BUENOS AIRES: THE FAENA THINGS IN LIFE or A BIT OF FA IN BA

As I am finding as I tour around this little world of ours, life is ever so full of little surprises and, if I am not careful, it would be all too easy to become complacent and take for granted that people’s extraordinary generosity will lead to great opportunities.

However, last night, before I headed off for a truly hateful journey to Brazil, was one that will live in the memory for some time. I mean, when was the last time any of us got invited to eat in a “Universe”

My chum Fernando (officially the coolest person I have ever met) had to be out of town on a mission which, I kid you not, involved him being flown on a private jet to Uruguay. But, he did not want me to spend my last night on my Jack Jones so arranged for me to have supper with his pal, Flor who manages Public Relations for, wait for it, The Faena Hotel + Universe.

Opened some four years ago when there was nothing in the Puerto Madero area of BA other than building sites and rubble, The Faena was the brainwave of Alan Faena who, despite the economic crash that hit Argentina just as it opened, managed to realise his dream to complete what was recently voted “ the hippest hotel in South America”

It is quite something to be sure. Built in a silo which used to house over 40% of Argentina’s entire supply of grain, it was designed by Phillip Stark (of course) with a nod to the Belle époque era of Argentina’s 19th century past when the country was the fifth biggest economy in the world.

The “universe” contains theatres, Heaven knows how many rooms and a pool area that is, to use a cliché, like something from a movie.

The Library bar, where I met Flor before supper, is pretty lavish too and the cocktail, fortunately, lived up to the surroundings. Well made, with Beefeater Gin and suitably cold and dry.

Despite all the other distractions, it was The Faena Bistro which was of primary interest. Although, calling it a bistro is like calling Harrods a corner shop. The room has been done out with a level of budget that has probably not been approved since Parisian Café culture was in its heyday.

All of this would matter little if the end result, the food, was not up to scratch. However, as with everything else, they have done their level best to get the best. In this case to bring back to Argentina, a 33yr old acolyte of Mr Adria who goes by the glorious name of Mariano Cid De la Paz and spent the last six years working in the kitchens of the molecular magician’s Seville hotel.

And it shows, the tasting menu I was treated to has lots of twists and turns, airs and foams which are becoming all too familiar in London and New York but I suspect are causing many a raised eyebrow here in uber-conservative Argentina.

Despite my many misgivings about this kind of cooking, De la Paz does have a certain dexterity that only comes from those people who have worked at the source.

Little snackettes were presented to us with our drinks in the bar and included a “fried” sushi where the rice is made to a paste, dried and then fried, a chunk of marinated tuna and a small but entirely delicious melting slab of potato stuffed with a fiery aioli.

Once we decamped to the dining room, things began in earnest.

The food in Argentina has been very tasty indeed, thanks, I think, to my willingness to eat grilled meat all day every day. But, it lacks variety and the cause of that, a difficulty in finding great ingredients, is one of the challenges of running any fine dining restaurant in the city. That, inevitably means that, while the cooking is accomplished here, there are occasions when the main ingredient lets the side down. However, for the most part, this would be a restaurant and a chef who would past muster under the exacting gaze of any of the world's major eating cities.

The first three courses, included my favourite dish of the night, a deconstructed Spanish Tortilla, served in a martini glass and came with a recommendation to eat from the bottom up.

Another deconstruction followed, this time of a classic dish from the North of Argentina, The Empanada, this time with the key elements of potato, olives, egg and meat being given prominence over the usual casing of dense pastry.

Another “simple” but excellent dish followed involving a carpaccio of mushrooms with small swirls of toothsome linguini.

By this time, a martini and some excellent Chardonnay to the good coupled with pleasing conversations with Flor and some friends who joined us half way through supper, things did begin to blur somewhat.

I do recall, through my haze, that I found dishes involving duck confit and ravioli of lamb interesting rather than hugely enjoyable, but had my attention brought fully back to my plate by a stunning dish of red mullet, stuffed and served with a splodge of a fabulous romesco sauce.

A last well thought out dish of venison with local dried fruits came before a dessert which involved lots of chocolate and then it was time for me to go.

I had planned to have an early and relatively quick meal in time to return to my own humble serviced apartment ($25 a night to you and me) pack and head to the airport, but both the company and the food made me quite forget the time and, in the end, it all became a bit of a mad rush.

Still, despite that and a flight that almost made me give up on my whole trip, I am now in Brazil. A world, or you could say a universe ,away from 24 hours ago

BUENOS AIRES: LA BRIGADA & A LATE NIGHT

It may sound corny, but, as I am discovering, Buenos Aries only really comes alive at night.

It’s streets never look better than they do in the declining light of the early evening and its people seem to rise from a somnambulant state at about 6pm to begin to think about supper, drinks and a bit of a party.

I was lucky that my new best chums The Gils invited me to join them for an evening’s entertainment.

First though, I had the day to kill and spent much of it walking along the relatively recently developed Puerto Madero with its spiffy gleaming new buildings and lines of lavish looking restaurants aimed at those with large expense accounts and little brain.

It is all perfectly fine in the way that any sterile converted waterfront area can be, but it held little appeal certainly in the dining area. So, I surreptitiously followed a gang of construction workers on a break and ended up along side a reservoir where any number of small stalls were set up offering grilled meats and sandwiches.

For about £1, I was able to treat myself to a Bandiola, a sandwich made with big strips of Bife de Chorizo, enough to send me back to the apartment I am renting and to bed for a bit of a nap.

By 8pm, I was up and ready to face the world and hopped in a cab back to the St Telmo district to meet my new friends at what is considered BA’s finest purveyor of meats of the grilled kind, La Brigada.

I was in expert hands as Martin Gil was one of the founders of the Argentinia Slow Food movement and knows his Argentinian grills inside out. He took charge and I was soon faced with a hot chunk of provoleta which, he assured me, was the benchmark for any parrilla.

Next, some innards. I love innards and there are not many varieties that I have not eaten in my forty three years. However, this was a first, delicate mollejas (sweetbreads) followed by chinchulines (intestines or chitterlings) both of which I had indulged myself in many times, but these were different having being separated from something which previously bleated rather than went ‘moo” Martin is pleasingly specific and instructed me to "only add five drops of lemon to wake it up" who was I to argue? Slightly charred on the outside and melted to a liquid inside, they were as good bits of offal as I can recall eating in a long, long time.

The main event was a large chunk of Bife De Chorizo and a slab off the short end of a rib. Both excellent and cooked, as they tend to here, to medium rare which worked well with an excellent wine from Mendoza whose name I could not drag from the fuzziness of my brain if you pointed a gun at me. It began with a “Q” if that helps at all.

As Martin put it “you either liked grilled meats or you don’t, but you are not going to find any better than this in the whole of Argentina” ‘nuff said.

In yet another one of those astonishing displays of hospitality I am encountering just about everywhere, the Gils insisted on picking up the tab and then invited me to join them at a friends birthday party.

So, after at least letting me buy them a drink in the old world elegance of the bar at The Plaza Hotel, they whisked me to another part of town where a party was just getting going (it was only midnight after all) more food, plenty of wine and a rather fun performance from a local entertainer whose songs I did not quite follow but guess they involved wanting to kill herself because a man broke “mi corazon”

One more night in this fun town, if I can last the pace. Then I am off to sit on a beach in Brazil for a bit of a rest

BUENOS AIRES: GORGEOUS GIRLS & GRILLS

I have had a hard time walking around Buenos Aries since I arrived about 48 hours ago.

It is not the hateful weather, which despite the fact it is almost Summer, is cold and horribly damp.

It is not the fact that it is a vast city accommodating a huge volume of traffic with drivers who obviously score extra points if they hit a balding, forty something tourist with ears like open car doors.

Nope, I am not going to lie to you, it is because the women in this city are so astonishingly attractive that I have been wandering around in a state of step troubling engorgement almost since I touched down at the airport.

The women here are, as we used to say in Rotherham “drop your chips” gorgeous. However, being firmly in the “it has ears so it must be a face” category, I am, of course, entirely invisible to every last one of them. Bugger.

Anyway, despite this handicap, I have managed to hobble around and squeeze in a few meals which, unsurprisingly, given where I am, have involved large chunks of fresh meat grilled for my pleasure.

I have tried a few Parrillada so far and yesterday’s effort at La Dorita in Palermo was not a bad effort. Starting with a few hefty croquetta before moving on to a 400gms bife de lomo (tenderloin) with a bowl of sweet potato chips. Followed (in tribute to HP who would have loved this meal) a Mixta of helado. They don’t age their meat here, so the taste is quite different from those I tried recently in the USA. They also like to cook it a little more than the bloody state I normally demand, but it is plenty enjoyable never the less.

Wine comes, in rather fun little penguin shaped pots which the locals “baptise” with a little soda and chunk or two of ice, and the whole experience is, to go back to another “chips” reference, “cheap as”

In fact, my meal yesterday (three courses, wine, tea and a little something extra at the end) came to just under £14 and, I am told that it is one of the more expensive versions in town with similar meals being easily available for well under £5.

I have another forty eight hours in BA before flying off to Brazil. I am going to see how much more meat I can fit in.

This city may not be kind to the ego of a middle aged man, but it is, at least kind on the wallet.

MEXICO “MI CORAZON” : AZUL Y ORO, GOING BACK TO SCHOOL

I have never been afraid to admit that I am a tourist not a traveller.

Despite the fact that I have been hauling my 90lbs rucksack “Big Red” around the world and have been on forms of transport that could be used as methods of punishment, I am still a man who likes to see the sights.

So today, there I was, I fetching shorts and walking shoes traipsing around Mexico City taking pictures like a good ‘un

However, by midday, I was ready for something a little different and hopped on the city’s efficient metro system and headed to the end of the line some forty minutes or so in search of a special lunch.

I had been told that Azul Y Oro, in its unlikely situation in the Centro Cultural of Mexico City’s National University, was one of the best places in town and that its chef, Ricardo Munoz was amongst the most highly regarded in the country being the author of “ The Gastronomic Dictionary Of Mexico”

It is, indeed, an odd place, situated in the heart of the university campus with a feel more like a canteen than a high end restaurant.

But, it is worth the effort of schlepping out there and offered up one taste that was a revelation and amongst the top five on the EAT MY GLOBE trip so far.

I began, simply enough, with a Crema De Cilantro which came with slivers of toasted almonds and a dash of Mexican Crema on top. It was perfectly fine but merely set the scene for the next dish which I waited for while chomping on a dish of candied Jamaica.

Mexico is, of course, famous for Mole. I had tasted some in various ersatz Mexican places in London and had even tried to make one myself. Nothing quite prepared my for first taste of a proper example.

My next course was a Mole Negro Con Pollo. I chose the alternative that offered up a thigh and drumstick and was presented with the meat in a thick, dark and rich sauce that glistened promisingly in the dish.

It tasted every bit as good as it looked. I will find it hard to fully describe just how glorious it was. Smokey, slightly sweet and with a level of heat. But, there was much more, representing the many ingredients and long slow preparation that go to make this sauce. I mopped it up with the whole wheat tortilla which came with it and was about to pick up the bowl and lick it clean but it was whisked away before I could make a show of myself.

After that, I could not bring myself to ruin the memory with a pointless pudding, so just got the bill which, including a refreshing glass of Horcharta ( in Mexico made with rice milk not with tiger Nut milk like the ones I tried in Valencia) and a Pepsi, came to 150 peso including tip (about £7) which represents astonishing value for a meal which included a dish I shall remember for a long, long time.

I don’t know about you, but food was never this good when I was at University.

Off to Buenos Aries

MEXICO “ MI CORAZON”: SKINNED UP IN MEXICO CITY

It will probably not come as any surprise to, well anybody really, that I have done some foolish things in my life.

There was the time I suggested to my then wife that she was “a little rubenesque” a phrase that came back to haunt me when she decided to end our “loving” union in a legal manner.

There was the time I suggested to George Galloway that he might be a bit more popular if he had a wee dram every now and again.

And, believe it or not, I have even spent my own cash money on cookery books by Gordon Ramsay. Hard to believe but shamefully true.

However, tonight will stand high amongst the ranks of my own stupidity, for tonight was the night I decided to have a meal entirely based around the nutritious bounty that is pig skin.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am as big a fan of pig skin as it is possible to find without being a pig who is threatened with losing it. I love them in bags of porky scratchings washed down with a shudder making pint of something in The Wenlock Arms. I love them with a “copa” of something or other when they are presented as a freebie in Spain and I have enjoyed them so far on this trip where they are in huge bubbly, crispy slabs.

But, this was different, oh so different.

I am in Mexico City now and headed out to the Zona Rosa area for supper. Many of the big hotels are situated here and, consequently, so are the restaurants aimed squarely at separating US visitors from their ever weakening dollar. However, Fundo “El Refugio” came recommended and, as an institution that has been around for forty years, is not to be taken lightly.

I don’t know what I was thinking, there was much on the menu to entice. The daily special of Mole Poblano looked like it could fit the bill and there were a host of other specialities from all over Mexico to choose from. But, as soon as my eyes hit the centre of the menu and saw “Manitas De Cerdo En Vinagre” I knew I was not going to be able to look much further. Directly below it was a line that read “Chicharron En Salsa Verde” and that was it, the deed was done.

First up, the Manitas, pickled pig’s feet served with a salad of pickled vegetables. I like pig’s feet, well you are forced to aren’t you? But this was two of them and from a big critter. A few mouthfuls was fine. More proved more challenging and the last few almost unbearable. It was everything you would expect a dish with the words “pickled” and “pig’s feet” to be, gelatinous pig skin, of course, but also chewy at the same time. Not unpleasant, but not wonderous enough to make me chomp through two of the things.

I was practically on my own in the place at this time as I had decided to have an early night (a night that will now be filled with dreams of chewy snorters) so my next dish came out almost as soon as I had finished the last bit of skin off the feet.

Chicharron are, if you have been paying attention, strips of pig skin, some with bits of meat still attached. These had been cooked until soft (almost like tripe) and then served in an arse threatening salsa of screamingly hot green chilli.

I managed quite a lot of it, Primarily because the waiter was peering at me to see how I was getting on and I do so hate to let anyone down. But, I am already regretting it and may see a re-visitation at some point during the night.

I could not face any postres or post prandials, so just got my bill and left pretty rapidly before they saw me turn green. It came to about £12 including tip and a beer, so as mistakes go, it was not that costly and certainly not as costly as suggesting that my wife was a bit chubby.

However, I may well have that early night now. I am feeling rather ill

MEXICO “MI CORAZON”: HOME & AWAY IN MORELIA

I am about to head off to Mexico City. Those who know me will find the notion that I am about to make the journey by bus an amusing one, but, I am rather looking forward to it.

What I am not looking forward to is leaving the company of my new chums, Cristina and Judy. Cristina is the author of arguably the best blog on Mexican cooking I have come across (www.mexicocooks.typead.com) and the last few days in her company has served as an incredible introduction into the styles of food in this remarkable country.

As a parting meal, Cristina and Judy invited me to have breakfast with them at their stunning home about two blocks from my hotel. She had promised me Chilaquiles. I had no idea what the hell they were, but suspected it would be good so turned up promptly at their place at 10am as requested.

Chilaquiles, so it turned out, is a breakfast dish made of day old tortilla, eggs, chilli and onions.

The onions are fried with a Serrano chilli before the tortilla is torn up and added to the pan and cooked until warmed through. Eggs, in our case two each and two for the pot, are added and cooked until set. The dish is served topped with a liberal drizzle of crema.

Alongside this eggy beauty, Cristina also served up some refrioles which, again showing my ignorance, I thought meant “refried beans” but actually means “well fried beans”

We sat outside in their lovely garden and chatted as we ate until it was time for me to leave them to their real life and head back to my hotel.

This evening, I had one of those, oh so necessary things on the EAT MY GLOBE trip, a night in with some take away food, a large bottle of beer and the TV ( there are many channels in English with Spanish sub titles here, Deo Gratia)

However, this is like no take out I can recall. No putrid kebabs or greasy food from the chip shop or Chinese take away. Here, I was able to buy half a conejo (rabbit) whch came with enough tortilla for six people, guacamole and more refrioles (well fried beans remember?)

The kind lady in the restaurant saw me looking longingly at a large slab of chiccerones, so cut off a big portion as a freebie and crammed it into my bag as I was leaving.

All the above, yours for 60 pesos (that’s about £3 to you and me)

I think I am going to miss Mexico when I come to leave next week.

MEXICO “ MI CORAZON”: DOWN IN THE BASEMENT ON THE DAY OF THE DEAD

After a very enjoyable few days in Guadalajara, I have moved to the altogether more chilled town of Morelia in the state of Michoacan.

When I arrived, things were in full swing for the celebrations for The Day of The Dead, one of the biggest festivals in the town’s calendar. Streets are filled with Offrenda (altars to the deceased) Katrine (stylised skeletons) and flowers of orange and purple.

While all this was going on above ground, it seems only fitting that on The Day of The Dead, I should have my supper underground.

My chums, Cristina and Judy took me to supper at a kermesse. These are fairs, usually held to raise money for a church, where booths are set up selling local specialities. In the case of The Church of The Immaculate Conception, in Morelia, it became such a success, it is now a permanent feature in the basement of the church completed with the funds raised.

When we arrived, the hall was packed with families from grandparents to babies in arms all having a good old scoff.

It operates like a food court. Tickets are purchased from a cashier and then exchanged for food at any one of the twenty or so counters offering everything from Enchilladas to Tamales to drinks of Aqua Fresca in various flavours.

Taking the view that the longest lines must lead to the best food, we began with a Pomboza which is a sandwich stuffed with a hash, dipped in salsa and then grilled. It is a heart attack inducing plateful, but in the way of all good sarnies (see Hot Dogs, Po’Boys and Philly Cheese Steaks) it can be addictively good.

I also wanted to try an enchilada as the only examples I have ever encountered have been the scary, breeze block monstrosities in abominable Tex mex places.

Well, these were nothing like anything I have had before. Tortilla are dipped in a fiery salsa, quickly fried and filled with onions. Then they are topped with a mix of vegetables and hunks of meat, in this case chicken and the lot is topped with the ubiquitous dressings of salsa and queso. It is not an elegant plate to look at, but the taste is something else with the chilli of the chicken flesh working well with soft enchilada.

Similarly, a quesadilla fritas was like nothing I have tried before. Crunchy pockets of corn masa filled with soft, melting queso and topped with a dribble of crema.

No one would ever call this elegant food. It is meant to be tasty, which it is, fill people up (which it certainly does) and cost little (our food cost about £5 in total)

It is not all good either. A drink called Atole is, shall we say an acquired taste. If I was being kind I would say it tastes like flour mixed with condensed milk.

Also, dessert tamale coloured to look like the Mexican flag were dry and tasteless. But, on the whole, this was a great way to eat, to see locals doing what they do and to try some of the specialities from the region.

Dead good you could say. Perhaps not