Alimentos

Hey all. A week ago or so I wrote several thousands of words worth of blog posts, but life got so full that I never finished shaping them up and haven’t been in the mood since (I’ll get around to it eventually). So instead, I’m going to talk about FOOD! Food’s a huge part of my life since it’s really the only thing I buy, and thus my most immediate excuse to go out and explore. (Not that I need an excuse to explore. But having specific goals in mind is very helpful.)

Empanada: The staple of my diet. Really. I survive on empanadas and raw produce. Livin’ the dream. How do I love empanadas? Let me count the ways. First of all, they are extremely widely available, and the cheapest food you will ever find here. Prices range from 14 pesos (a little less than a dollar) to, at most, 16 (with 14 or 15 being most common). You can find them at many kioscos (see below), or at more upscale places that specialize in them. At the kioscos they may only have two or three different flavors (typically carne (“meat”—basically ground beef), pollo (chicken), and jamón y queso (ham & cheese)), while the specialty places will have fifteen or so, and the selection of filling choices changes daily, apart from the three staples just listed. Each of the different fillings is identified by a different style of crimping on the empanada edge (though this is internal to the shop; there aren’t universal rules about these things). I’m not a ham fan, usually (though I did like Spanish jamón), but jamón y queso may, surprisingly, be my favorite. Cebolla y muzzarella ([sautéed] onion & mozzarella) is also up there (the onions here are so incredibly sweet!), as is caprese (tomato, mozzarella, basil). Pollo I’m a little leery of, having twice (!!!) found giant bones in my pollo-empanadas. We’re talking two inches here. Meat here is often more grisly than we’re used to in the land of pureed pseudo-meat, so both times it took me a second of careful chewing to realize that I hadn’t just gotten a tough portion.

Two empanadas is the perfect amount of food, a very full meal. And here’s the best part: you’re supposed to eat them with your hands! It’s awesome. Most empanadas are baked, and non-greasy on the outside, so this is quite easy. Some empanadas, however—and these are much, much harder to find—are deep-fried. I’ve actually only found two kioscos that sell these. I knew they would be a health nightmare, but I tried them just for curiosity’s sake, and they ended up being quite interesting, a totally different texture than the regular, baked kind. They kind of flaked apart in your mouth. (Also, they had to be eaten with a fork. They were falling apart so easily.) Whether you buy your empanada at a lowly kiosco or somewhere more high-end (just kidding, empanadas are never exactly “high-end”—they’re simple lunch food, nothing more), they will always ask you if you want it heated up. My very first time I said no, because I tend to prefer things at room temperature (and they are often eaten that way), but I instantly learned that was a mistake. They are much, much better hot. Heating them up always takes longer than I expect it’s going to, at least five minutes but sometimes up to ten (they get taken to the back room and popped in an oven there). Still, like I’ve said, it’s worth it.

Eating so many empanadas, I do wonder about how healthy this is. The dough is white flour, so there’s that. But if you choose your fillings wisely, it’s kind of getting all the food groups? Whatever, they’re awesome. At least I limit myself to only two a day. I have them for brunch, maybe around 1 pm or so, snack on fruit the rest of the day (I’ve got to get more veggies in there, but the options have not been too appealing so far), and then find some way to mix it up a bit for dinner—ñoquis (see below) or the like.

Tortas: Literally the word for “cake,” these are sold everywhere that empanadas are sold, and feature the same kind of dough as empanadas, but in more quiche-like form—big rounds of stuffed dough, cut into slices as you would a quiche. A “porción,” or a slice, is slightly more than double the price of a single empanada, which makes sense as the slices are quite large, as wide as a hearty slice of pizza and two inches thick. Another difference between these and empanadas are the fillings: empanadas have a greater range of fillings, and tortas tend to have more “mixed” fillings, like quiches. So while the second-most common empanada filling (after “carne,” basically ground beef) is jamón y queso (ham & cheese), you would never find a ham-and-cheese torta. I have once seen one that was filled with ham, cheese, and hard-boiled egg, however; but sautéed onion with bleu cheese and maybe spinach and egg is much more common. I’ve tried my share of tortas, but at this point I’ve accepted I just prefer empanadas. There’s more dough (always my biggest priority), you get to eat them with your hands, you can mix and match with different flavors, and I tend to prefer the empanada fillings anyway.

Supermarkets: My favorite thing about supermarkets is the smell. It’s a smell I associate with European supermarkets, very distinct (and to me, laden with nostalgia), that for some reason U.S. supermarkets never have. Supermarkets tend to be a lot smaller than American ones, with more of an emphasis on dry goods than refrigerated ones. It’s not so much that the foods sold are strange and foreign to me, but rather that the emphases are different. Lots and lots of aisles of bags of finger foods, some sweet and some savory; and appropriately, consuming such foods socially in large groups is very cultural. Large sections of bagged mayonnaise, ketchup and “sauce for meat”. Miniscule sections of dairy products. The selection tends to be similar just about everywhere (U.S. supermarkets being similarly homogenous), but I have found some bigger supermarkets have more of what I may be looking for. (What can I say, I’m American, I want every option under the sun available at my fingertips.) One kind of supermarket that can be a little different are the “chinos,” those which are run by Chinese immigrants. The prices tend to be cheaper there and the brands are sometimes different (no Milka, for instance). For some reason some supermarkets use the term “autoservicio” for themselves in lieu of “supermercado”—I have no idea what this means. (Literally: “self-service.”)

Today, to switch things up from my empanada-heavy diet, I decided to buy bread, cheese, and veggies (bought separately, see below) to have around so I can make sandwiches. I had thought I had a pretty good idea of prices here. But no, I got a huge shock—a package of eight, sandwich-size slices of mozzarella cheese (there were only three kinds of cheese, all the same brand, all similarly-priced—and this was at the biggest supermarket I’ve seen inside the city limits) was 86 pesos ($5.70)!!! This was especially shocking given the relative inexpensiveness of everything else. (Two beefsteak tomatoes, an avocado, a kiwi, a pomelo and an apple cost me $1.50.) And I was particularly surprised given how prevalent mozzarella is here, one of the most common cheeses around. So, I don’t know what I’m going to do…Cheese is my life, and also my only dairy source. Realistically, I’ll probably just shell out the money, especially considering I’m not spending money on anything else and I’m not exactly hurting for money here.

Also during my supermarket experience, one of my favorite Argentine-band songs came on the radio, "Nadie como tú," to my utter delight; and then, no more than five bars in, the power in the whole store went out. It came back on again about five minutes later, but the song, of course, did not. So disappointing. 

Vegetable/Fruit stands: Only extremely upscale supermarkets, like the largest Carrefours, sell produce. To put it this way, only at the busiest intersection of Buenos Aires did I see a supermarket (Carrefour) with produce inside. Fresh produce and supermarkets do not go together. (And it does make sense…fresh produce vs. dry, not-so-perishable goods are totally different kinds of products.) Instead, you go to a produce stand. These are easily-identifiable by having shelves of produce outside their doors on the street-front. I’m very pleased that where I’m living now there are three within a two-block radius of the apartment; when I was at the hostel, I had the hardest time finding them. I would go out for two-hour walks and happen to stumble upon one, but forget its address and despair at ever finding it again. Shopping at the produce stands is not my favorite thing, though, because most are swarming with yellow-jackets (not to mention flies) who are drawn to all that fruit. (The reason I haven’t bought any grapes here—grapes are by far the worst in this respect.) Produce stands are also a bummer in terms of most things are pretty wilted and verging on overripe (no refrigeration). But, on the bright side, sometimes I see things I’ve never seen before (white miniature eggplant! whaaaat?), and some produce that can be pricey in the U.S. is quite cheap here, most notably delicious avocadoes and kiwis. Tomatoes are meatier, less watery, and are not as red, with therefore a richer flavor. (The U.S. has engineered its tomatoes to be as red as possible, directly causing them to have worse flavor.)

Dulce de leche: A substance similar in appearance, flavor and texture to thick caramel. It is ubiquitous. Many people eat it for breakfast, on toast. I recently made the huge mistake of buying a little pot of it to eat with apples. And then was horrified by how immediately and drastically the fluid level dropped. Point being: if I have it, I eat it. It’s just as addicting to me as caramel—because, well, they’re basically identical. There’s a slight difference of flavor, but not much of one. Dulce de leche is slightly richer, the flavor is a little “darker,” somehow; but if someone tried to pass it off as caramel in the U.S., probably no one would know the difference. One absolutely delicious Argentine sweet that I haven’t had much of but which I love are alfajores. They range from bite-size to oversize ones as big as your palm, and are sweet, cakey pastries with a layer of dulce de leche in the middle, sometimes dunked in chocolate. Yeah, pretty awesome.

Kioscos: (Pronounced “kee’ohkohs”—you would never, ever pronounce the inner “s.”) These are far and away the most common kind of shop you will ever find in Argentina. Every third store on a block is guaranteed to be one. In terms of layout, they all look mostly identical, with the same tiers of candy radiating out from the shopkeeper’s counter. The smallest kioscos (the most common) sell candy and other easy junk food (bags of chips and rolls of cookies), cigarettes, and beverages. They’re basically distillations of gas-station fare. Larger kioscos have a few shelves of other food products and basic supplies (very much like a gas station), and you can often buy more money for your phone plan or add more money to your bus card at these. 

[Side story: Once I had to add more money to my phone plan, so I went to the official Movistar store where I’d bought the phone chip in the first place. I told the woman I wanted to add credit. “Hang on, let me see what I can do,” she said, clicking at things on her computer. Then she shook her head. “Nope, I don’t have any credit I can give you. You should go across the street to the kiosco and buy some credit there.” I have no idea how this system works. How was phone credit a commodity that the phone company had happened to run out of? But yes, I went to the kiosco and was able to purchase the credit all fine.] I would like to avoid kioscos, since anything they sell there I shouldn’t be eating, except I do end up going to them quite a bit, just for one reason…

Milka (!!!): Sold in kioscos. (And many supermarkets, except never “chinos.”) Milka is my favorite chocolate in the world, but unfortunately for me it seems the one place Milka isn’t is the U.S. (They probably even sell it in Canada, and the Canadians just laugh from on high in the North, “Silly Americans with your Hershey’s…”) Milka is an addiction for me not only because it’s just such incredibly delicious chocolate, but also because whenever I’m in a country that sells it, I always feel like I have to “aprovechar” (take advantage of it). My favorite flavor here, which I’m sure is only sold in Latin America, is the dulce de leche bars. They sell them in mini bars, only four squares of chocolate (the perfect size!). But I’ve been shocked at how extremely overpriced all the Milka products are. The mini bars are 15 pesos ($1)—these things are tiny. I finally learned what the deal was, talking to one of the guys at the kioscos. I asked him the price of one of his Milka bars (no price tags on most things—at least, culturally, asking the prices of things is what everyone does and is never, ever seen as rude), and he told me, and said “Yeah, these are imports, you see. That’s why they’re pricey.” Ah. 

Oh well, I still kept buying these bars, because hey, otherwise I spend on average of $4 a day on food, and my salary is quite comfortable, so why not indulge? BUT, just two days ago, I made an incredible discovery. I had been going to a different kiosco every time for my Milka bars, just because it’s fun to switch it up, and also just because I was curious if there would ever be price differences. I had finally really internalized that a mini Milka bar was always 15 pesos, and then—one raining, pouring night, ooh how dramatic—I came upon a kiosco maybe five blocks from my apartment. I handed the cashier the Milka. “Diez pesos,” she said. “Excuse me, did you say “diez”? (ten),” I clarified. “Sí, diez,” she said. My goodness. 30% cheaper than every other kiosco in the city, I tell you. Well, no more trying out different kioscos for me. This little place on the corner of calle 55 and 10 has officially won my loyalty for life. Or, you know, at least the next eight months.

Ñoquis: Sometimes for dinner I like to go down calle 50 (a big thoroughfare, with nostalgic value for me, since my hostel was far down it, so I used to walk up and down it a dozen times a day) and go into one or the other of two kind of restaurant-kioscos there. They’re both “24-horas” brand, so the menus are identical, but the food is very slightly different, so I enjoy alternating. The counter where the cashier is looks like a regular kiosco—the same shelves of candy, arranged identically—but deeper inside the place there’s a long food counter and tables and chairs. You pay for your food at the entrance, where the cashier is; he gives you a ticket, and you take that to the women at the food counter. These “24-horas” places especially feature a dozen different kinds of souped-up hot dogs, none of which looks remotely appetizing to me (thick lines of mayonnaise, ketchup, and minced French fries, for instance), so my go-to are the “ñoquis” (plates of gnocchi).

There are four choices of ñoqui toppings; I like “al verdeo”—I honestly have no idea what it is, maybe sweet green onion? Some kind of vegetable matter. The ñoquis themselves are plump and delicious, served in a buttery liquid (thicker than broth, but much thinner than a cream sauce) with a side of bread and a packet (or two, depends which of the two “24-horas” you go to) of parmesan cheese. The bread is amazing. The flour here is just very different, unlike any I’ve had anywhere else. It’s very fine, and sticky in the mouth. But I really like it. The bread is probably the best thing about the gnocchi platter, actually, to get to sop it up in the delicious, creamy gnocchi juices. Another good thing, though (besides that pasta = life), is the platter is so huge, I get stuffed after half, but then I just go back to the food counter and ask for a box, and they give me one to take home the rest in. (And all this, for just over $3. I love it.)

Cerveza: Despite the great, and inexpensive, Malbecs that Argentina’s known for, La Plata, at least (though others have told me the rest of the country is this way, too, outside of wine-capital Mendoza), is much more of a beer city. Which is too bad for me, since I love wine and don’t like beer at all. It means beer is everywhere, and going to specialty-beer bars is a favorite pastime for many. I haven’t actually had much wine here, unfortunately; wine, for me, is social (I’m not going to buy a bottle to drink by myself, and likewise, going to a restaurant by myself also does not make me want to drink wine), and every social setting I’m around a lot of beer and no wine. (At one party one girl brought a bottle of wine, but guess what—she’s French and a professional sommelier-in-training.)

McDonald’s: The coolest kid on the block. Even if someday I got homesick for some “authentic American cuisine,” I couldn’t go to McDonald’s. Almost literally. The place is always overcrowded to the point where you start wondering about fire exits. I walk by one big McDonald’s pretty often, and no matter the time of day, you can see through the windows that up to its third floor it’s packed, mainly with middle- and high-schoolers in their smart uniforms. (I LOVE the school uniforms here. Oh my goodness. Knee socks, tartan pleated skirts, neat ties and crisp button-up shirts under sweaters…A prep-school dream.) Subway is here, too, but doesn’t seem to be that popular. I’m much more likely to go to Subway sometime…provided I look up some vocabulary beforehand. (“Pickles”? “Italian herbs ‘n’ cheese bread”?) Which brings me to…

Sandwiches: Sandwiches, of a particular kind, are very popular and can be bought at many kioscos, as well as many panaderías (bakeries). These sandwiches are on small slices of white bread, about the size of your palm, crusts cut off, with mayo, a slice of cheese, and/or a slice of ham inside. The catch is each one is about half a centimeter in height. They are so unbelievably thin. I had these a week ago at a picnic with a group of people; the French girl I befriended and I were very surprised when we were offered what we thought was one apiece, only to discover what we thought was “one” was actually a stack of six (and we were supposed to peel off one and then pass them around). They were very tasty, and the thinness factor was interesting.

Ojo de bife: I was seeing this advertised everywhere, at both higher and lower restaurants, and kept thinking, "Really?? Cow eye?! A specialty food, it seems?" But I finally looked it up, and actually it just means "ribeye steak." Ohhh. That makes the ads about "prepared with a Malbec and rosemary reduction” (oh, how sultry!) much more appetizing.

Love,