After so many tasty Argentine offerings, (yes, yes, I’ll get to
the meat soon enough!), I really couldn’t believe the queso. Every bit of
cheese I’ve had here has made me throw my hands up and ask, “¿Que?” in the same
tone people use to ask wtf. Because there is just nothing O-que about the queso.
The fresh mozzarella is as processed as it gets, anything called quatro quesos
tastes like it was divided by quatro, and even the Roquefort is anything but
forte. The best cheese I had was a wedge of grocery-store cheddar after a long
hike.
Far as I’m concerned, all the jamon in Argentina should take a hike as well. The jamon cocido is a firmer version of spam. I had a little more hope for the jamon crudo. The strong Italian influence had them calling it prosciutto. And Argentina may have mastered pasta, but prosciutto is clearly a secret the Italians chose not to share. This thick, crude, heavily salted bears an eerie resemblance to something you dig out of a box of Lunchables when you’re too young to know any better.
My advice? Curse the queso, hurry past the ham and head straight to the lomo.
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