Argentine Choripan

The first bite is spice... not hot spice in the way of Mexican jalapenos or Thai green curry, or even the mystery culprit that makes you sweat within an Indian curry... no, I mean a whole spice that cracks between your molars and explodes with flavor. I am talking about the feeling you get when your mouth barely fits over two thick slabs of toasted bread and messily manages to bite into a juicy sausage. I am talking about when that sausage splits open with the impact of your teeth. I am talking about the unmistakable taste of famous Argentine chorizo, smoked on a grill, and served as a sandwich. I am talking choripan.

You won't find street vendors peddling these delicacies in Microcentro or Recoletta. No, you have to venture a little off the beaten track for a choripan. But not far. The parks are the hot-spots. Whether it is the lush fields of the Palermo parks to the sun-dried beauty of the Ecological Reserve, once you enter the seclusion of the city's green zones, you can not miss the gleam of the choripan man's silver cart. And once you spot him, I recommend that you approach his booth as quickly as possible, proceed to order at least one choripan, but probably two, especially if it is your first time. The total cost will be between three and four pesos (roughly one dollar to a dollar and a half).

Once you are handed your choripan, you will notice the array of sauces on the ledge. These sauces will be in plastic containers, and will have titles such as salsa golf (a surprisingly good blend of ketchup and mayonnaise), mayonesa aceituna (olive mayonnaise), ketchup (not everything is so exotic), and queso cheddar (a cheesy sauce, a classy version of cheez-whiz). Remove the top bun of your choripan and start squirting. Once you finish piling on your condiments, look to either the far-left of the ledge or perhaps the far-right. You will undoubtedly see a plastic tub of an oily-looking mixture with all different colored spice flakes. This is chimichurri. It may look unconvincing, but trust me, it is the ultimate clincher to this culinary experience. Spoon that spicy oil on top of your already-sauce-covered chorizo, and replace your top bun. Now bite.

There are times to be gentlemanly or ladylike, respectively, and there are times to throw caution to the wind. Eating a choripan is one of the latter times. Forego your table manners, and take no notice of the salsa golf dripping down your chin, or the chimichurri that has managed to run down your arm (how it got all the way to your elbow is still a mystery, but oh well). Someday I will confess to you of my adventures chomping on choripan outside of some classy discos. But we will save that for a later day. For now, try to get your hands on some choripan.