by Dina Bennett
Sacrificial Lamb
RíO GALLEGOS, ARGENTINA, 2008
We’re making two nice ladies sweat. They’re in the kitchen at Estancia Monte Dinero, a sheep station a few miles back up the road, likely wondering if we’re coming back as promised. I’m equally anxious, as, if my wishful thinking becomes reality, there’s a home-cooked meal awaiting our return, albeit one that, given our tardiness, is now cold.
That morning, on our drive down Argentina’s Atlantic coast from Río Gallegos to see the penguins at Cabo Virgenes, we stopped there unannounced, more for an impromptu leg-stretch than with any expectation of a meal. As we approached down a long dirt driveway, we could see metal sheds with rusting tin roofs and wood barns with paint peeling off splintered boards. Farm tractors listed on flattened tires with seats sprung like a jack-in-the-box, the barnyard littered with engine and gearbox detritus so oxidized by salt air that whoever was attempting that lube job years ago was right to give up. Everything appeared on the losing end of a wrestling match against gravity, abetted by the sharp breeze blowing off the nearby Atlantic. Bernard, as usual, was driving. I, as usual, was fretting. There wasn’t a sheep in sight.
“Looks abandoned,” I said by way of encouragement. “Maybe we should just go on to the penguins.” Bernard, as he often does when he disagrees with where I’m suggesting he go, replied by pressing on the gas. As we rounded the base of the driveway, we saw a red and white clapboard house set on a swatch of lawn under the gnarled branches of a giant, twisted tree. It cast such deep shade the grass looked black. The cottage was like a fairy tale, freshly painted, surrounded by a white picket fence protecting a well-kept bed of yellow and orange marigolds. Clearly, the bungalow was still in use, though it looked out of place, being so fresh and clean amidst the derelict, dried up rest of the property. As a child, I read all of Hans Christian Andersen’s works as well as Russian fairy tales and the Brothers Grimm, so I know my cottages. And this one had nothing foreboding about it. It was benignly inviting in its cheerfulness, speaking to me of plump gray-haired grannies cooking lovely nourishing things. The only thing missing from the picture was me, eating.
During its heyday in the 1990s, Estancia Monte Dinero used to welcome guests to simple rooms and home-cooked meals. When two women stepped onto the veranda to greet us, lured, I suppose, by the crunch of our tires on gravel, it was a good sign. Wiping floury hands on their aprons, they introduced themselves by their jobs, not their names: cook and assistant. The cook, in a starched white chef’s jacket, had dark curled hair and rosy cheeks. Her assistant was short, strong, with tawny skin, her hair swept under a floral head kerchief. At first I was puzzled to be greeted by the kitchen help, but as we stood chatting about the usual topics, such as where we were from and where we were going, the two struck me as proficient in more than just cooking. There was something in their bearing and the way they met my eyes that made me think they were probably running a larger operation than just a seasonal tourist kitchen. Yet despite the floury hands, a dead giveaway that they were in the midst of making something dessert-like which surely needed attention, they seemed uncommonly eager to talk, to do whatever they could to keep us from leaving.
The story of the place was a classic tale of immigrant success. In the mid-1800s, the Greenshields family of Scotland emigrated to the Islas Malvinas (the Falklands) as part of a wave of thousands of immigrants drawn to economic opportunity provided by the British government, which regained possession of the islands in 1833. In 1884, a family son, Thomas, left the security of his family’s sheep ranch in the Malvinas for the mainland of Patagonia. Though cattle couldn’t thrive on the short dry grass, sheep could, and did. Between 1880 and 1914, the Patagonian Austral became one of the world’s premier locales for raising sheep, following the pattern of New Zealand. Thomas prospered as a sheep rancher despite the hardships of climate, remoteness, and predators. Perhaps tiring of only sheep for company, he married Anne McMunn in 1889. Unlike some of his fellow Scottish Malvineros, who became very wealthy, Thomas died at age twenty-nine, a few months after his wedding. Anne’s grief was short-lived. Or perhaps she simply was pragmatic as only a pioneer needing to survive can be. She remarried swiftly, to a local doctor, Arthur Fenton. It was Fenton who chose the name Monte Dinero, “Money Hill,” though not to crow about his newly wedded fortune. Monte Dinero was already the name of a hill on the property that was used as a reference point by ships entering the Straits of Magellan. Some of those ship captains apparently were too near-sighted to notice landmarks, haplessly running their galleons aground, spilling the gold doubloons in their hold into the ocean. Thus the hill also became the reference point for land-based treasure hunters.
Five generations later, on the sunny day we arrived, the Estancia was still in the Fenton family, pasturing twenty-three thousand sheep on its sixty-six thousand acres. “Our prize Merino ram is at the livestock fair right now,” the chef said. “In Río Gallegos this weekend. Please, you must go to see them.” Her voice entreated me, as if their ram expected to welcome us to his pen personally, would be desolate if we didn’t visit. “This year our rams have won the award for Most Handsome. This has been so for many years.” Despite these pleasantries, I had a strange feeling that there was more to be told than she was saying. She seemed sad. Maybe also lonely.
“Is Monte Dinero still serving lunch?” I inquire. Her face crestfallen, the chef says, “No. Now we only have the oilfield workers. And when they get back here, well … They’re tired. And they only want to drink.” So that was it. No more accolades from visiting travelers, just drunk wildcatters at her table who couldn’t distinguish soufflé from slop. She straightens her shoulder and sighs, as if to imply the decision would have been different if left up to her. I, too, am dejected, because the spruced up old house seemed to promise a wonderful lunch to come.
We stand there looking at each other, none of us ready to leave. Which gives enough time for a brilliant thought to appear, something I learned from traveling to Europe with my French mother every year of my youth. My sister and I still fall into hysterics as we mimic our mother inspecting any hotel room assigned to us, pursing her lips, her head unconsciously shaking a genteel “No” as she opens a closet door and peers into the bathroom. “But this will never do,” she would say, her aggrieved tone registering shock more appropriate to a concierge at the Four Seasons suggesting we sleep outside on the dumpster, than for a perfectly adequate room at a perfectly nice hotel. Though when my sister was twelve and I was ten our mother’s behavior left us cringing in the hallway, her aim was clear: if she refused the offered room, maybe she’d be given something better, if only to shut her up. Since then I never hesitate to ask for what I want. At Estancia Monte Dinero, the opportunity fairly screams. Where Bernard would chat for an hour until the chef could do nothing but offer us lunch of her own accord, I am too impatient for that. Besides, penguins are waiting. “Would you make lunch for us?” I ask. “We love good food. And I know Monte Dinero is famous for that.” I’m hoping flattery will get me everywhere. From the way she gives our bodies a quick once over, it seems she might base her answer on whether our small size warrants her culinary efforts. But if she wants to cook, we’re the only ones around willing to eat.
“Yes,” she says. “With pleasure. Of course. What time will you be back?”
“What do you think, Bernard? Noonish?” We go through a rapid calculation of drive time plus penguin spotting time and then tell her to expect us around 1:00. We can barely suppress our grins. Lunch cooked to order just for us. What delicious luck.
It is shortly after 2:00 when we pull back under the century-old tree that shades the ranch house. Stepping onto the wraparound porch, I quickly brush myself off, but Bernard is more thorough, clapping his hands on my waist, turning me around, and whacking dust off my butt. “Surely we’re not as filthy as oilfield workers,” I say. Bernard agrees but keeps slapping and brushing. “It doesn’t matter if they’ve seen worse,” he says. “They’ve made a
special lunch for us.” In a further attempt to appear worthy of their efforts, I run my fingers through my hair to settle the strands loosened by the Atlantic breezes.
We step through the screen door into the hush of another era. Sepia photos of early sheep ranching operations line the walls, populated by sturdy men in wind-whipped baggy trousers, odd old trucks and leggy, scraggle-maned horses, corrals holding what seem like thousands of fluffy, fat sheep. Chunky wood-framed sofas and chairs, piled with overstuffed leather cushions, fairly ooze with a century of citrus, beeswax, and pine soap that saturates the air with a tangy aroma. Inhaling it now, I seem to swell with comfort and a warm, suffuse happiness that only the best childhood memories can provide. The stillness is broken by the tock, tock, tock of an ancient grandfather clock in the formal dining room and faint radio tunes from the back of the house. I’m transported back to those old-world inns of my girlhood family trips, on which faint smells of tomato, onion, and caramel wafted from a hidden kitchen, where the hush was broken only sporadically by the swish of a dust rag on a mahogany bannister rail or the clack of low-heeled pumps as a receptionist strode by to attend a guest.
Closing the door quietly behind us as if we’ve entered Westminster Cathedral mid-mass, we approach the long-burnished wood table on the screened porch with reverence. On it are six little earthenware bowls, holding cashews, cheese squares, cubed ham, chips, tiny saltines, and cheese sticks. We each try to hide our dismay from the other. “Oh,” says Bernard. “Nuts. I like nuts.” And he takes a handful.
“Cheese. That’s good.”
We munch a bit. “This isn’t much,” says Bernard, just as I say, “Do you think this is it?” We look at each other in disappointment. Apparently the chef set out some packaged tidbits for us and left to take care of her other work. Not even a refreshing beverage is offered. I can’t actually blame her. She probably had no supplies on hand and had been too ashamed to say so. “Well, let’s sit down. It’s at least something.” Our chairs scrape the wood floor, resounding loudly through the old house as we pull them out.
We have just put napkins on our laps when the kitchen door slams open and out comes the chef, cheeks red, smiling with relief. “Ah!” she exclaims, gratitude evident in her voice. “Here you are. Wonderful. Wonderful!” Because, in fact, the poor lady has suffered her own disappointment, that she cooked a meal for people who didn’t care to return for it. We had said one o’clock and here we wandered in after two. I kick myself for being so rude. Now, to put herself at ease, she introduces each of the little snacks she’d set forth. She points to the crackers, “These are crackers.” Next, she points to the cheese, “This is cheese.” And so on for the ham and the rest of the tidbits. She smiles with pleasure, standing next to the table twisting her hands as if she can’t quite believe we’re real.
Suddenly she’s a whirling dervish, dashing back to the kitchen, to return in seconds bearing larger bowls of freshly made cold appetizers: chicken breast in olive oil with pickled carrots, vinegary slices of lamb heart with onions, and preserved chunks of young lamb with peppers. “To help you be patient. While you wait,” she explains.
“Bernard,” I whisper. “This isn’t even the real meal. Which means there’s more to come!” I stab a lamb heart with a toothpick.
Hustling back to the kitchen, the chef skids to a stop, her hand flying to her mouth in mortification. She’s just realized her honored guests have nothing to drink. She spins around so fast her white poufy cap nearly falls off her head. With three strides she disappears into the pantry, returning immediately with two bottles of wine clutched in one hand, four wine glasses in the other. She pours us both a glass of warm red and a glass of chilly white, pale as straw. “So! Try it, try it!” she orders, arms crossed, chin tucked into her neck as she waits. Her black hair pokes in wisps from under her cap and her equally black eyes are flashing with pride. Who are we to say no to such generosity? We each raise a glass to each other and to her, sip happily, and only when we put the glasses down, satisfied, does she return to the kitchen.
Hungry from our penguin crawl, we dig into the appetizers but have only a few minutes to make an impact before a parade of hot dishes appears. One after another, the chef and her assistant carry warm entrees in thick glazed ceramic bowls to the table. In a delirium we tuck into succulent stewed lamb liver with caramelized onions followed by juicy lamb brochettes, crisp lamb schnitzel, delicate empanadas stuffed with oregano lamb stew, and the pièce de résistance: lamb pizza, a creation far superior to the pizza we had in Ulan Baatar or Novosibirsk. “Do you think they have rooms?” Bernard asks in a rare pause between bites. And again, I’m amazed how on this journey we seem able to read each other’s mind. “We could stay a few days. They’d be happy to cook for us.”
When the chef returns to observe us eating, red face gleaming, I raise the idea. She seems as sad to reveal their rooms are occupied full-time by the oilfield crew as I am to hear it. Though it’s probably a good thing for the fit of my travel clothes. I feel bad for her. She’s a generous, gregarious woman whose circumstances have changed beyond her control. “No go,” I tell Bernard. “We’ll have to eat as much as we can now and that’s the end of it.”
The grandfather clock tocks stoically as we delve into the food in front of us. We leave no dish unsampled and would have wiped each bowl clean had not the chef returned with the query Bernard is hoping to hear. “Would you perhaps like dessert?” she asks. Does a Frenchman want dessert? That’s like asking if a baseball fan wants a beer. I explain to her that Bernard would crawl to Río Gallegos on his knees for dessert, a statement which does not translate well, leaving her gaping and eyeing me with suspicion. So I revert to the classic enthusiastic “Sí!” Neither of us has said much to the other through lunch, apart from a continuous chorus of yums. But when the chef and her helper return with three desserts, it’s an embarrassment of riches that shocks us into total silence. One by one they present us with a flan in caramel sauce, a fresh fruit salad, and torta negra, an Argentinean specialty made with three layers of dense cake slices spread with dark dulce de leche and sprinkled with chopped walnuts. Neither of us can bear to hurt their feelings so, full though we are, we accept a heaping helping of each.
To prepare ourselves for the hour and a half of washboarded road taking us back to Río Gallegos and our rendezvous with Mr. Handsome Merino of the 2008 Livestock Fair, we take a long walk down one of the dusty ranch roads. The land is flat, covered with scrappy dead grass, the sky a washed-out blue. It’s not pretty. And if indeed there are twenty-three thousand sheep here, they’re doing a good job of blending into the landscape. The desolate scene starts to seep into our bones and the walk does little to settle our aching overstuffed stomachs. It feels to me like we’re both low, perhaps a bit depressed. Not in that post-prandial way, but as if the whole experience has been disquieting rather than satisfying. “This is a sad situation here,” I say to Bernard. Even as a child in the single digits I could slip into someone else’s skin as easily as into my footie pajamas. I think this came from being a sometimes sad, frequently moody youngster, my vibrant imagination nagging me that others’ lives were infinitely gayer than my own, and that my life could be cheerier too, if only I could figure out what they knew that I didn’t. Projecting myself into the white jacket and practical plastic slippers of our host chef happened without calculation. Our lives were totally dissimilar except for one facet: we both derived immense satisfaction from feeding other people, she professionally, me casually. Food has formed a central part of my life’s experience, placed almost at the chromosomal level by my mother, for whom generous hospitality of the culinary source was a hallmark of civility. I knew if I could never again face a friend across the table, her face beaming, exclaiming, “This is delicious!” I would be a sadder person for it. And so, I suspected, might our chef.
Though he doesn’t cook, Bernard pitches in at home with every meal, chopping, stirring and, best of all, cleaning. Not leaving others to tackle
a job alone, adding his efforts in wherever he can, was his hallmark as a businessman and then a rancher. Bernard has always admired hard work, and his willingness to assist in any endeavor is why everyone in our company loved him and why the surrounding ranchers accept him. He sighs now, straightening his shoulders resolutely. “I know,” says Bernard. “Such a great cook, and apart from us, no one to enjoy it anymore. What’s the world coming to.” That last statement is a Bernard standard, expressing everything about which he despairs, which in this case means good people not being appreciated.
I’m thinking about what I’m going to tell my friends about this lunch, doing my best to memorize every dish set in front of us. Then, a small hope intrudes, distracting me. It’s not a big deal, but it does turn inside out the way I’ve been looking at things. I stop my recitation of foodstuffs and dwell instead on this: as surely as the chef has given us joy, perhaps the immensity of what we’ve eaten may lift her dejected spirits. Perhaps we will become her story, the one she recounts to others, regaling them about the travelers who arrived out of nowhere, for whom she cooked a feast, and who sat at her table eating for hours.
Pads
DUNHUANG, CHINA, 2011
China’s Xinjiang Province, stripped bare by mineral mines and huddled hard against China’s northwest borders, is home to the Taklamakan Desert, the ultimate in desert paradoxes: one hundred thirty thousand square miles of shifting sands imprinted in the north and the south by the Silk Road. As part of our nine-thousand-mile drive from Istanbul to Kolkata in 2011, we were about to have the pleasure of crossing it.
