San Telmo: Greased Lightning

Photo credit: www.dimmi.com.au

I visited this Argentine grill bar for a number of reasons. Firstly, I had just finished watching a ninety minute documentary on the best beef in the world on Netflix, so let’s just say I had let my guard down somewhat. I’d asked for a recommendation for a good meat-fest in Melbourne (yes, I’m still here) and a new friend of mine recommended this among a few other places to try before I eventually leave. The second reason is that I was running low on dollars that day so I was hoping to find a place that’d do two meals in one. Go figure. The third reason is that I had some writer’s block for the Dinner by Heston article, so how better to reinvigorate the mental capacity than by breaking a fast with meat.

After passing through a wooden door, I enter a veritable palace of dark, grained wood, soft calfskin-leather booths, and the typical garish exposed air ducts synonymous with the Melbourne food scene. After being taken to a table for one, I am led to a bench so low that I could have plucked the strips of meat off of the surface without the need for cutlery...or arms. I take in my surroundings. There are a couple of ladies who walked in just after me coming for an early dinner. There are three “gentlemen” on the other side of sobriety, living it large at another table. These are the loathsome broker types who take business calls in the dining room and expect us to fight off the din of their conversation and the irritatingly loud tick of a Swiss watch. It’s a Hublot, in case you’re interested. Mixing brokerage shop talk and a rural Brisbanian accent inevitably ends in one of the inebriates screaming “**** you later, you mad ****.” If you know anything about Australian colloquialisms, you know what he said.

Photo credit: www.smudgeeats.com.au

Other than the wonderful company who are in attendance, I am approached by a young man bearing two leather-bound documents. The waiter greets me with the typical Melburnian “Ni Hao” and, cheekily I play along, feigning true Shang Hai origin. Exhausting the entirety of my Mandarin vocabulary and stringing it out a bit by counting to ten - repeatedly, in different inflections - I ask for an orange juice and to leave me with the food menu. He is genuinely startled by my change in tone, and seemingly my British accent, and spills half a glass of water as his jaw begins to loll across the table like a monkfish out of water.

The menu comprises of some interesting ‘smaller’ dishes and some genuinely intriguing sides, followed by a page dedicated to the beef in question. The beef is from a three generation farm called O’Connor’s, hailing from South Gippsland. I do not know where this is, but I am told by the article in question that the cows graze on “what is undeniably Australia’s most prized environment for producing premium beef.” And here I was thinking that Clarkson, May and Hammond had found that on the multi-million acre farm in the Northern Territories…

Continuing on through the menu - which then also explains that most of the beef produced on the farm travels to Japan to be graded - comes yet smaller plates, but from the grill this time. The grill itself is an impressive double wide motorhome of a beast, with cast iron bars stretching back from the stainless steel front to the shrouded depths of the extraction system. The aroma of sizzling Chorizos, Morcilla and pork jowl temporarily gives pause to my internal frustrations at our resident business fellows. They are on their third round of Jägerbombs and orange juice chasers. Who chases Jägerbombs, anyway?

Following the smaller grilled plates come the main stars of the show. Unlike the majority of South American grills I have had the pleasure of attending, no servers parade meat around like strippers at a gentlemen’s club. The meat is exhibited for all to see in cooled glass cabinets, the sort of sordid setting you’d imagine lining the Red Light District of Amsterdam. Here, however, the meat doesn’t seem to press itself up against the window. There are seasoned and spiced cuts of lamb, chicken, flank steak, hanger steak, and some larger slabs of prime cut. Being the greedy bastard I am (I admitted this happily in my last release, which can be found here) I order some lamb rump, some flank steak and a couple of Morcilla blood sausages. Blood sausages, if you are not a frequenter of such substances, are an oaty, peppery sausage darker in colour than your usual Tesco meat stick or butcher’s banger. It has blood in it, but it shouldn’t be discounted because of that. You’ve all sucked the blood from a cut finger, and this is far more delicious than that iron-rich unhygienic mess you’re more than willing to subject yourself to.

Photo credit: Dining Nirvana

The meats go on to the grill one by one; the mumbling man whispers the reason why they grill in this manner, but by this point I’m more than happy to sit back and accept whatever he says. Strangely, the Morcillas don’t come together. A single plate comes out first and I pick at it for a few minutes whilst waiting for the next. The sausage is pre-sliced at the pass but greasy to the touch. I’m no stranger to a bit of food lubricant, but occasionally it can go too far. I recall a Simpsons episode where Bart wipes a Krustyburger against a wall and it causes it to become translucent; I am surprised I can’t see through the floor of the dining room, the Morcilla is that greasy. The flavour, however masked, is earthy and delicious – you just have to really want to taste it.

The second plate to descend is the lamb rump. This is seasoned with chipotle flakes and dried coriander (cilantro if you’re from a certain independent colony), and has some of the best flavours I’ve tasted from any ovine creature. There is a well-formed crust of charring, and the meat is juicy and succulent within. Again, pre-sliced at the pass, it has the perfect amount of salinity from flakes of sea salt, and the crust from the dried jalapenos adds some kick. I am served a small barrel of chimichurri to accompany the meats. Normally, the best thing about chimichurri is the hit of vinegar which cuts through the fat of the meat; in this case the vinegar is either AWOL or added in such minute quantities it couldn’t soften an English seaside chip. Instead, more oil flows freely onto the dining plate, leaving a slick so thick it could drown a Laysan Albatross in the Gulf of Mexico. Thankfully by the time I realise that the chimichurri could be used to lubricate a sports bike, the lamb is gone.

As the waiter tends to the restaurant’s accounts whilst sat at the bar, I return to my habit of people watching. No further new customers have entered the dining room – who would at quarter to five on a Wednesday afternoon? The chieftain of Clan Dipsomaniac begins crying over the shoulder of his second in command, claiming his two companions have provided all the answers to his existential crises. If only alcohol and good food could provide me with such certainty. The third bacchanalian returns to the table, having visited the bathroom for a suspicious length of time, and immediately and unashamedly summons another round of drinks; Gin & Tonics for two and orange juice allow for a dignified end to their meal.

The second Morcilla arrives; I am already dreading a third oil spill when I see it is pleasantly dry. The flavours burst through without the hindering veil of extra virgin and pop in the mouth. The charring has turned the oats nutty, the onions have unleashed their juices within the casing, and the mellow notes of the first are suddenly bold, robust and – most importantly – unmuted.

Photo credit: Lateral Eating

The final instalment is the O’Connor flank steak. I usually go for a ribeye in a premium steak house, but trend towards the “lesser known” cuts when they are available - admittedly because they are usually cheaper and you get more bang for your buck. This particular flank is easily the best example from the flank/hanger/skirt/onglet/bavette group of steaks I’ve had the pleasure of eating in a long time. The charring is excellent, with bright pink poking through the black crust. For all the extraneous jargon that appeared as a separate page in the menu, it almost makes sense when you put the flank steak into your mouth. The earthy grass-fed taste is prominent enough to discount the cheaper grade grain-fed cattle from the realm of possibilities.

Ultimately, I suspect that San Telmo is a good restaurant when on point. However, I feel that standards slipped. Aside from the over-reliance on lubricants, the cooking was well executed for the main grilled meat options. Members of the serving staff were far less attentive than I’d expect, especially as there were only three occupied tables - but that may have been due to my visit falling outside of normal dining hours. I would, however, expect an all-day-dining restaurant to perform its duties throughout the day, rather than losing interest and tending to stocking when it gets a bit quiet. In terms of food, the flavours are great in their bigger plates. Bring a lemon if you’re having anything fattier than beef flank, or bring your own personal local National Wildlife Federation representative...