I don’t claim to know everything, but I know Detroit has Greek town and Lebanese food, Chicago with their Gyros and hot dogs, Barcelona with their kabob and tapas, and Buenos Aires with like you said, no frills red meat.

When I lived in Recoleta I swear I was addicted to a nearby, no-named steakhouse. Right around mid morning, when the raging buses subsided, I’d hear the most beautiful lashing of a porton… and soon after I’d smell a greasy smoke from the gods. My stomach growling and aching, wailing PA REE JA.

My taste buds fought over one another like it was the end of the world. One side screaming juicy grilled chicken, the other upset because it’s been too long for Asado, and my brain sweating to get another Chorizo fix. You see this place wasn’t open for dinner, only lunch, so this is the biggest event for mouth that the day will more than likely offer.

It was certainly more important than how I felt about the service. I think it was the 30th time I came in with the same ol’ hat and beard that he finally gave me acknowledgment. I figured, hey this guy runs the best Parilla in the local vicinity why should he care about a nomad like me? And, BA isn’t really known for it’s Disney-effect, so I rolled with it.

But what I think was really happening is that he knew I’d move on from the upstairs hostel. And as I increasingly showed up promptly at 12 with rioting taste buds he saw the addict in me. I knew he knew it too. He had ruined another person’s life. Some things just don’t get any better than this.