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Whole Sheep on the Spit

Among many barbecues we'll always recall that colorful Asado de Carnero, sheep spitted in typical Argentine style, with which our small American colony in Buenos Aires celebrated one Washington's Birthday. Many in that party were executives of Armour's, Swift's, Cudahy's and Wilson's, representatives of practically all the big American packing houses which maintain branches down there. They knew their cattle both on the hoof and over the pit fire. There was plenty to choose from-prime pampas-grass-fed steers built as four square as piano cases and marbled through and through with fat; great waddling sheep with backs as broad and level as pool tables, the kind that wear away blue ribbons from yearly cattle shows in "B. A." And real gaucho cooks fresh from the pampas, too, where they're weaned on barbecued steaks with the hair on! Deft of hand they were, and unflustered by the clamorings of a thousand ravenous guests.

The sheep were stood upright in circles around a regular Dante's inferno of fires, each carcass speared through from neck to tail by a heavy metal rod sharpened at one end to thrust into the ground over and over again as the animals were turned to the fire to make sure of even roasting. The fore and hind quarters were trussed open by similar rods, giving the effect of being hung on Maltese crosses. Attendant gauchos told us that these metal spits are such perfect heat conductors that the inside of the meat is cooked as thoroughly as the parts nearer the fire. And this is the great value of all cooking on metal spits, everything's well done all the way through.

Hearty slabs of Spanish white bread, which is much more closely knit than ours and fancily braided as well, served both as sandwich coverings and plates, each portion of meat being garnished with a heaping forkful of coleslaw and sluiced with an adobo or sauce that had not only mint, but plenty of pungent capers as well. There was good beer, too, light Quilmes Crystal straight from the keg.

Since ninety-nine per cent of the success of such a picnic can be chalked up to the barbecuers' skill, this one went clear over the top. And by contrast, we remember another that failed in Brazil. Our expatriate colony in Rio de Janeiro, numbering about six hundred, staged a big gettogether in the enormous garden of a local brewery, but it was a hollow flop, because the reputed expert cooks turned out to be only novices. The meat was improperly prepared, not sufficiently seasoned and hurriedly roasted. Spits of green wood were used instead of steel, so the meat was raw within as well as burnt and tough outside. And it was hours late besides, while the beer-this time Poloniaflowed and flowed and appetites waxed and waned. The onions which were to have been sliced into an invigorating salad to top the meat never even got peeled and finally were handed out whole. Soon even the dignified fathers of our far-from-home community, lacking anything better to do, began heaving those Brazilian apples at each other, and then the barbarous chefs, catching stray ones on the conk, took this as their cue to seek safe hiding places, while most of us left in disgust and went to restaurants to get a square meal.