Chimichurri at Maria's Table in Mendoza

Argentina pulls at you in a way that is hard to name. Maybe it is the tango, that dance of close holding and sudden turns that seems to carry the whole country in it. Maybe it is the endless grass of the Pampas. For me it was always the food. Argentina is a paradise for anyone who loves meat, and at the center of all that beef sits a sauce almost as much a symbol of the country as the tango: chimichurri.

Walk the busy streets of Buenos Aires and you could be forgiven for thinking chimichurri is a birthright. It is spooned over grilled meat at every parrilla, its green bright against the dark crust of the steak. Its history, like that of so many good recipes, is tangled in myth, rumor, and a generous pinch of guesswork.

One story says the name comes from “Jimmy McCurry,” an Englishman who supposedly fought beside South American troops in the 19th century. The locals loved his sauce but could not manage his name, and over the years “Jimmy McCurry” wore down into “chimichurri.” I would love to believe it. The records are less romantic: there is no sign such a man ever fought in those battles.

Another story goes back to Argentina’s early indigenous people, the Mapuche. They made a sauce called “chimi churin,” of chili peppers, garlic, and herbs. It is easy to imagine Spanish settlers arriving, tasting it, and reworking it with ingredients they knew, laying the ground for the chimichurri we eat today.

Wherever it began, by the time I met chimichurri it was rooted deep in Argentine life. A visit to a family ranch outside Mendoza showed me how deep.

The evening began with the father, Roberto, building the fire for an asado, the great Argentine barbecue. As the flames rose and the sun went down, laying orange light over the vineyards, Roberto’s wife, Maria, waved me into the kitchen.

On the counter were the makings of chimichurri: bright green parsley, oregano, chili flakes, garlic, and vinegar. She told me every household in Argentina has its own blend, handed from parents to children. The secret was less in what went in than in how it came together, each family guarding its own balance.

As we chopped and stirred, Maria told me about her grandmother, who swore chimichurri could heal. “She said it could cure a fever, lift your mood, even mend a broken heart,” Maria laughed. Watching her hands, I could see the years going into the bowl along with the garlic.

The meat came off the fire hissing and dripping. We sat down under a sky full of stars. I took my first bite, heavy with chimichurri, and something opened. The sauce was sharp, green, hot, and sour all at once, and it made the meat taste more like itself. It tasted of the country, of its history, its hard years, and its good ones.

When I left the ranch the next day, Maria pressed a jar of her family’s chimichurri blend into my hands. I held it the whole drive like it might spill. It was a jar of spices. It was also a jar of her grandmother’s voice.

Now that the world is smaller, chimichurri turns up in kitchens from New York to Tokyo. Like the tango, though, its heart stays in Argentina. Food, like music and dance, crosses every border and still remembers where it was born.

In Argentina chimichurri is inheritance as much as sauce, the dance of the table, with old stories in every spoonful. Like any good story, it changes a little each time it is told. Each telling leaves it greener.