The countries of Uruguay and Argentina eat more meat per capita than any other nation on Earth. Such dedication to the carnivorous cause is not only due to the quality of the main ingredient (although that certainly is a factor), but also to the way that those meats are prepared. Join me now me as we delve into the multi-sensory joys of the Uruguayan parrilla.
When an Uruguayan commits to an afternoon of meat sweats, whether at home or in a restaurant, that meal is likely to be prepared on a parrilla (pronounced, with Italianesque flair, as “pah-REE-juh”). This is the more rustic, and I would argue more manly, counterpart to the gas grills and charcoal kettles favored in the US.
An Uruguayan parrilla is a wide, open-air, wood-burning hearth lined with heat-refracting bricks. It will often, but not always, vent up through a chimney. If you live in Uruguay and own a house, odds are that there is a parrilla featured prominently in your backyard and patio.
On the left-hand side of the typical parrilla is the brasero, which is an elevated, wrought-iron fire box into which you load paper, kindling, and firewood. The bars of the brasero are spaced widely-enough apart to allow (a) ample air flow to fuel the fire, and (b) red-hot embers to break off and drop from the box onto the parrilla’s brick floor.
On the right-hand side of the parrilla is a large, wide cooking grate. The grate is often positioned at a sloped, 45 degree-ish angle, so that part of the cooking surface is closer to the parrilla floor and other parts are more elevated.
Those red-hot and/or ashed-over embers that fall from the brasero are then dragged under the cooking grate. This is where the cook’s skill and experience shine. He/she will accumulate a thick layer of embers under one section of the cooking grate for high-heat direct cooking and searing, a more meager layer of embers under another section of the grate for lower temperature roasting, and no embers at all in another section for “low and slow” indirect heat cooking.
The meat is then positioned onto and manipulated around the cooking grate. Thin pieces of meat may be cooked quickly and completely on the hottest part of the grate. Thicker hunks may start at high heat for a nice crusty sear, then move to a cooler part of the grate for slower, more gentle roasting until the desired level of doneness is achieved.
The result is a beautiful hunk of grass-fed animal flesh that fills your noggin with the intoxicating perfume of hardwood smoke as you chew each juicy morsel. It is this pervasive, all-encompassing essence of hardwood smoke that sets the meats cooked on an Uruguayan parrilla apart from those turned out by backyard Weber grill warriors in the US.
As for doneness, there are four main categories:
- Poco hecho (rare);
- Jugoso (medium-rare);
- A punto (médium); and
- Bien hecho (well-done and, Sir…don’t forget the ketchup, Sir).
Jugoso, for the win!
As for the meat itself, cow is king. Unlike the corn-fed beef that fattens-up and eventually kills corn-fed Americans, Uruguayans prefer grass-fed beef–which, they argue, is leaner, healthier, and tastes better. I don’t know about the first two claims, but I can vouch for the third.
The specific cuts of beef are somewhat different in both name and (to a lesser extent) form than what you’d expect from a US butcher. That’s a topic for a separate blog post that I’ll probably never write, but you can get the idea from the diagram below.
If you were to attend a parrilla-cooked meal at an Uruguayan’s home (as we did last month) or restaurant (as we did multiple times last month), you will start with some sausage–most likely, morcilla (aka, blood sausage, black pudding, or boudin noir) and chorizo (Argentine-style, not the nuclear orange, vinegary Mexican stuff that they toss with eggs). You’ll then segway into some fluffy, fatty, unctuous mollejas (aka, sweetbreads…aka, thymus gland)–which may be my favorite animal part of them all. Later, you might be served a thin cross-section of short rib (asado de tira), followed by a thicker cut such as Entrecot (ribeye) or tri-tip. There might even be a hunk of pig (perhaps a thick-cut pork shoulder steak) or lamb thrown in for good measure. All this will be accompanied by a bowl of Chimichurri, which acts as an herbaceous dipping sauce. Finally, dessert–which is likely to be something smeared with Dulce de Leche.
Dulce de Leche rivals Yerba Mate as heroin to the Uruguayan masses.
Maybe, if you are really lucky, the cook might offer some salad and grilled vegetables as penance. Otherwise, expect a side of fries.
And let’s not forget the wine. You know, for health reasons.
Uruguay has a thriving wine industry, even if most Americans have never tried any of its offerings. The Tannat grape reins supreme in carnivorous Uruguay, and it makes for a thick, robust, deep-red wine that’s every bit as good as Argentine Malbecs.
In my next blog post, I will describe how I’ve attempted to mimic the Uruguayan parrilla in my Texas backyard without shelling-out $3,000 to a stone mason. This may take me a few weeks, so be patient as I continue this noble experiment.
For now, however, I will close out this post with my recipe for Chimchurri. I typically eye-ball this preparation, so take the quantities listed below as more suggestions than gospel.
CHIMICHURRI
The Ingredients
Chopped fresh parsley, let’s say 1 cup
3 garlic cloves, minced or passed through a garlic press.
1 T of red pepper flakes
1/4 t of dried oregano
1-3 T of red wine or balsamic vinegar (I err to the vinegar-heavy side, because I friggin’ love vinegar)
1/4 – 1/2 c Extra virgin olive oil (you’ll need to judge the optimal consistency, but use the photo below as your benchmark)
Salt and pepper
The Assembly
- Mix all ingredients in a bowl.
- Taste, adjust, taste, adjust, blah blah blah, until perfect.
- Set aside for an hour or so to allow the flavors to meld.
- Serve with grilled meats and sausages as a dipping sauce. [Note: Drizzle Chimichurri onto a chorizo split lengthwise and served on a bun, and you’ve got yourself a “Choripan.” You’re welcome.]
Places for great parrilla in Montevideo, Uruguay include (a) Cabana Veronica (our favorite parrilla of them all); and (b) Estancia del Puerto (where Anthony Bourdain and his brother Christopher channeled their inner Henry VIII in No Reservations Season 4, Episode 14). Both restaurants are located in the the Mercado del Puerto in Montevideo’s old town section.
