourth post in a six-part series on my November, 2019 trip to Argentina)

At Jorge Newbery Airport, Buenos Aires’s hub for domestic flights, we embarked on our two-hour flight to Salta in the northwest corner of Argentina.

A city of some 620,000, Salta is capital of the province of the same name. It is located in the Lerma Valley at the foothills of the Andes, approximately 300 kilometers from the border with Bolivia. 

After settling into the gorgeous Kkala Boutique Hotel—in the charming northeastern suburb of Tres Cerritos—we headed into the city center and Plaza 9 de Julio (July 9, Argentine Independence Day). There we explored the park and neighboring streets, people-watched and took pictures.

We stayed in town well into the evening, dining at Aires Caseros, a charming and highly-rated restaurant right off of the park featuring both local dishes and “fusions” with other cuisines.

  A Sherman tank would have been more 
  comfortable than the punishing, nearly 
  suspension-less ride of this bus.

WITH THE FLOW
The challenge for Dan in planning our activities in Salta was that many of the most interesting attractions require a day trip out of the city. So we’d settled on the one such destination he felt might be worth the time and expense: La Quebrada de Humahuaca, a narrow valley known for its location along an historic Inca caravan road and for its breathtaking, colorful geologic formations.

So, next morning we're picked up by our tour guide in a half-full medium-size bus. (Alas, we’d expected an intimate group of six to eight people in something more like a van.) As it turned out, the people were fine; our guide was fine; but a Sherman tank would have been more comfortable than the punishing, nearly suspension-less ride of this bus.

For nearly three hours, though, we made the best of it, observing the slowly-changing landscape, trying in vain to hold a camera still enough to take a picture or two from the window, and Dan striking up a long, animated conversation with a fellow passenger, an amiable young man from Italy.

The first colorful geologic formations abut the edge of the small town of Purmamarca. El Cerro de los Siete Colores, the hill of seven colors—or, as the locals call it, the hill of the seven skirts—features a rainbow of color laid down as sedimentary rock starting over 15 million years ago, and then folded during eons of tectonic plate subduction. Blues, greens, mauve, orange…it’s hard to tell where one color ends and the next begins.

IMAGE: Google Maps

Our plan had been to continue north for another hour and a half to the spectacular Serranía de Hornocal, but when we came to the turnoff we found the road ahead blocked due to a landslide in one of the mountain passes ahead. So we returned to Purmamarca where Dan and I scared up some empanadas for lunch and then split up for a while to shop and take photos.

Our guide got word that the landslide had been cleared, so we got back aboard the thrill-ride bus and gave it another try. But alas, by the time we returned to the same intersection, we learned the road had once again been closed, this time because heavy rains in the mountains were expected to trigger more landslides.

   All around the room people begin 
   singing lustily along. It seems we’re 
   the only non-Argentines in the place. 

SURROUNDED IN SONG
After such a disappointing (and physically jostling) day, we were excited about our dinner at La Casona del Molino, a restaurant known for the groups of talented young musicians who drop in to play and sing traditional Argentine folk music among the diners.

We arrived shortly after the place opened—9PM—and, along with other early arrivals, wandered through the rambling old house’s many rooms and patio areas looking for the best table.

I finally saw one that looked to have a good view of a large room that spills over into an outdoor patio area, and we sat down. (As luck would have it, the table right next to ours ended up being the one where one of the musical groups would perform.)

By 10:00 the place was full, with folks enjoying their first bottle of malbec or a few Quilmeses (national beer brand) and ordering their food. Soon some spectacular-looking parrilladas, or barbecue medleys of beef, chicken and various sausages, began arriving, each order presented on its own little hibachi and still-red-hot bed of charcoal.

That looked like more than we could handle, so Dan ordered beef once again, while I decided on the locro, a hearty traditional stew comprising several types of beans, squash and various meats. Both were excellent.

As we’re eating, several young men, one with his guitar, another with a drum set, sit down at the table next to ours and, after a brief warm-up, begin playing and singing Argentine folk songs.

All around the large room and then spreading out onto the patio, people begin singing lustily along. Once again, Dan has done his trip-planning magic; it seems we’re the only non-Argentines in the place. It’s another of those delicious moments when we’re reminded what a special, privileged glimpse we’re getting of a place, not dumbed down for surprise-averse foreigners, but steeped in  authentic, spontaneous spirit.

PHOTO: Daniel Willius

A couple gets up to dance in the aisle right next to us. He's a hefty, ruddy-faced cross between John Wayne and Jeff Bridges; she, more of a plain Jane. But the chemistry between them is palpable, their sensuous convergings, raised-arms flourishes and seductive expressions reminding us of Greek folk dancing (think Zorba the Greek). (I think the quality and intensity of their performance actually discouraged anyone else from taking the floor.)

How amazing to be there, right at the center of it all, close enough to the musicians so I could simply lean over and chat with them between numbers. Though the performers at La Casona are neither paid nor even tipped for their talents, I did manage to buy them a round of beers, for which they all offered a nod and a thumbs-up.

On my way to the baño, I wandered around some of the other rooms and found no fewer than four of them rocking to their own combos. In some, the patrons were actually sitting in with the group, jamming with the musicians like old friends.

LOCAL FLAVORS
The next day, still sated from our musical-immersion dinner, we returned to the city center and Plaza 9 de Julio. This plaza, after seeing a couple of others that seemed less inviting, is more like the ones we’ve experienced in other larger Latin American cities: nicely landscaped with mature trees and shrubs; family-friendly with lots of activities going on; and surrounded by some serious architecture.

Among the notable examples are a couple of the city’s churches, the Cathedral of Salta and the even-more-beautiful Church of San Francisco.

For lunch, we managed to find the much-touted El Patio de la Empanada, a small complex of food vendors surrounding an open courtyard. Each offers its own take on the savory little turnover that Salteños claim originated here. Alas, only two of the stalls were open, but we enjoyed an assortment of empanadas with various fillings. These, unlike others we’d had elsewhere, were baked instead of deep-fried. (I prefer the latter.)

Dan took advantage of the opportunity to try a glass of torrontés, the crisp, white wine for which Salta Province is best known. (Though Salta lays claim to its own wine culture—most notably around the small town of Cafayate, about 200 kilometers south of Salta—we decided to put off any serious indulgence until the next leg of our trip, in the even-more-famous wine center of Mendoza.)

UNCOMFORTABLE HISTORY
The Museum of High Mountain Archeology (MAAM, for its name in Spanish) features both works of art and craft, and artifacts collected in Andean sites known by the Incas as high mountain sanctuaries—areas where many sacred rituals, including human sacrifice, took place. Supporting exhibits explain the incredibly challenging logistics and sophisticated technology employed to excavate in such remote sites under such extreme conditions.

Because of the extreme fragility and sensitivity to light of the artifacts, MAAM’S exhibits are in continual rotation. What we saw centered on the discovery, excavation, preservation and cultural interpretation of the 1999 discovery near the 22,000-foot summit of Llullaillaco, a long-dormant stratovolcano along the Argentino-Chile border. There, archeologists unearthed a site where Inca children were consecrated, drugged and then left to die of exposure.

Included in the exhibit was a truly spooky little mummy of a seven-year-old boy, whose death has been dated to around 1500AD. He is displayed in a sealed, refrigerated case under very low light. We managed to snap only a couple of pretty bad photos before the burly guard charged at us with a scowl and a waving finger.

PHOTO: Angelique Corthals

After a delightful few days in Salta, we were ready to see more of the country. So we headed back to the hotel and started packing for the next morning’s flight to our next destination, Mendoza, wine capital of Argentina.

YEE HAW! – San Antonio de Areco and the Annual Gaucho Fair

(This is the third post in a six-part series on my November, 2019
trip to Argentina)

At Buenos Aires’s bustling Retiro Bus Terminal, we hopped aboard a spacious, first-class coach for the two-plus-hour ride northwest to San Antonio de Areco. San Antonio, a town of 25,000, is the oft-proclaimed capital of Argentina’s Pampas—the vast, fertile lowlands stretching across the country’s midsection from the Atlantic to the foothills of the Andes—
and cradle of the traditional culture of the Argentine cowpokes known
as gauchos.

From the desolate gas station that serves as the town’s bus depot, we walked more than a mile through nearly deserted streets to La Demorada, our very pleasant B&B for the next three nights. (Brother Dan had scoped out staying at one of the area's many estancias, or ranches, but we decided that, at $500usd or more per night, we'd rather find other ways to observe gaucho life.)

But for a very few exceptions the town's mostly one-story buildings, the landscaping and other amenities are all quite unadorned—one might say workaday. Of course, in the few blocks surrounding the town’s pretty central park, Plaza Ruiz de Arillano, there are a few more substantial buildings, including the ubiquitous Catholic church.

At first, we saw little to suggest that we’d arrived on the first day of the huge 80th-annual Fiesta Nacional de la Tradición, or Gaucho Fair. But as we began walking toward the town’s beautiful, riverside park, Parque de Criollo, we started seeing hints: horses, trailers and, sure enough, gauchos and their families arriving from all over Argentina.

We also came across a small, sort of temporary-looking museum featuring a sampling of ceremonial gaucho paraphernalia: hand-tooled leather horse tack; ornate stirrups, spurs, knives / scabbards, belt buckles and sashes crafted of leather, wood, chased silver and re-purposed coins; and richly-woven saddle blankets.

We hung out for a while in the congenial, partly wooded park, watching as more and more people gathered—both fair participants and spectators. Runners worked out. Readers, picnickers and lovers lolled on the grass. Across the tranquil Areco River, in the pool just above a small dam, kids swam and dived and laughed.

And, of course, there were the horses. More of them by the minute, in every imaginable size and color. They seemed to be appearing out of nowhere. One little boy, in jaunty kid-gaucho attire—he couldn’t have been more than four—showed off his skills, effortlessly working his full-size horse around trees and through tight, high-speed figure eights. People seemed to barely notice him.

THE PLAIN, THE PLAIN!
Eventually, there was movement. Across the Puente Viejo, or Old Bridge, they went, stirring up clouds of tawny dust. Everyone was headed for a large tract of flat, mostly treeless grassland about half a mile past the river.

We followed them into the fairgrounds, wishing now we’d worn our Wellingtons to slog through the many squishy, well-trampled mud holes left over from recent rains. Past booths selling craft items like leather work, tack and maté mugs made of wood or gourds. Past giant parrillas, or wood-fired grills, where whole pigs and sides of beef were roasting, and three-foot pots of guiso and other colorful, mouthwatering stews simmering. Ay-y-y, Dios mio, the smells!

Crowds slowly gathered along the fence surrounding one field, so Dan and I staked out a few square feet against the taut wires, bought a few empanadas and wine for lunch, and waited for the skills challenges to begin.

BUSTED BY BRONCOS
Gauchos are different from American cowboys in many ways, including their dress. (Most don baggy, accordion-pleated trousers called bombachas, gathered around the tops of their high boots, and loose, blousy shirts. Rakishly knotted scarves, colorful sashes—many of them adorned with silver—and jaunty berets complete the look.)

Their attitudes also differ. This fair highlights their pride in a lifestyle which shares many of the same values—independence, courage and loyalty for example—with American cowboys. But we’d heard that many gauchos feel bitter at having been marginalized for generations by the rest of Argentine culture. In fact, the word gaucho itself has been defined using the term mestizo, meaning anything from mixed-heritage to mongrel, depending on one’s point of view.)

One more or less familiar event at the fair was the jineteada gaucha, or bronc riding. Today it was a style called surera. As in North American rodeo’s bareback version of bronc riding, surera calls for the gaucho to use no saddle, sitting instead on just a thick sheepskin pad.

His only grip on the untamed horse involves squeezing it between his legs and holding onto a leather strap. And, instead of starting out from a fenced-in chute, these cowboys mount up while their horses are tethered to one of three wooden poles spaced out across one end of the field.

The riding was spectacular—and dangerous—with only a few of the many contestants hanging on for the twelve-seconds required in this event. One horse, just before being released from its pole, reared up and fell over backwards onto its hapless rider. Poor guy got crushed and, though quite stoic about it, had to be taken away in an ambulance. (They say most veteran gauchos have broken their backs at least once.)

SAVED BY THE BELL
The other event that day, called tropilla, is nothing like any American rodeo event we’ve seen. In it, a rider guides his team of ten to twelve horses, most often all the same color, through a series of maneuvers—including intersecting with teams from competing estancias—hoping to keep them close together using only voice commands and the sound of a bell tied to the halter of another horse, usually of a different color.

PHOTO: Dan Willius

That night we returned to the area near the fairgrounds where we expected to enjoy some barbecue, perhaps a little wine and, most importantly, the Peña Folklorica, a huge bonfire accompanied by spontaneous music, singing and dancing. Alas, despite several people’s very specific directions, the bonfire was nowhere to be found—unless, of course, it started after midnight.

So we settled for a very staged, very amplified concert of quite non-gauchesco pop music, some delicious sausage from a food truck and a couple of wonderful pastries from a table of young women raising money for, of all things, their hockey club. While Dan sought out photo-ops, I sat
at one of many long banks of picnic tables stretching across the lawn and struck up a conversation with a large, extended family who’d come from Buenos Aires for the weekend.

HORSE POWER!
Next day we headed back into the town center and scouted out several possible vantage points for the day’s big parade. Judging from the crowds, it was quite obvious that the population of San Antonio had at least tripled during the fair. Not to mention the horse population, which must surely have quintupled.

There was an air of excitement along the curb as thousands of us waited for the first pasistas to round the corner. And then…there they were.

Mounted gauchos, decked out and dashing in all their gauchesco finery; women in long, colorful dresses draped—and, I’m sure, adhered somehow—over the horses’ rumps; kids, some in arms, others riding their own mounts; and a few elegant older men and women, some of whom we surmised were estancia owners.

How long would you expect a small-town parade to last? Half and hour? An hour maybe? Three hours later, we’re still standing there on the curb, and they’re still coming.

We decided to walk back toward the Parque Criollo and grab a late lunch. With empanadas and Cokes in hand, we took up another vantage point. Eventually, around 3:30, the last of the mounted pasistas passed, dispersing into the recessional now making its way back over the bridge toward the fairgrounds.

That evening, back at our B & B, I managed to polish off the bottle of Havana Club rum I’d opened a few days ago. (It’s really good mixed with orange juice!) And Dan worked on his bottle of so-so Argentine brandy. That helped take the edge off of our sadness at having to leave this lovely little town, this amazing experience, for the next legs of our trip—back to Buenos Aires by bus and then by air to Salta, the colonial, provincial capital in the northwestern corner of the country.