ODE TO ARGENTINA

It is difficult to leave the countryside of Capitán Sarmiento, Argentina—both physically and emotionally speaking. Located about one hundred miles northwest of the city of Buenos Aires but still in the Buenos Aires province, the area is a patchwork of family ranches and green fields that sprawl like oceans off the quiet country roads. The easiest way back to the city is by hiring a local driver. Ours had dropped us off here hours ago and wasn’t returning until the following morning. Then again, as we stood around the fire that October evening, watching the sun turn from yellow to pink as it descended upon a fifty-hectare horse ranch in the peak of Argentina’s spring season, we really didn’t mind our isolation.

There were about twelve of us that night—we two chefs who were on a long-awaited first-time culinary pilgrimage to Argentina, plus our new friends who had generously opened their doors to us at their family estancia, or ranch. We stood in a circle, chatting and gazing upon the live coals at our feet with admiration, growing buzzed and hungry. The main event was Rafa, an elderly Argentinian from Córdoba with well-worn smile lines, sun-bronzed skin, and a newsboy hat, who was midway through cooking us an Argentinian asado. One of two grilling preparations in Argentina, asado typically consists of meat (usually beef) cooked on a spit or cross over an open fire. Parrilla grilling, the other style, uses a grate or rack.

“About three hours,” Rafa had said in Spanish—his prediction of the cook time for the whole lamb he was slow-roasting over fire for dinner. The animal had been freshly killed and purchased from a neighboring farm that day. We had been gathered around for at least that long already, lusting for a taste of the fire-cooked meat but in the meantime happily filling our bellies with cheese, charcuterie, and Argentinian wine.

Despite having enjoyed various styles of fire-cooked meals in parts of North America, South America, and Europe before, this was our first asado in Argentina, and the matter-of-fact approach by which our cook built and used the fire was eye-opening. He bypassed any kind of formal fire pit and instead, carved a shallow pocket into the lawn and collected whatever wood was nearby to fill it. As we would learn, when you cook beside the fire instead of directly over it—as is often the case with asado as well as indirect grilling—you don’t need perfect coals. Certain woods, like the eucalyptus he had sourced from the yard, would break down into embers that continued to release heat, but others just burned down to ash and provided heat to the food along the way. Here and in the countless parrilla restaurants we visited during the remainder of our trip, there was no rush to eat—cooking took however long it was going to take, and the chef and diners enjoyed the journey there, talking and laughing between sessions of refueling the fire.

The cruz (cross) is the go-to tool for cooking whole-animal asado in South America. A tall, cross-shaped metal apparatus that looks somewhat like a torture chamber mechanism, it acts as a sturdy vertical resting place on which to secure animals for slow-roasting by fire. Tonight, the butterflied lamb was hoisted across the cruz, barely fussed with by the cook except for a generous coating of salt and pepper and occasional basting with a bushel of mint and a saltwater mix (see Herbed Salmuera). On the opposite side of the fire, delicate innards from the same animal, like tripa and tripa gorda (the small and large intestines), roasted at equal distance away from the flames. Because they were beside rather than over the fire, the meats would cook almost painstakingly slowly, their juices cascading down little by little, basting each cut in more of its own fat and flavor. This, we would come to understand, was the regional cooks’ secret to an ineffably juicy interior and a bronzed, crispy outside.

Even though Rafa’s carefree approach made it all seem so simple, we knew better. As is usually true with expert cooks and grillers, experience had earned him the instinct and know-how he needed. That night, just after the four-hour mark, we were able to sit down to taste the fruits of his labor.

The fire had created a “skin” on the meat—a crystalline layer up and around the ribs that peeled off like sheets of nori in all their crackly-brown glory, and this was the most remarkable part of all. But the meat, tender and with fat caps that had mostly rendered into a lovely creamy gelatin, was the tastiest. As we started to eat, Rafa continued to come around with trays full of more meaty parts from other animals: veal sweetbreads from both the neck and the heart, strong-flavored beef kidneys, and an unbelievably moist and barely rare beef tenderloin that melted in our mouths. Our hosts served it all with two salads—a simple bowl of spinach with tomatoes and a delicate lettuce with raw mushrooms and grated cheese. This was the typical format of a grilled feast in Argentina—with fire-cooked proteins at the center and cooling vegetables and a house chimichurri as accompaniments.

From that very first night, we felt a deep connection to the region’s culinary traditions and priorities, and the ingenuity and passion of the cooks. Many of the travel days that followed were spent eating our way through Buenos Aires as well as in Uruguay just across the border. Impeccable grilling and ardent generosity were abundant everywhere we went, as were countless examples of resourcefulness, ingenuity, and a use-everything, welcome-everyone attitude. We couldn’t help but see the connections with our own kitchen at Ox.

Since the very conception of our restaurant, we set out to incorporate certain Argentinian foods into our menu. Initially these were based on Gabi’s memories of growing up in Southern California and being surrounded by Argentinian friends and their expat families. Weekends of her youth usually revolved around soccer games followed by meat- and organ-heavy Argentinian-style barbecues hosted in someone’s backyard, at the park, or at a local restaurant. Her desire to revisit these flavors and culinary traditions was something she dreamed of sharing with Greg and learning more about.

Argentina is known for having the best fire cookery in the world, and we did our best to honor the country as our muse from afar. But once we found the opportunity to visit Argentina, we were able to not only verify but deepen that connection. The similarities between Argentinian tradition and the culture at Ox abound.

Though we can’t cook outdoors every night or carve out fire pits on the fly wherever we go, we were thrilled and reassured to find that many of the other elements of Argentinian grilling and dining were certainly within reach. Just like in numerous restaurants in Argentina, our wood fire–fueled grill is at the center of our restaurant—both physically and philosophically. Like the meat-proud Argentinians, we make an effort to use and sing the praises of “those other cuts” beyond the loins and the rib-eyes. True to Latin American form, ceviches and chilled seafoods, salads, and vegetable dishes are part of our menu as well, intended to complement and contrast the flavors of our fire-cooked food. We have designed and labored over our very own versions of traditional Argentinian recipes—items like morcilla (blood sausages), chorizo, empanadas, and chimichurri—which we make with the bountiful seasonal ingredients available where we live. And finally, come time to gather around the table, we hope our family-style service at Ox also encourages the communal spirit that is the essence of Argentinian dining: long, satisfying meals; friends and family sharing off the same plates; and dining to the tune of a crackling fire in the background.

Although that is really as far as our ties to Argentina go—our restaurant and the recipes in this book are very much our own creations and not intended to exactly replicate authentic Argentinian cuisine—we hope the ways we have applied its influences would excite and delight any Argentine who comes through our door (and we certainly would welcome this opportunity to repay them the kindness and deliciousness they showed to us). Around those fires, we felt connected with our food and the land it came from, as well as the people who were making it and enjoying it with us. This is a feeling we strive to bring to our own kitchens each day.

CHIMICHURRI

When sitting down to dine in Argentina, a small jar or vessel of oily, deep-green chimichurri is often the first food to greet you at your table. A traditional condiment made of parsley and other herbs, sometimes speckled with dried red peppers, green onions, or garlic, chimichurri is the iconic sauce of the parrilla culture, delivering a welcome bolt of bright, sharp, herbaceous saltiness and acidity that takes fire-cooked foods to new heights.

In Argentina each restaurant and home cook has a signature recipe. And at Ox, we too have our own, made fresh daily and left upon each table along with some good crusty bread and butter, to stave off hunger as diners wait for their food—and later, to spoon over grilled meats, fish, and vegetables.

There is no “right” way to make a chimichurri—its proportions, flavors, and ingredients fluctuate from cook to cook. As you dip your nose into bowl after bowl of it, the differences are wonderfully interesting and inspiring. Some are more garlicky, higher in acidity, or even generously salted to deliver more impact and cut through intense gristly meats. Others have a milder taste in which the olive oil provides more of the flavor than the acid. And the different use of herbs is the most widespread factor of all. In Argentina, you’ll often see a robust mix of strictly dried herbs: a parsley base with a dash of oregano or possibly thyme. In other versions, the herbs are a blend of dried and fresh. In some cases, they’ll keep their deep-green color, while in others the cooks will allow their chimichurris to take on a brown tone as the herbs pickle inside the vinegar mixture, which tames their intensity.

At Ox, we go the fresh herb route, leading with bright, citrusy parsley and adding a hint of fresh oregano for depth and complexity. We also use red wine vinegar and oil in a 1:2 ratio to deliver freshness and cooling relief, and to complement and contrast our smoked and grilled items especially. And we add minced onion, which gets mellowed and lightly pickled by the vinegar, for the crisp and pungent bite it delivers.

You may very well develop your own proportions of chimichurri ingredients as time goes on—a process that is part of the fun of serving and making it. We are constantly adding to and experimenting with our chimichurri as the seasons change, adding fresh mint, diced tangerines, chopped hazelnuts, cooked lentils, or even cubed foie gras terrine into the mix. Feel free, too, to experiment with different acids. Meyer lemon juice is delicious, and we like to use verjus when we want to tone down the acidity.

It is very easy to get used to having a jar of chimichurri within reach at all times. Luckily, due to the simple, flexible nature of the recipe, that is an extremely achievable goal. To get some of the prep work out of the way, make the chimichurri up to 4 days in advance but do not add the vinegar; bring it to room temperature and add the vinegar a few hours before serving. At home you can use chimichurri on anything and almost everything, from eggs at breakfast to sandwich toppings at lunch, crudités and empanadas at hors d’oeuvres time, to cooked meats and vegetables at dinner.

OX’S CHIMICHURRI

MAKES ABOUT 2 CUPS

½ cup minced yellow onion

½ cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves

1 tablespoon chopped fresh oregano

1 teaspoon finely grated or minced garlic

1½ teaspoons kosher salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 cup extra-virgin olive oil

½ cup red wine vinegar

In a medium bowl or jar, combine the onion, parsley, oregano, garlic, salt, black pepper, and red pepper. Add the oil and vinegar and mix well. Store covered for a couple of days and use before the herbs start to turn brown.