Father’s Day: empanadas

When we went out for lunch with friends we hadn’t seen in a while, it occurred to none of us that it was Father’s Day – until we couldn’t get into the third restaurant, having made no reservations.

So we ended up at an empanada place: four adults and three kids. We found no lack of options, and noted with interest chicken with ketchup, corn with bacon (choclo con panceta), and one which appears to be potato chip and chocolate. We didn’t try it.

Nor did we stop at 14. The kids each got a pizza empanada (not impressed), and we got several dulce de leche/chocolate to go.

Most fascinating to me, was the answer to how do you know which is which,  which was staring me in the face:

The Empanada Code.

Fresh butter!

Friends who live near where we’re buying land came into town to go to lunch with us at the wonderful Garní Armenian Restaurant in Solís, a 20 minute drive from here.

They are milking a neighbor’s cow while he’s settling affairs in Nevada, so they made butter and brought us some. Fabulous!

Can’t help but reflect that in certain parts of the ‘land of the free’ these days they might be thrown in jail for daring to make their own food — and give some to friends.

Perplexing pickled peppers

Compared to the north, beef here is local, grass-fed, delicious, and cheap. As a result, we eat more, sometimes as hamburgers. Inevitably, the wife has lamented lack of dill pickles to accompany them. She tried making some. They were close, but not crunchy.

She recently brought home this:

Ajías Catalanes – Catalan chili peppers. They’re hot! They’re great! Who needs dills?

But this raises an interesting question. Uruguayans in general will not touch spicy food. Something with pepper – just a sprinkle of black pepper – is considered picante. Yet they grow hot peppers; you can buy them in the supermarket.

And now we see they pickle them (at the bottom of the label: Industria Uruguaya).

Why?

Besides us, for whom?

Garní in Solís, near Piriápolis

Being the wife’s birthday, we had a ‘splurge’ meal at the Armenian restaurant Garní in Solís, near Piriápolis, where we’ve been going off and on for over a year. It’s about a half hour away.

  • If you don’t know Spanish, the accent indicates the accented syllable, and in Spanish only one syllable is emphasized, no matter how many exist in a word (it can be 7-8 easily)
  • If you don’t know Uruguay, this conversation does not exist: She: it’s my birthday – let’s go out to eat. He: Last time we ate out it was Thai. Do you want to do that, or Tex-Mex, or Chinese, or Italian, or…? It’s more like, what kind of meat do you want with your french fries? So an excellent restaurant with food with different flavors is remarkable.

Though we haven’t been there in a while, Michel, the waiter, knew exactly what we were going to order.

Sitting in their shaded outdoor area a block form the ocean, we started with a meze of tsatsiki, hummus, tabouli and a delicious eggplant concoction, with pita bread and a half-liter of white wine.  We shared a lamb shish kebob and enslada belen, a wonderful mix of eggplant, apples, red pepper, cashews and prunes (I think). And another half-liter of wine.

I got a laugh out of him with my comment (actually no need for Spanish; he speaks English and French as well) comimos como Uruguayos – we ate like Uruguayans! Servings can be HUGE here. He repeated it and got a laugh out of the chef Ani (who also speaks English, and also Armenian and Turkish). We normally don’t eat dessert, but when Michel came out and started talking to us in a low, conspiratorial way, we figured they were going to offer us a free dessert since it was the wife’s birthday, something that had come out earlier in conversation.

No, not that. The entire meal was on the house.

Culture, language, and cooking

Yesterday, we spent a pleasant afternoon and early evening in the campo, at the chacra of friends, having an asado on their parilla.

campo = the country
chacra = ranch (in their case a bit less than 30 acres (11 hectares)
asado = traditional BBQ, also called parrillada, also the name of various cuts of  grilled meat, including carne de asado, which is ribs cut the ‘wrong way.’
parrilla = grill, adjustable and relatively elaborate cooking part of the parillero, which, when enclosed, is called a barbacoa. (Got it?)

You build the fire in the grate to the side. As embers drop below, you rake them underneath the meat, which cooks slowly. Very slowly.

The wrong way to cook meat, according to South Americans
The wrong way to cook meat, according to South Americans

Key point for Norteaméricanos::

If the flames touch the meat, you’re doing it entirely wrong.