Where's the beef? Part I: Don't cry for me Argentina

Before I left for Argentina, everyone kept telling me I had to try the beef.

“I heard it’s delicious,” said one friend. “The steaks are the best anywhere,” claimed a colleague. And this was in Calgary, a city that produces some pretty tasty cattle itself.

Being an enthusiastic carnivore, I was well aware of Argentina’s reputation for rearing the world’s finest beef. The opportunity to taste it was a serious factor in my last-minute decision to travel to Buenos Aires for a quick five-day trip. The plan was to meet up with my mother, who would be there on business, and have a few good steaks.

On the long trip from Alberta to South America, people kept mentioning the beef. During my layover in Dallas, even the woman staffing the airport’s tourism information booth enthusiastically endorsed it as the best meat she’d ever eaten. “Better than Texas beef?” I asked. “Oh yes siree!” she exclaimed.

I boarded my flight with visions of contented cattle grazing on Argentina’s lush central pampas - or plains.

By the time I got to Buenos Aires, I’d been in transit almost 24 hours and eating was the last thing on my mind. That night, my mom and I were too tired to have a big dinner. In our room, we nibbled on a complimentary cheese plate provided by the hotel.

The next day, we decided to shake off our jet lag with a walk around the city. We sampled empanadas and dulce de leche-filled pastries but no beef. Back at the hotel, we stopped in at the lobby bar where everyone I met – from the doorman to a group of diplomats – kept telling me I had to try the beef. “You’ve never had anything like it,” they all insisted.

My mother had to be up early the next morning, so we opted to dine early. Unfortunately for us, Argentineans eat very late and the only restaurant we could find open at that hour served pasta.

On day three of my trip, I joined a group of VIPs on an organized tour of Buenos Aires. First stop, the Casa Rosada in the Plaza de Mayo where Eva Perón gave her famous “don’t cry for me” balcony speech. Then, the rainbow-coloured Boca quarter where tango dancers entertain tourists in the streets. After that, the dusty antiques arcade in the San Telmo market. And, finally, the city’s re-claimed waterfront district, now transformed into a fashionable stretch of eateries and boutiques, where we stopped for lunch.

“We’re going to a restaurant that’s famous for beef,” said one of our hosts. So, at last, I was going to have a taste! When we were seated, the chef appeared and announced proudly that he was preparing a very special meal for us.

When it came, it was magnificent – a platter of five different cuts of juicy beef accompanied by chimichurri, several other interesting sauces and salad greens so fresh they must have been picked that morning. The meat was butter-knife tender, flavourful and charred to perfection. We washed it all down with some fine Malbec. I ate everything on my plate but barely had time to fully savour it before we were ushered back onto the bus to continue our tour.

Several hours later, as we pulled up to the hotel, my tummy did a little tango. I didn’t think anything of it. After all, I’d been sightseeing non-stop all day and still had a bit of jet lag. Exhausted, and feeling a bit strange, I skipped dinner and went to bed.

Shortly after midnight, I awoke just in time to see my lunch – all that famed Argentine beef – re-appear, spectacularly, all over the bedspread, all over me and, before I could make it to the bathroom, all over the hotel room’s lovely Oriental rug.

I spent the rest of the night on the bathroom floor where the beef kept coming back, re-inventing itself each time in ever more colourful and exotic ways - like Madonna! I called my mom who leapt into action with wet facecloths, carbonated water and lots of towels.

The next day, I stayed in the hotel room. The only thing I could keep down was weak tea and a plate of banana slices that a room service waiter delivered, with a theatrical flourish, on an enormous domed silver tray. My mom checked in by phone to report that nobody else from the tour group had been ill. Just me. Feeling sorry for myself, I went to bed.

On my last full day in Buenos Aires, I felt well enough to wander around the gorgeously macabre Recoleta Cemetery, then attend a dinner and tango show. But when I got to the restaurant, my stomach flip-flopped. In an open kitchen, cooks were tending to dozens of sizzling, spitting pieces of beef on a massive parilla, or traditional charcoal grill. What should have been mouth-watering, was agonizing. I hurried past the kitchen to my table and ate bread and steamed vegetables that night.

The next day, it was time to fly home. Still feeling queasy but over the worst of it, I boarded my 12-hour flight to Dallas on an empty stomach. The plane reached cruising altitude just as we passed over the border of Argentina heading north. From my seat in the last row of economy class, I watched as the flight attendants started making their way down the aisle with the dinner cart. When they reached me, one announced cheerfully, “We’re all out of chicken. But you can have beef.”