Jujuy’s attractions are limited. But it does have some of the best Manny’s Bars (™JD) in the world. Best described as small and simple with cheap prices and a limited menu, these are the sort of places occupied by old men playing dominoes in Spain and local workers, wastrels and off-duty policemen in Argentina.
The first I found had the ridiculously grand name of Le Pont. Ridiculous because its fancy French connotations couldn’t be further from the truth. With no outer wall or door on to the street, just a large gap closed at night with metal shutters, Le Pont advertised its wares with garish signs hung all over the place – most dishes offered a combination of various kinds of meat sandwich with chips for 5 pesos (£1) but there was hot food too, slabs of meat and pasta and pizza. The crudely painted red and white box was constantly packed with noisy families and groups of youths. Behind the counter was where all the action happened and there I happily sat, balancing on a wobbly stool with a tin jug of cheap wine and watching what went on. Customers had to pay first – the genial owner was often in situ, clinging onto his till and talking new customers through the wall menu. He couldn’t have been more accommodating to me - What would you like mi amor? That but with that not this, no problem. Raffle tickets were issued and then orders rapidly knocked out – towers of bread buttered, pieces of meat wedged between them and the sandwiches winched on a tray upstairs where a man slapped them onto a grill and sent them back downstairs, the old ropes creaking and the chains grinding. I knew all of this because at my end of the counter there was a slanted mirror so we could all see the upstairs kitchen action. A fan whirred away, dangerous inches above our heads and the staff hurried on, keeping up with the stream of orders. In the fridge was an enormous pile of breaded meat slabs, stacked up a foot high and during rare quiet moments someone was always added to it. It was a highly successful operation and actually the food I ate there – grilled meat and salad – wasn’t bad at all.
I went to a large blue restaurant which I’d passed one late afternoon and peeked inside. It was a vast empty barn, the tv in the corner talking to itself and shifting strips of sunlight the only signs of life. Behind the counter which ran along the length of the bright pink room were old wooden cabinets and a huge silver urn with gleaming taps and spout. When I came back at lunchtime the place was packed, with customers hanging round its edges, waiting for a table. The family who owned it were identical looking, chubby with round faces and black hair and they ranged from 10 to 80, like a circus troupe. They puffed and huffed, wiping and laying and squeezing between tables but not a trick was missed. I had a delicious lunch there, more meat - a huge steak for £3, one of the best I ate in Argentina. “Here” said the little fat boy flourishing my food and grinning from ear to ear, “it’s late but well here it is”. He knew how good it was going to taste.
Down by the bus station was another favourite joint. On a corner in the noisiest part of town a busy man slapped hot dogs and burgers on a grill outside while within dubious men and whorish looking women polished off bottles of cheap booze. Though the volume from the neighbouring music stall made eating a deafening experience I had several heaped plates of delicious food there and the hot dog man always rushed in from his grill to greet me. Once I passed in the empty hours between lunch and supper (very clearly defined – it was virtually impossible to get anything to eat in Argentina between 2 and 8pm) and he was still working away, busily mopping the floor.
All of these places were incredibly good value (I never paid more than £3 for a meal) and did a roaring trade. But their cheerful staff, each one of them utterly charming, ran daily marathons round tables, tills and cookers. Every centavo was hard earned.
The first I found had the ridiculously grand name of Le Pont. Ridiculous because its fancy French connotations couldn’t be further from the truth. With no outer wall or door on to the street, just a large gap closed at night with metal shutters, Le Pont advertised its wares with garish signs hung all over the place – most dishes offered a combination of various kinds of meat sandwich with chips for 5 pesos (£1) but there was hot food too, slabs of meat and pasta and pizza. The crudely painted red and white box was constantly packed with noisy families and groups of youths. Behind the counter was where all the action happened and there I happily sat, balancing on a wobbly stool with a tin jug of cheap wine and watching what went on. Customers had to pay first – the genial owner was often in situ, clinging onto his till and talking new customers through the wall menu. He couldn’t have been more accommodating to me - What would you like mi amor? That but with that not this, no problem. Raffle tickets were issued and then orders rapidly knocked out – towers of bread buttered, pieces of meat wedged between them and the sandwiches winched on a tray upstairs where a man slapped them onto a grill and sent them back downstairs, the old ropes creaking and the chains grinding. I knew all of this because at my end of the counter there was a slanted mirror so we could all see the upstairs kitchen action. A fan whirred away, dangerous inches above our heads and the staff hurried on, keeping up with the stream of orders. In the fridge was an enormous pile of breaded meat slabs, stacked up a foot high and during rare quiet moments someone was always added to it. It was a highly successful operation and actually the food I ate there – grilled meat and salad – wasn’t bad at all.
I went to a large blue restaurant which I’d passed one late afternoon and peeked inside. It was a vast empty barn, the tv in the corner talking to itself and shifting strips of sunlight the only signs of life. Behind the counter which ran along the length of the bright pink room were old wooden cabinets and a huge silver urn with gleaming taps and spout. When I came back at lunchtime the place was packed, with customers hanging round its edges, waiting for a table. The family who owned it were identical looking, chubby with round faces and black hair and they ranged from 10 to 80, like a circus troupe. They puffed and huffed, wiping and laying and squeezing between tables but not a trick was missed. I had a delicious lunch there, more meat - a huge steak for £3, one of the best I ate in Argentina. “Here” said the little fat boy flourishing my food and grinning from ear to ear, “it’s late but well here it is”. He knew how good it was going to taste.
Down by the bus station was another favourite joint. On a corner in the noisiest part of town a busy man slapped hot dogs and burgers on a grill outside while within dubious men and whorish looking women polished off bottles of cheap booze. Though the volume from the neighbouring music stall made eating a deafening experience I had several heaped plates of delicious food there and the hot dog man always rushed in from his grill to greet me. Once I passed in the empty hours between lunch and supper (very clearly defined – it was virtually impossible to get anything to eat in Argentina between 2 and 8pm) and he was still working away, busily mopping the floor.
All of these places were incredibly good value (I never paid more than £3 for a meal) and did a roaring trade. But their cheerful staff, each one of them utterly charming, ran daily marathons round tables, tills and cookers. Every centavo was hard earned.
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