barbeque

The day before yesterday I had a day off. I was supposed to go on a trek high into the mountains and spend the night at a refugio. I was going with two guests from the Netherlands; he looks like Steve Jobs and wears a Lehman Brothers hat where as she resembles a more animated Lauren Bacall. Our guide was to pick us up in front of the Casa Principal promplty at 9am. I arrived only to learn that lightning storms were to be arriving in the afternoon and so instead of the hike, Carlos, a knowledgable local taxi driver, would take us on a driving tour. I was rushed into the back of the cab without the time nor the opportunity to say I´d rather not. The couple had been given time to change their clothes, but I was stuck, quite self-conciously in a pair of what are basically hot-pants and a ridiculously large pair of hiking boots (which I borrowed from the generous estancia owner). Carlos, with tight crunchy curls and brawny exposed chest was a good guide. He took us to all the important vista points and tourist attractions, pointing out this lake and that tree as we drove in what seemed like circles. It was impressive on account of the natural beauty, but not what I had bargained for. My legs, as a sat pressed up against my backseat companion with whom I was making continuous small talk about business and government, have never felt more exposed.
And so, my return to work yesterday seemed a let down. I had been cheated, and was sour about it. Then there was the barbeque, the Asado. It was an important event for us as a group of 25 or so Argentians from a special travel agency were coming to experience a traditional day at the ranch--horse rides, massages and a barbeque. The crowd was rowdy and demanding. They drank equal amounts of soda and wine and the girls and I were left running drinks around as meat -chorizo, blood sausage, all parts of beef, lamb, pork- was pulled off the fire and placed before these blood thirstly guests. I was very hungry, all the girls were very hungry, and so we ate the leftover sausages in the dish room, tore at the steaks and sucked at the rib bones. It was disheartening to watch these hungry women gnaw on discarded pork fat and suck at empty sausage casings. But the mood was lively. Xime washed dishes and I fed her pieces of steak. We all laughed about this and we licked our fingers and went back to work.
There was a lot of clean up and then a short break before dinner. The large party had left and it was dinner as usual-salmon, creamed carrot soup, some puffy cold dessert with cassis liquor. I returned to the girl´s house, my house, weary and already nauseated on account of having finished all the guests leftover dessert liquor. The girls were home, sitting in the steamy kitchen watching music videos. They were gathered around a large tray containing the afternoons barbeque remnants. There was more fat to be gnawed at and still more bones to be sucked dry. Sweet Mica, sensing my exhaustion, took it upon herself to make me a blood sausage sandwich. She first microwaved the little black package and then pierced its skin so that the bloody innards poured out, releasing both steam and odor. She offered it to me between two crusts of white bread and I felt I would vomit. I had liked blood sausage, quite a lot. I had liked the different cuts of meat, the whole thing. But standing over that trough of gray and pink torn flesh, the wafts of animals, the sound of fat between teeth, I felt very much akin to all those queasy vegetarians. I begged out of the morcilla sandwich and Mica, so sweetly said she would put it in the fridge for me. It is waiting there for me still, 24 hours later. I imagine it has developed a solid consistancy and has little immediate odor.