I gasped as I walked into El
Obrero, a 53-year-old restaurant in a run-down part of town whose name
("the worker") was a hint to its blue-collar appeal. It was the kind
of place I've been trying to track down all my life. The smoky smell of the
Argentine grill floated in the air as I took my seat in a room papered with
soccer posters and stuffed with sports memorabilia. Tiger Woods was putting on
TV.
I wanted what everyone in the room was having, so I started with a creamy
mix of butter, cognac and Roquefort to spread on little white rolls. I dressed
an arugula salad at the table and split a chard-and-tomato tortilla (a
frittata-like dish that also included eggs, potato, and cheese). But best of
all was blood sausage with sweetbreads. A mellow Malbec from Mendoza was just
the wine for the occasion, and I couldn't resist the Flan Casero for dessert,
which came with a dollop of dulce de leche ice cream and a mountain of whipped
cream.
