If ever you find your mouth smarting from a diet of fried meat and your throat croaking for flavor, worry not. You haven’t been teleported to the Manosphere or amassed critical PFAS concentrations. You’re just in central Argentina. And relief is close at hand. In fact, it’s just through the doors of Manush Gastropub in downtown Bariloche.
I was in such a state last month during my Patagonian ecology class. To my great surprise, the dazzling scenery, plant-based learning, and lack of inspiring provision demolished the dopaminergic highway between food and happiness. For the first time, pleasure came from the world around me, not the meal within. All the same, two weeks of gnawing through the life-giving leather of trout filets, venison cutlets, and poor forensic sketches of pasta and pies left a need for a burger like I’ve never known. So, driven by the startling horsepower of metabolic imperative, I heeded the advice of renowned population geneticist Andrea Premoli and ran into the burly arms of the Big Manush. And what arms they were.
Mmm! Two 140 g (⅓ lb) patties, buttressed by a heap of stout-soaked onions, each with a mantle of cheddar. The mysterious ‘salsa irlandesa’ and a subtle aioli danced in cycles of harmony and contrast like yin with yang. In rumours of garlic and bellows of beef, this thing brought the spice rack to life—at least relative to the rest of its homeland. Speaking of which, these cows weren’t from the States: the two-stack’s textured tissue bore granular units of fat embedded in an athletic matrix of bife. Pair that with a cheese pull that would make Flint Lockwood question the limits of science and a featherlight bun and you’re looking at the reverend bulk of the Big Manush.
And it was huge. It was saturated. But most of all, it was hot. Touch-starved and soy-faced, I succumbed to the heat of its hug with abandon. My forehead beaded. My hair steamed. But I chowed it to the end. Much like the deluge that took down the itsy bitsy spider, the house stout washed it clean.
On the whole, I’d liken the BM to the lovely orange aster Mutisia decurrens var. patagonica: a rare and vibrant moment, animate enough to rouse a spirit lulled by the swaths of arid steppe around it. For 24,500 Argentine smackaroos (~$18.59 USD), I lament not taking Dr. Premoli’s suggestion to order it with the extra picante green sauce (secret menu). Bonus point awarded for the cutesy sword skewer, and a point deducted for the middling fries. There may yet be some secret enclave of culinary passion in a distant corner of Argentina. My best guess would be Buenos Aires. But that’s a burger for another time. My best to you and yours.