Meat Sweats

Asados (grills) occupy picture window, tempting the stomachs and imaginations of passers. The smoky scent drifts down streets, wafting in the hot summer breeze. I should have known that a place called Siga La Vaca (Follow The Cow) might be trouble. I arrive at the restaurant as innocent as a spring chick. All-you-can-eat has never been a problem in the past. The bread is deliscious and I can’t help but eat two pieces. Rookie mistake, but what can you do? The salad bar is lacking on the greens but heavy on the prosciutto and provolone. I dabble.

It is time for the grill. I take my plate to the window and point at the various slices of medium-cooked steak that I desire the most. The grill attendees question my fortitude, I will show them. My plate is packed: shoulder, rump, leg, upper back, lower back, rib, and who knows what else. My plate is stacked with meat, only meat. After taking my seat, I go at it. My mother would disown me should she see this display of table manners. The beef (and maybe a little bit of pork) melts on my tongue. Juices elate my taste buds. Each cut is unique in taste, tender and supple. I marvel at every bite: smoky, slow cooked artistry. Half way through, I wipe a napkin across my brow. This is getting intense. Gentle perspiration turns into a persistent flow of sweat. Who ever said: “woman don’t sweat, they glow,” has never encountered me eating copious amounts of beef.

As I approach the window again, I contemplate bulimia. I have never vomited up food with the intention of continuing to binge. I have never vomited food by choice. I will not lie to you, the thought weighs as heavy in my mind as the meat weighs in my stomach. I am at it again. This time, I cannot taste the subtleties of the different cuts of meat. With my knife I remove small chunks from the greater mass, hoping that my body will not register the addition. I keep going. I tell myself it is delicious. Cognitively, I believe it. Physically, my body is finished. I continue on.

For those who have seen the movie Seven (with Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman) you might just imagine the scenes that are playing in my mind’s eye. Sure I am moments from explosion, I push the half-finished plate of meat away. I am done. The tenedor libre (all you can eat or more literally free fork) meal includes desert. I refuse. The bill cannot come quickly enough. Get me out of this restaurant and into a reclining position!!!

Success, I make it back to the hostel. I am in my bed. Life is bloated, but good. I drift into a meat induced comma. Little do I know the meat sweats that I experienced in the restaurant are only a prelude. At 4am I awaken drenched. My back, forehead, legs, arms and everything else is drenched in sweat. Clammy, sticky sweat. I can’t breathe, I must be running a fever. I feel my head. It’s hard to tell with all the liquid that has accumulated. Is that a purple hippopotamus over there? Oh no. I am hallucinating. I lurch out of bed and throw myself into a cold shower. I fill my water bottle and slowly sip at it, worried at my stomach’s ability to handle the additional occupancy. For the rest of the evening I toss and turn. This is horrible.

2pm the following day, I still have not eaten. Nothing. I am not even a little bit hungry. In fact, the thought of food still repulses me. It is not until 5:00pm that I am able to choke down some carrot sticks. I swear to a life of vegetarianism. 10pm (early dinner by Buenos Aires standards) rolls around and what do I order? The lomo. A beautiful tender juicy cut from the rear of the cow. Soooo delicious.


Post Script: though I had my camera on me for all of my beef eating excursions, I am too week of heart and mind to postpone the moment of ingestion long enough to snap a few shots. Maybe it is better that these moments are not commemorated.