A little good fortune came my way this weekend when I was invited to a birthday dinner for my B&B host. He grilled an amazing pile of lomo that seemed to fill the table. We all chatted, they rapidly in Spanish, we in slow Spanish and English. They were curious why I was in Argentina, disappointed to miss my wife (no kidding) and their daughter was excited to hear she, my wife, will soon be in Paris. I then noticed that they all spoke French and the daughter was wearing a bracelet with blue, white and red and “Paris” written on it. She was shy and my Spanish not up to a deeper discussion but she is apparently a big fan.
We talked of the pampas, the edge of which we were on. According to my host, the edge of the pampas is largely ranching with most of the serious farming done in the interior. The crops I saw looked pretty healthy but there were more ranches than farms.
In any case, soon the subject turned to the relative merits of Argentine beef and American beef. I believe I made our case reasonably well but then they had a trick up their sleeve. They would not let me quit eating until I admitted Argentine beef was superior. For my fourth serving, they cut a piece the size of my fist. I finally admitted their superiority but I did make them work for it. Sorry, Heather.
Conceding that my host was the “King of the Pamaps” I put squarely on the Quilmes.