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Mejillones a la provenzal

On the Atlantic coast around Puerto Madryn and the Golfo Nuevo, mussels from cold Patagonian waters are farmed and gathered in quantity, and seafood places along the rambla steam them a la provenzal, which in Argentina means lots of garlic and parsley. A splash of dry white wine goes into the pot; the alcohol mostly cooks off, but you can swap it for fish stock with a little lemon for an alcohol-free pot that tastes just as good. Serve with bread or chips to mop up the briny juices. Cooking mussels too long is the usual slip: they shrink and turn rubbery, so lift the lid as soon as most have opened. Before cooking, throw away any mussel with a broken shell or one that stays open when tapped; after cooking, discard any that stay shut. Chef's tip: keep the garlic in gently warm oil until it just smells sweet; brown garlic turns bitter and dominates the mussels.

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Quesillo con miel de caña

In the Tafí del Valle hills above San Miguel de Tucumán, quesillo is made by stretching hot curd into long, thin, elastic sheets and folding them into flat rounds; along the road up from the city, stalls sell it beside jars of miel de caña, the dark syrup boiled from the juice of Tucumán's sugarcane. Put the two together and you have the province's simplest dessert: mild, milky, slightly squeaky cheese with a pour of syrup that tastes of molasses and caramel, plus walnuts for crunch. It is eaten after lunch or as a merienda with mate. Drowning the cheese is the usual misstep; the syrup is intense, so pour a ribbon, not a puddle. Real quesillo is hard to find abroad: fresh mozzarella, Oaxaca cheese or another fresh stretched-curd cheese is closest, and light cane syrup or a 2:1 mix of golden syrup and black treacle stands in for miel de caña. Most of these cheeses use animal rennet; choose a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: warm the syrup slightly so it runs into the folds of the cheese.

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Revuelto Gramajo

Late at night in the bodegones of Buenos Aires, when the kitchen has been busy for hours, revuelto Gramajo is what regulars order with a glass of something cold: a pile of crisp shoestring potatoes tossed in the pan with cooked ham (pork), onion, peas and eggs scrambled just until creamy. Legend credits a colonel's aide called Gramajo with inventing it, and every porteño has an opinion about how soft the eggs should be. Done right, some potato threads stay crunchy and others soak up the egg. The mistake to avoid is adding the potatoes too early, which turns them to mush; they go in at the very end, with the pan off the heat. Cook the eggs until no liquid egg remains if you are feeding anyone pregnant, very young or elderly. For a vegetarian version, leave out the ham and double the peas and onion. Chef's tip: fry the potato matchsticks twice, first pale and then golden, so they stay crisp even after meeting the eggs.

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Sándwich de miga

Birthday parties, office farewells and afternoon tea in a Buenos Aires confitería all bring out trays of sándwiches de miga: triple-decker sandwiches of paper-thin, crustless white bread with butter or mayonnaise and fillings of ham (pork) and cheese, egg, tomato, lettuce or olives, cut into neat rectangles. Specialist bakeries sell the large, very thin pan de miga sheets for them; at home, a soft sandwich loaf sliced thin and rolled flat works. They should be soft, moist and delicate, never dry at the edges. Dry sandwiches are the usual problem, so spread the mayonnaise right to the corners and keep finished trays under a damp tea towel. Chef's tip: assemble, wrap the stack in cling film and chill it for 15 minutes before trimming the crusts; the layers set and the knife cuts clean edges.

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Torrejas de acelga

When a bunch of acelga (Swiss chard) is the cheapest thing at the verdulería, Buenos Aires home cooks turn it into torrejas: thin fritters of chopped chard bound with egg, a little flour, garlic and grated cheese, fried in shallow oil until the edges lace up and crisp. They are weekday food, eaten hot from the pan with a squeeze of lemon and a salad, or cold the next day in a sandwich, and children who won't touch greens tend to eat them. Inside they stay tender and green, outside nutty and golden. Wet chard is what ruins them: water left in the leaves makes the batter thin and the fritters spit and fall apart, so wring the blanched chard really dry. Grated hard cheese is often made with animal rennet; pick a vegetarian hard cheese if needed. Chef's tip: fry one small torreja first to check the seasoning and thickness, then adjust with a spoon of flour or a splash of milk.

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Licuado de banana

Order a licuado in any Argentine café or bar and you will get a tall glass of fruit blended with milk (con leche) or water (con agua), and banana with milk is the one nearly everyone grows up on. It is breakfast for teenagers in a hurry, a merienda with tostados, and the drink parents in Buenos Aires make when the fruit bowl has spotty bananas. It should be thick, cold and smooth, with a light froth, sweet mainly from ripe fruit. Using under-ripe bananas is the mistake: they taste chalky and need lots of sugar, so wait for brown freckles. Chef's tip: slice and freeze the bananas the night before and you can skip the ice; the shake comes out colder and thicker without being watered down.

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Tomaticán

Mendoza's irrigated orchards and fincas drown in tomatoes in February, and tomaticán is the old Cuyo answer to the glut: a quick pan stew of onion, chopped ripe tomato and fresh sweetcorn, seasoned with oregano and a little ají, with beaten egg stirred through at the end until it sets in soft curds. It is a farmhouse lunch and a cheap supper, eaten with crusty bread to mop the juice, and some cooks add diced potato to stretch it. The flavour is bright and sweet-sour, the texture loose and juicy. People often add the egg to a pan full of liquid and end up with egg soup; cook the tomatoes down until the juices are jammy first. Bread for dipping is traditional, so pick a gluten-free loaf if you need it. Chef's tip: stir the egg in off the heat and let the pan's heat set it; you want soft, creamy ribbons, not a dry scramble.

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Morrones con huevo a la parrilla

While the meat rests on the cooler side of the parrilla, many asadores put halved red peppers cut side up over the coals, let them soften and char, then crack an egg into each one with a piece of cheese and a pinch of oregano. The pepper becomes a little dish: sweet, smoky and juicy, with a just-set egg and molten cheese in the middle. It is one of the classic starters at an Argentine asado, eaten with bread before the steak arrives, and it makes a good vegetarian main for anyone who skips the meat. The mistake is cracking the egg into a raw pepper: the egg overcooks before the pepper softens, so grill the shells first. Cook until the white is completely set. Queso cremoso or mozzarella is usually made with animal rennet; pick a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: cover the peppers with a foil tent or a lid once the egg goes in; the trapped heat sets the top of the egg without burning the base.

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Trucha a la manteca

Restaurants on the shores of Nahuel Huapi, in Bariloche and Villa La Angostura, put rainbow trout from the cold Andean lakes on almost every menu, and this butter version is the one locals order most. Fillets are fried with crisp skin, then drenched in butter browned with flaked almonds and sharpened with lemon. Serve with boiled new potatoes and a green salad. Any trout or char works. People commonly start the fish in butter, which burns before the skin crisps; fry it in a film of oil and make the brown butter after. Chef's tip: dry the skin really well and dust it with rice flour; it gives a thin, glassy crust without any gluten.

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Salsa golf

Mar del Plata's golf club gave its name to this sauce in the 1920s, so the story goes, and Argentines have been mixing mayonnaise and ketchup ever since. It is the pink sauce of the 1970s cocktail party and the seaside: spooned into half avocados (palta a la golf), over hearts of palm, onto a cold hard-boiled egg, beside fries or into a prawn cocktail, and every family has its own ratio. A drop of lemon and a dash of mustard lift it from a simple mix to something tangy and creamy. Too much ketchup is the misstep that turns it sweet and orange; it should be a soft salmon pink. Use shop-bought mayonnaise, which is made with pasteurised egg; if you make your own, use pasteurised eggs. Check the labels of the mayonnaise, ketchup and mustard if you need it gluten free. Chef's tip: let it sit in the fridge for 15 minutes before serving; the flavours blend and it thickens slightly.

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Postre vigilante

Ask for dessert in an old Buenos Aires bodegón and the waiter will rattle off flan, budín and, inevitably, vigilante: a thick slab of soft, mild cheese laid beside an equal slab of dulce de membrillo or dulce de batata. The name, "policeman", is said to come from the beat officers who ordered it as a cheap sweet in early twentieth-century cafés; Uruguayans call the same plate Martín Fierro. It is salty against sweet, creamy against firm, and takes five minutes. The traditional cheese is fresh queso cremoso or cuartirolo, or a firmer port salut; a young Havarti or mild Gouda is the best stand-in abroad. Like many soft cheeses, these are often made with animal rennet, so check the label for a vegetarian (microbial-rennet) cheese. The usual error is cutting the slabs thin like a cheese board; vigilante is about generous, equal bricks. Chef's tip: take the cheese out of the fridge 20 minutes ahead; cold cheese tastes of nothing next to the paste.

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Garrapiñada

On Florida street, in the plazas of San Telmo and outside every football ground in Buenos Aires, vendors stir copper pans of peanuts over little burners, and the smell of hot caramel reaches you half a block away. Garrapiñada comes in a paper cone, still warm, each peanut wrapped in a rough, sandy, crunchy sugar shell. It takes 20 minutes and three ingredients at home, and it is vegan. The process looks wrong halfway: the syrup turns cloudy and grainy, and that is exactly what you want, because the crystallised sugar is what gives the crunchy coating. The mistake is to stop stirring once it turns sandy; keep going until some of the sugar melts again and glazes the nuts. Chef's tip: use raw, skinned peanuts and a heavy pan, and add a pinch of salt at the end; it lifts the sweetness the way the street carts' slightly smoky pans do.

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Submarino

Café tables in Buenos Aires have their own way with hot chocolate: the waiter brings a tall glass of frothy, steaming milk on a saucer with a slim bar of dark chocolate, and you drop the bar in yourself and watch it sink like a submarine. Stirred with a long spoon, it melts into a rich, not-too-sweet drink, and it is the classic order with medialunas on a cold winter afternoon or after school. At home it takes five minutes, and children love the moment of dropping the bar in. The common letdown is milk that is only warm: the chocolate sits in a lump at the bottom. Heat it until it is steaming and just starting to rise, but not boiling. Chef's tip: froth the hot milk with a whisk or milk frother before pouring; the foam on top is part of the café ritual and keeps the drink hot while the chocolate melts.

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Bife a caballo

On the chalkboard of any neighbourhood bodegón in Buenos Aires you will find bife a caballo, steak "on horseback": a thick bife de chorizo (sirloin) or rump seared hard in a hot pan, crowned with two fried eggs whose yolks run into the meat juices, and served with a pile of chips. It is the plate for hungry taxi drivers at lunch and for anyone recovering from a long night. Cook the steak to your taste; Argentines usually ask for it jugoso (medium rare, about 55 °C in the centre) or a punto (medium, about 60 °C). Use eggs fried until the whites are fully set, and cook the yolks firm for anyone vulnerable. Crowding a pan that isn't hot enough is the classic mistake, which stews the steak grey, so let the pan smoke first. Chef's tip: rest the steak while you fry the eggs in the same pan; the beef juices in the fat give the whites crisp, savoury edges.

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Salsa criolla

Chimichurri gets the fame, but at a Sunday asado anywhere from Buenos Aires to Salta the other bowl on the table is salsa criolla: tomato, onion and red and green pepper cut into small, even dice, dressed with vinegar, oil, oregano and salt, and left to sit until the juices pool. It is spooned over steak, chorizo and provoleta, piled into choripán, and eaten with grilled vegetables, and it brings freshness and acid to rich, smoky food. Expect crunch, a clean sour note and a mild sweetness from the peppers. Chopping it all in a food processor is the mistake: it turns watery and pulpy, so take the time to dice by hand. Some cooks use only red onion, others add spring onion or a pinch of chilli; adjust to taste. Chef's tip: dress the onion with the vinegar and salt first for 10 minutes before adding the rest; it softens the raw bite without losing the crunch.

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Ensalada mixta

Simplicity is the whole idea of the ensalada mixta, the salad that comes with almost every order at a parrilla and sits beside the meat at every family asado: crisp lettuce, ripe tomato and thinly sliced onion, dressed at the table with oil, vinegar and salt from the cruets. There's no mustard, no sugar, no herbs, so the quality of the tomatoes and the crunch of the lettuce carry it. It is cool, sharp and refreshing, and cuts through grilled meat, provoleta and fries. The usual blunder is dressing it too early: the salt pulls water from the tomato and the lettuce goes limp in minutes, so toss it just before it goes to the table. Round butterhead lettuce (criolla) is the classic, but any crisp lettuce works. Chef's tip: soak the sliced onion in iced water for 10 minutes and drain; it stays crunchy but loses its harsh edge.

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Mbejú

Mbejú (say 'mbeh-JOO') is a Guaraní breakfast and merienda: cassava starch rubbed with butter, cheese and a little milk into damp crumbs, then pressed into a hot pan where it fuses into a thick, chewy, crisp-edged cake. It's eaten in the countryside with cocido (sweet toasted yerba tea with milk) on cool mornings, cut into wedges. It's naturally gluten free and very quick. Chef's tip: the mix should look like damp sand, not a dough; if you can squeeze a handful and it just holds, it's right.

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Mate

Mate is less a drink than a ritual in Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay: a gourd (also called a mate) packed with yerba mate leaves, a metal straw called a bombilla, and a thermos of hot water passed around friends, family and coworkers, from the parks of Buenos Aires to long bus rides across Patagonia. One person, the cebador, pours and drinks first, then refills and passes it on. It's grassy, bitter and gently stimulating; sweet versions add sugar. Chef's tip: never use boiling water; at about 75–80 °C the yerba stays fresh for many rounds instead of 'burning' and turning bitter.

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Chimichurri

No Argentine asado (barbecue), from a Buenos Aires rooftop to an estancia in the Pampas, is complete without a jar of chimichurri on the table. It is a loose, oily sauce of finely chopped parsley, garlic, dried oregano and chilli flakes in red wine vinegar and oil, sharp and herby rather than smooth like pesto. Spoon it over grilled vegetables, provoleta, halloumi, potatoes and bread. Chef's tip: chop everything by hand and let it sit for a few hours; a food processor bruises the parsley into a green purée and the flavours never settle.

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Panqueques con dulce de leche

In Argentina and Uruguay, panqueques are not fluffy American pancakes but thin crêpes, and the classic way to eat them is rolled around dulce de leche, often as the dessert at a neighbourhood parrilla or on a rainy Sunday afternoon at home. Some restaurants sprinkle them with sugar and caramelise the top with a hot iron; at home a dusting of sugar is enough. Chef's tip: rest the batter for 20 minutes so the flour relaxes and the crêpes come out thin and tender rather than rubbery.

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Provoleta

Provoleta is the first thing off the grill at an Argentine asado: a thick round of provolone-style cheese, invented by Italian immigrants in Buenos Aires, cooked in a small iron pan or straight on the grate until the outside forms a golden crust and the inside turns molten. It comes to the table bubbling, sprinkled with oregano and chilli flakes and drizzled with chimichurri, to scoop up with crusty bread. Many provolones use animal rennet, so check the label and choose one made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: chill the cheese well before cooking; cold cheese forms a crust before the middle melts and runs.

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Torta frita

In Uruguay, a grey rainy afternoon has one answer: torta frita and mate. These thin discs of dough, pierced with a hole in the middle, are fried until puffed and golden and either sprinkled with sugar or eaten plain, still hot, between sips passed around the circle. In Montevideo you'll smell them from street stalls on wet days; at home they're made with butter or beef fat, here with butter. Chef's tip: the hole in the middle isn't decoration; it lets the centre cook through at the same speed as the edges.

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