Bife de chorizo
$46A thick sirloin given the slow heat of the coals and rested on the bar, served with nothing it does not need.
The grill leads and everything else gathers around it. Cuts change with the week and the cellar with the evening, so ask the floor what is worth opening tonight.
Cuts laid over quebracho coals, salted by hand and turned once.
A thick sirloin given the slow heat of the coals and rested on the bar, served with nothing it does not need.
Ribeye marbled through, held at the cooler end of the grill until the fat softens into the grain.
The grill keeper's cut, skirt crisped at the edges and pink at the heart, the way the old hands always ate it.
Short ribs cooked across the bone, the cut that built every Sunday table in this city.
Flank worked low across the whole afternoon until the smoke settles deep and it pulls apart under a fork.
Sweetbreads pressed gold over the embers, finished with coarse salt and a squeeze of lemon.
House sausage ground and cured upstairs, blistered on the iron until the skin sings.
The plates that gather around the meat, the way an asado should.
A wheel of provolone set straight on the iron until it slumps and chars, oregano and chilli over the top.
Hand folded and baked in the wood oven, hot enough that you have to wait for them.
Potatoes roasted in beef fat with garlic and parsley, crisp at every edge.
Blood sausage warmed slowly until soft and spiced, spread across charred country bread.
Tomato, onion and pepper dressed plainly, the cool note the grill always asks for.
Sweet corn steamed in its own husk, a recipe carried down from the north of the country.
Poured by the glass, the bottle, or whatever the floor is opening tonight.
Dark and patient, aged downstairs until the label behind it turned the same colour as the wall.
Green pepper and graphite, a bottle with the backbone to stand up to the heaviest cut.
The old workhorse grape, poured by the jug here long before anyone called it fashionable.
Cold, floral and high country, the white we open while the coals are still catching.
Our own vermouth steeped with mountain herbs, poured over one large stone of ice.
A few dusty bottles from the year the doors first opened, ask the floor what is left.
Bring an appetite and a little patience. The coals reward both.