Have you ever met somebody who was trying really hard to convince you that they’re somebody they’re not, and then you get to know them and you like them but not for the person they’re trying to be? That’s how I feel about Buenos Aires.
A week there piqued my curiosity, and at the risk of being offensively reductive, this is what I came to: You can blame the city’s early elites, who dreamed of making it “The Paris of South America.” And they weren’t subtle about it. They built wide avenues like the Champs-Élysées, opulent buildings like the Opéra Garnier, and grand parks like the Luxembourg Gardens.
Even the tango, which is now synonymous with Argentina, was rejected by the elites when it first emerged in the immigrant neighborhood of La Boca, where fishermen would gather to sing and dance after a long day’s work at the port. The Buenos Aires elites dismissed tango as a vile, vulgar, low-class, good-for-nothing form of expression. Meanwhile, a few decades after it was invented, the Parisians embraced it as a daring and exotic art form. Only after it became popular in Paris did the people of Buenos Aires say: “Wait, wait… the tango is ours!”
The Buenos Aires boom began around 1880 and lasted until the stock market crashed at the end of the 1920s. Argentina had the 8th-largest economy in the world at one point. To me, the nature of its early optimism was different from cities like New York. The Gatsby-esque optimism of New York in the 1920s was “things are happening here” while the optimism of Buenos Aires was closer to “things will happen here.”
These grand ambitions shaped life in Buenos Aires — and also death. I like to sign up for Airbnb Experiences whenever I travel, and I was perplexed to see how many of them were tours of the Recoleta Cemetery. Who wants to visit a cemetery on vacation? But it seemed so strange that I had to visit. Sure enough, the mausoleums were some of the most beautiful art in the city because of the roaring status competition for who could spend eternity under the grandest hunk of stone. The city’s elites were not only interested in promoting their city but also themselves.
Reflecting their obsession with Europe, the elites hired French and Italian designers instead of Argentinian ones, which is why the cemetery doesn’t look Latin. These mausoleums were the Birkin bags of the time. Many of them even have glass doors as a way of saying: “Look inside to see just how rich I was.” Even after visiting, the idea of a bougie cemetery feels like a complete and total oxymoron to me.
With hope came immigration, and those early immigrants were mostly Italian. In 1910, the number of Buenos Aires school children with two parents born in Argentina was half the number of kids with two parents born in Italy. Today, Argentina has one of the largest Italian communities outside of Italy, and 63% of people in Buenos Aires have Italian roots. During my visit, President Milei was granted Italian citizenship.
Italian roots bring Italian food, and if there’s any category where Buenos Aires reigns supreme, it’s the gelato. If you ever visit, skip the standard restaurant dessert and go out for ice cream instead. Just know that even at midnight, the best ice cream shops will have a line.
The dulce de leche flavors may be delicious, but the Argentinian dreams of tomorrow never quite materialized. The elites (who made their money from agriculture and cattle ranching, and eventually, land ownership) built mini-palaces in town, many of which were converted into hotels and embassies after the economy tanked.
Since then, the city’s fate has played out like the story of a prodigious athlete from a rich family who squandered her potential with 10,000 self-inflicted wounds. The stagnation is evident in the architecture. Most of the beautiful buildings were built before the Great Depression, and many of the more recent ones look like no thought went into them.
The façade on these new buildings are simple. They value function over form and don’t have a shred of ornamentation. Certain views from the street level are defaced by hanging telephone wires, and too many buildings are yearning for a power wash.
The shorter the building, the older and therefore the more beautiful it’s likely to be. For that reason, the city is prettier from the streets than the top floor of a skyscraper. From on high, the eye is drawn to the shoddy maintenance and architecture of the average building, rather than the decor of the many beautiful buildings you’ll see on a walk around town.
Though Argentina does have a unique culture of food and dance and the general passion of its people, I can’t find it in the art or architecture. I’m sure the early elites are rolling over in their ostentatious mausoleums because of the more recent buildings, which are sterile and purely utilitarian. I never got to the bottom of why Argentina doesn’t have a rich visual arts tradition, but it’s a strange void in the culture. Maybe economic struggles are to blame.
The Economy
Everybody talks about it. Waiters, cab drivers, hotel receptionists. You name it. Just a year ago, the monthly inflation rate was 25.5%, and inflation of that magnitude taints daily life.
Echoes of hyperinflation show up all over the place. Restaurant menus are designed so that the prices can be easily changed, because, just a year ago, when money printing was at its peak, the price of a steak might’ve been different on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.
The bills locals grew up with are practically worthless now. At the end of one of my taxi rides, the cab driver shined a $10,000 peso bill (equivalent of $10 USD) under the light to check its legitimacy. My first thought was “Wow, there must be a lot of fake currency circling around here” until a friend told me this is the first year that $10,000 bills have ever been printed — and the old administration didn’t print larger bills because it felt like admitting defeat to inflation. At the bank, I asked for $65,000 Argentine Pesos ($65 USD) and received it all in $1,000 and $2,000 bills. My wallet was so fat that sitting on it for an hour straight would have given me scoliosis.
One friend griped about how President Milei repeats the same few talking points about the causes of inflation, but based on how fluently people talk about the economy, it’s working. An American economist I had dinner with there insisted he’s rarely recognized on the streets when he travels, but was recognized twice in Buenos Aires, presumably because people have been binge-watching his inflation-related YouTube videos.
When I asked one cab driver what he thought of Milei’s ideas, he said something to the effect of: “I like his ideas. He’s a little crazy, but he’s smart and good for Argentina.”
To bring this conversation to the streets, a major talking point for a group chat I joined down there was how to exchange money around town. Though I didn’t plan ahead enough to do it, word on the street is that it’s best practice to bring a fat wad of American Benjamins and exchange them for Argentinian pesos once you arrive. Historically, there’ve been black market money exchangers called cuevas who offer a better exchange rate than the banks.
These economic struggles, and the black market ways to skirt them, aren’t a new phenomenon. A New York Times guide to Buenos Aires from 1974 says: “The official exchange rate is 10 pesos to a dollar. But in the stamp‐and‐coin stores that line Corrientes Avenue, money is openly exchanged at the black market rate, which is hovering nowadays at around 13 pesos to the dollar.”
Just like the architecture, the story on the surface distorted what was really going on. Politicians refused to acknowledge the true scale of inflation. Black market exchange rates diverged from official ones. In this way, the financial fiasco was yet another façade.
For all its economic troubles, the people of Buenos Aires haven’t lost their fire — and nowhere does this shine through more than its obsession with meat.
The Steak
Buenos Aires’s meat culture is dictated by its geography. People rave about the steaks, but the ones I ate at restaurants were only okay and consistently overcooked. Maybe I didn’t go to the right places. Or maybe the restaurant steaks in Buenos Aires are overrated. That said, they’re relatively cheap (even though food prices are much more expensive for Americans now than they were a year ago, due to the inflation slowdown). The steaks I can buy in Buenos Aires are better than what I can get in America for the same price, but the very best steaks I’ve had in America are better than the best ones I had at restaurants in Buenos Aires.
The best meat I had was at an asado, a uniquely Argentinian approach to cooking and eating meat. Grilling happens over the course of a few hours, and you can come and go as you wish. I attended two of them. When I asked the chef how hot the steaks should be on the grill, he said: “Your hand should be able to hover one inch over the meat for roughly ten seconds. If you can’t last that long, the meat’s too hot. If you can last longer, the meat’s too cold.”
In addition to the meat, both asados flowed with malbec and a curious local concoction of Coca-Cola and a bitter alcoholic drink called Fernet that tastes like medicine but is supposedly good for digestion.
Much of Argentina, and especially its central region called The Pampas, which exists just outside of Buenos Aires, is covered in vast and open fields of grass where cattle can freely graze and feed off the fertile soil. Relative to Texas, the beef I had down there was salted less, not as fatty, and served without the rubs or seasoning that are par for the course at a Texas BBQ joint. Pits, smokers, and BBQ sauce were nowhere to be found. The emphasis was on Chimichurri, malbec wine, and open-fire grills instead.
Pro-tip: The fun of eating steak in Buenos Aires is all the different cuts of meat you get to try. Besides the sirloin strip (bife de chorizo), save room for cuts you wouldn’t ordinarily eat at home. They’re called achuras, and they consist of kidneys, intestines, and sweetbreads. Standard steaks are cooked more in Buenos Aires than they are in the States, so be explicit about how you like yours cooked and ask for table salt as well.
| Aspect | Argentina BBQ | Texas BBQ |
| Salt Quantity | Little salt | Lots of salt |
| Seasoning | No rubs or seasoning | Diverse rubs and seasoning |
| Cooking Equipment | Parilla (open grill) | Pits and smokers |
| Sauce | Chimichurri | BBQ sauce |
| Specialty Sides | Intestines and grilled cheese | Pork belly and burnt ends |
| How the Cattle is Fed | Grass-Fed | Grain-Fed |
| Wine on the Side | Oh yeahhhh | Eh, not really |
Walking the Streets
Buenos Aires is Latin for a city so influenced by Europe, and European for a city so influenced by Latin America.
As you’re probably expecting by now, the areas closest to the elite neighborhood of Recoleta feel the most like Paris: wide avenues, big parks, grand statues. It’s the Upper East Side of Buenos Aires. Though it’s delightful, it’s unlike the rest of Buenos Aires which feels more like Brooklyn or Barcelona. Neighborhoods like Palermo are arranged in a grid with trees on the sidewalks. They have the same density of hipster baristas, international restaurants, and surprisingly elaborate houseplant shops. The murals and graffiti are the kind of things you’d see in Bushwick, though the volume of them isn’t as high and I don’t get the sense the artists painted them under the influence of mushrooms.
The streets feel fairly safe too. Nobody mentioned any safety concerns, at least in the neighborhoods I frequented like Palermo and Recoleta. That’s why I was so surprised when I witnessed a theft. I was walking to my hotel when a thief in an orange construction vest jumped off his motorcycle and ripped a backpack right out of a tourist’s hands, only to hop back on the motorcycle, crank the engine, and speed right off. I wanted to shout, to chase him, to do something — but I was completely helpless. It all happened faster than I could process what was going on. It was a reminder that crimes of this sort happen fast. One second, you’re soaking in the peace of an afternoon stroll; the next, you’re pulsing with adrenaline and ready for a fight.
Many of the fights in Buenos Aires happen amongst soccer fans. Buenos Aires has more soccer stadiums than any city in the world. More than 20 professional clubs play in and around the city. All of them have their own stadium, and six of them seat 47,000 people or more. The most prominent (and vicious) rivalry is between Boca Juniors and River Plate. Boca plays in the port neighborhood, and has working-class fans, while River Plate plays in a bougier part of town. Echoes of the rivalry carry so far that later on the trip, when I was up by the Brazil border, I sat next to one couple wearing Boca Juniors jerseys and another guy in River Plate gear, and they instantly started throwing shade at each other.
Driving the Streets
Visit, and you’ll spend a lot of time in cabs, both because they’re so cheap and the city is so big. Many of the major streets have dedicated lanes for taxis and buses which makes it faster to get around in a cab too. Which reminds me… I’ve missed flagging down cabs. It’s now as fun as what calling an Uber and magically having it arrive at your home used to be. If getting an Uber to show up right at your home felt like the epitome of luxury, whistling for a cab now feels like the epitome of cool.
I can’t shake the feeling that people in Buenos Aires really like to drive. Car culture reigns supreme. There’s a car club, a car museum, many car dealerships, and even the public buses are the kinds of things I’d want to buy a model of for my office. Their design blends Art Deco futurism with the lively and colorful Fileteado Porteño art style that was born in Buenos Aires at the beginning of the 20th century.
The people in Buenos Aires drive like they love to drive. None of my taxi drivers ever seemed stressed or anxious or anything of the sort. People honk, but in friendly ways. Beep-beep is a way of talking, not screaming.
There’s a romance about the way locals drive. Come to think of it, their driving style reminds me of the way Argentinians play soccer, and especially, the ready-for-a-fight passion they brought to their semifinal game against Holland in the 2022 World Cup, and the elegance of Diego Maradona’s iconic “Goal of the Century” against England in the ‘86 quarterfinal when he weaved between defenders, juking them left and right, as if the ball was tethered to his foot, with levels of grace that’d historically been reserved for the tango dance floor.
You don’t see many stop signs on the streets either. In America, when people get to an intersection, they stop. In Buenos Aires, drivers don’t stop much at all. Instead they slow down, eye the other drivers’ progress, and when in doubt, give the right of way to the driver on the right. It’s negotiation-by-momentum. This only works because most streets are one-way and I’m shocked there aren’t more T-bone collisions.
Strangely, none of my cab drivers spoke English but just about all of them drove to the sound of American musicians like Bruno Mars and Sinatra. Or maybe they just changed the radio station when this Texas-based gringo got in the car. Who knows?
I like Buenos Aires. I really do — more than any other city I’ve been to in Latin or South America, in fact.
And it’s especially attractive in December, before the high season, when people are freezing their giblets off in the northern hemisphere. Buenos Aires is the meeting point between French facades, Italian food, and Latin passion. I just wish it didn’t try so hard to be something it’s not.
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P.S This piece was written with help of LLMs like Claude, Grok, and ChatGPT. There’s no way they could’ve written this piece for me, but they did write it with me, and I recommend the video below if you’re curious about how AI is changing writing.
