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Backstory: The cook has no beef with fish
On the banks of the mighty Parana River is an Argentine rarity – a fish restaurant.
from the February 12, 2007 edition
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A tart, pickled fish – escabeche of mimoso, a species that moves between the river and sea – came first, a small bite, followed by a salad of boga, and empanadas of surubi, fishcakes three times the size of a Boston coddie, baked in a dough light enough to humble the likes of Emiril.
A special happiness began to light the faces around our table, evidence of discovery. Caroline Bayo, an actress, said, "I'm not accustomed to eating fish." She might have been speaking for most of her compatriots. "Mother cooked it only now and again, when I was young."
The surubi and the pacu, both large fish, are among the favorites of Uleriche's clientele, who are drawn from the small villages around Arroyo Leyes, the city of Santa Fe and even distant Cordoba, to the west. The restaurant doesn't advertise.
I used to fast before a visit to this place. How else could one get through it all? A friend said you should train like Carlos Monzon, the late world middleweight boxing champion and frequent customer, "to go the distance." Still, I've never been able to reach the end, even though the dishes seem to get better as you near it.
We had small balls of firm and delicious white fish with tomato sauce, thin slices of surubi breaded and fried, one with rochefort dressing, another with tomato sauce. Two crisp pacu (farm raised because fishing them in the wild is banned) from the grill: these were eaten from the tray, with everyone picking at them with their forks. One of my favorites of Uleriche's invention is surubi with brown sugar. He only offers it on Sunday. It was Saturday.
I asked Uleriche which among his delectable inventory he favors most. He seemed reluctant, as if by choosing one, he'd denigrate the others. But he did: "mandube cut into pieces and fried. It is the small cousin of the surubi."
Between courses – and to do it right it's a 2-1/2-half hour affair – I watched the clouds on the surface of the arroyo, their shade sweeping over the little boats lying still in the water. The sun drifted through the day.
I wanted to know about the flood of 1983. Floods perpetually afflict this region. Depending on the amount of rain in Brazil, the river rises and falls all along its course and, owing to the flatness of the pampas, if it rises a few feet somewhere it will move out of its bed for hundreds of yards. The restaurant, according to a measuring rod planted at the shore, sits about five to six meters above the arroyo's surface. It wasn't enough.
"When it came it wiped out everything," Uleriche said, then holding his hand at the level of his own waist, added, "This floor had 50 centimeters of water on it ... it remained in here for 11 months."
Carlos was 13 when his father packed everything up and moved into Santa Fe. He prospered there. But in 2000 the senior Uleriche – the man who, in February 1974, done up in a blazer, cravat, and sandals, shook my hand and welcomed me to his restaurant – sent his son back up the river to start over. Six years on, the younger Uleriche estimates he has regained about half the clientele they had before the flood.
The final dish delivered to our table was a version of the marinera, a cut ofsurubi, wrapped in an egg batter, a mixture invented by Doña Nidiain 1970, the year of Carlos's birth.
After that, only one thing lay ahead. The siesta.
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