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Beef, Pure and Simple By Jeanne McManus Washington Post Staff Writer Wednesday, June 30, 1999

Chimichurri
(Makes about 2 cups)

Chimichurri is the traditional accompaniment to South American grilled meats. Like marinara, salsas and other great traditional sauces, no two chimi churri recipes are exactly alike, although you can count on four basics: parsley, garlic, olive oil and salt. Some cooks add grated onion to their chimichurri, while others throw in diced red bell pepper, fresh hot chilies, cilantro, rosemary, oregano, cayenne, even carrots.
This chimichurri, from "Miami Spice" by Steven Raichlen (Workman, 1993), can be served right away but will be better if you let it ripen for a day or two in the refrigerator.

1 bunch fresh curly parsley, stemmed and minced (about 2 cups)
8 to 10 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon salt, or to taste
Freshly ground black pepper to taste

Combine the parsley and garlic in a food processor or mortar and grind to a coarse paste. Work in the oil, lemon juice, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. Taste and add more lemon juice or salt if needed.
Per 2-tablespoon serving: 63 calories, trace protein, 1 gm carbohydrates, 7 gm fat, 0 mg cholesterol, 1 gm saturated fat, 70 mg sodium, trace dietary fiber

Man, meat, salt, fire. That's Argentine asado barbecue. Streamlined, simple, macho and refined all at once, this South American style of grilling has no marinade, no skewers, no flipping, no guys in aprons or chef hats, no fancy techniques. Just lots of beef, a mix of sausages and some sweetbreads, all cooked at a slow even heat, without pyrotechnics.

So who would know more about Argentine barbecue than Ruben Bolognesi, 65, a double threat, being Argentine by birth and, for 45 years, a meat cutter by trade? Growing up in South America, Bolognesi and his family had beef "seven days a week, breakfast, lunch and dinner" because it was inexpensive and plentiful. Was it destiny then that at age 20 he would learn from his cousin to be a butcher?

Behind the meat counter at European Foods on North Pershing Street in Arlington, Bolognesi is making his own chorizo, a mixture of ground pork and beef, spices, white wine and some sweet vermouth. Stretched before him is a case full of meat, some of which will soon to be transformed into a family feast. Every Thursday and Sunday, Bolognesi cooks the fruits of his labor for his wife, Raquel, his two children…Ruben and Graciela, who live with their spouses nearby…and his grandchildren. ("Dad told you two times a week?" says his son. "I think sometimes he slips an extra one in.")

For a Sunday night get-together, the father selects his own chorizo sausage, long strips of short ribs and vacio, a full, thick brisketlike cut of meat that Bolognesi translates as "flap steak," since it is covered with a flap of fat. The fat keeps the thick meat tender during the long, slow cooking process that is the essence of this style of Argentine barbecue. From the market freezers, Bolognesi takes sweetbreads and blood pudding, a burgundy-colored sausage made from pig's blood and suet. Then he heads for his Springfield home, for the two-grill deck (he prefers charcoal, Raquel likes propane) and the eager, hungry crowd.

The chimichurri has already been made. This staple of Argentine barbecue is a mix of olive oil, garlic, parsley and salt, and has as many variations as there are chefs. It goes on the meat after it is cooked, never as a marinade. Bolognesi's first chore is to light the charcoal, to get the coals an ash gray and to fire up the gas grill.

He covers the beef and the short ribs with a thin layer of salt. The thick vacio hits the grill first. For the next hour and a half it will cook, fat-side up on the medium heat – "easy, easy, easy," says Bolognesi – and be turned only once. Then it's joined on the grill by the short ribs, also placed with the bones down and the fat up. The chorizo go on the back of the grill…the fat links of meat need only the gentlest nudge from time to time to rotate them and brown them evenly.

Bolognesi's scarred and toughened arms and hands tell the tale of his 45-year career. The self-proclaimed "boss of the butcher shop" doesn't use grill mitts or fancy tongs, but deftly turns the meat with a simple table fork. Once the beef and chorizo have established their dominance on the grill, he adds the blood sausage. The sweetbreads go on next and are brushed lightly with a mixture of lemon juice, olive oil and pepper.

Bolognesi monitors the meat as the deck starts filling up with grandchildren and some of their friends. Another beauty of the Argentine style: The cook gets to talk, to taste, to wander away a bit from the heat of the fire. Should a flame lick up from beneath the grill and threaten to char the meat, Bolognesi quells it with a blast from a spray bottle filled with water. The flame hisses into silence, a puff of smoke rises, then disappears, and the cook goes back to the conversation.

Two baguettes are put to warm on the back of the grill. Men start to stir. They're in hover mode. The bread is a signal as sure as the green flag that starts an auto race: it's time for the chorizo to come off the grill and onto the cutting board. Bolognesi expertly slices the sausages in half lengthwise then quarters them as the men circle. The bread is quickly sliced into inch-thick rounds. The chorizo becomes a sizzling-hot appetizer, placed on the bread rounds and drizzled with the garlicky chimichurri.

Everybody gets some. But his son Ruben and son-in-law, Miguel Gonzalez, have the moves of World Cup soccer players. The two men grab and dart, circle the grill while nibbling on the little sausage sandwich, then lunge for another. Another baguette goes on the back of the grill. Then it's time for the sweetbreads to come off, be thinly sliced, put on the bread, drizzled with chimichurri and the same dance begins again.

Vegetables? Not on this grill. But on the tables (one for the adults, one for the kids) are tossed salads, and a big fruit salad is in the refrigerator for dessert.

The boss of the butcher shop's work is now done. The fork-tender vacio and short ribs come off the grill and are sliced about an inch thick. More chorizo and bread are put on the table. The sweetbreads have been consumed, but along comes the blood sausage, thick, rich and robust.

And Ruben Bolognesi, who came to America in 1976, sits for the first time all day, taking his seat at the head of the table, proud of his feast, the best meat in town, grilled in the open air.

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