Argentine Society in Three Glasses
- Ian Rosenberg
- May 26
- 16 min read
From my first week in Argentina, I’ve learned very quickly that the Argentine society is heavily structured around drinking. Drinks here have ritual meaning, and they and the traditions around them revel so much about Argentine society and Argentines.
I would say that most people, when thinking about Argentine food and drink, will go immediately to wine. And it’s true, Argentina is famous for its Malbec, its sweet white wines, and even some of its more experimental modern wines. But the Argentine drinking culture only begins at wine. So, inspired by Tom Standage’s book A History of the World in 6 Glasses, I'll present my Theory of Argentine Society in 3 Glasses.
I've been so busy recently with all my traveling that I've had hardly time to sit down and write, so I'll be mixing some of my experiences over the last two weeks in with this post as well.
Before I made it to Argentina, I'd been told the same thing by many people: Argentina is a wanna-be European country. It's "civilized," and looks like Europe. The people act like Europeans, and they try their hardest to imitate the culture of Europe. I'd come to Argentina expecting this overwhelming sense of European culture, and what I found is that, after digging just a little beneath the surface, there is plenty more that makes the Argentines plenty unique. And I think there's no better way to explain how the Argentine society is structured than through their three favorite drinks: wine, mate, and fernet and coke.
Wine
Grapes, and hence wine, were brought to the Americas by the Spaniards as part of their mission to spread Christianity to, and practice Christianity in the New World. They needed, of course, wineries and vineyards to be able to use wine in their church services. Therefore, inherently, the existence of wine in Argentina is European. The variety of grapes most commonly grown in Argentina are also European: Malbec and Cabernet. These grapes thrive in the dry, high-altitude environment of Western Argentina, particularly in Mendoza.
I entered Mendoza on the bus from Chile, after crossing the Andes (which was, by the way, a stunning trip, and I would highly recommend). As soon as you leave the main Cordillera of the Andes, you are immediately thrust into vineyards on both sides of the road. You can tell immediately just how important wine is to this region.
I spent my first night in Mendoza just getting used to the Argentine style of life. The late dinners and evening snacks to tide you over, the high-class dress of everyone walking around town, and the very overt enjoyment of parks and public spaces. As I was walking around, I began to fall in love with the city. Not because there was anything particular to do there, in fact, I found myself a bit bored by the end of my time there, but because of just how nice of a place it is.
Mendoza feels like the European projection of Argentina made true. Plazas and parks are scattered around the city, and there are wide, tree-lined boulevards every few blocks. These boulevards, by the way, are absolutely gorgeous in the autumn, with the leaves turning all shades of orange. They keep the city very clean too; people sweep the leaves off the streets, and the sidewalks are so clean you could practically walk around barefoot. The experience of being in Mendoza is just pleasant. It's calming, relaxing, and freeing. You don't have to watch your things too closely. Everyone around is respectful. In fact, in that respect, it's perhaps more European than some places in Europe nowadays...
Of course, with its gridded streets and very intentional urban planning, it's not organic in the way most major European metropolises are, but still, if you dropped me in Mendoza and told me it was Spain, I would believe you.
Most people come to Mendoza, though, for the wines. I took a day trip to the Maipú region of Mendoza, where we toured a few wineries around there. The wineries were very similar to what I've toured before in Georgia and France, but I did notice one conspicuous difference—the vats were not stainless steel like I had seen before. Instead, they were made of whatever plaster material is typical of the Spanish colonial style to build houses. Thus, they actually embrace their European style more than actual wineries in Europe that I've seen at least. Not all the wineries had Spanish-style vats, but two of them did.
Before I go on and say just how European this all seems to be, that last paragraph hid the first clue that there's more to Argentine wines than just a European tradition brought, unchanged, to the South. Did you catch it? The region is named Maipú. This is not a Spanish word. And it caught my eye as soon as our tour guide said the name, because I'd seen that word before. Maipú is also the terminus of one of the metro lines in Santiago. I asked right away what it meant, and it turns out it is a Mapuché word for "fertile" or "worked" land. The Mapuché are the indigenous people of the region, and their language and people do still live on to today. This is our first hint that Argentine society, starting with wines, and moving all the way to Fernet and Coke, is not uniquely, exclusively European.
Maipú Wine Region
Heading further north, in the northwestern province of Salta, I encountered a different variety of wine. This is a white wine, with a sweet, fruity or floral taste. It's called torrontés, and it's a typical wine particularly of the Northwest. The torrontés grapes can only grow in a very particular region, around the town of Cafayate. Though I'll elaborate in another post about my time in Cafayate, I'd like to at least mention that there is innovation in the Argentine wine culture. It is not glued to Europe. They have their own regional wines as well.
Overall, the wine culture in Argentina is quite close to Europe. In the processes, varieties, and uses of wine, Argentina closely follows its proclaimed European brothers, despite the small differences.
But this is just getting started on how drinks are enjoyed in Argentina.
Mate
Though everyone thinks of Argentina as the land of wine and steaks, a second drink rises to nearly as much, if not more, prominence as wine: mate. This is a tea-like beverage consumed at any time of day, in any quantity. Argentines are obsessed with mate. You can see them in parks, at construction sites, on buses, during breaks between classes, or just walking around with their mates. It consists of Yerba leaves, and in Argentina some stems too, steeped in hot water. You consume it in small batches, a few sips at a time, but you continuously pour hot water into it to make more mate.
Mate is inherently a Guaraní drink. Its history spans many centuries, and was enjoyed long before the Europeans arrived. It is drunken out of a gourd, often made of pumpkin, but alternatively of metal, wood, or glass. The pumpkin gourds, though difficult to maintain, allow the flavor to absorb into the walls of the gourd over dozens to hundreds of uses, developing a special flavor, much like a cast iron skillet. Many Argentines take pride in their gourds, though day-to-day, it's very common for people to use metal or glass gourds, as you don't have to worry about them rotting or molding.
I had my first mate session in Mendoza, at my hostel. I'd done my research ahead of time, so I knew what to expect, but it was still exciting to actually partake in the ritual-like experience for the first time. Mate is inherently a social drink, and there are social rules around how to drink, that, presumably, have been passed on through the generations from the Guaraní. The person who owns the mate gourd serves as the "master" of the session, always refilling the hot water and passing the gourd to the next person. If you are not the "master," you do not attempt to prepare the mate. So, once you are handed the mate (the gourd), you drink from the straw until it is finished. Usually, it's just a few sips. Once you're done, you'll hand the gourd back to the owner, who will pull out their "thermo" (thermos) and carefully fill up more water, avoiding flooding all the leaves in the cup. You always must leave some leaves spare so that once the flavor of the leaves that are currently soaking starts to dilute, you can mix the leaves around and get a little more flavor. It's also important that the water is not boiling. It should be at around 80°C to avoid burning the Yerba. In fact, most electric kettles in Argentina either stop at 80°C, or have a switch to get it to stop at 100°C or 80°C. But if you see a kettle on a hostel countertop, you can almost be guaranteed it's at 80°C.
The gourd is passed around to everyone in the circle before your turn comes again. Generally, the Yerba lasts for a while—enough for everyone to get several turns.
My mate gourd, engraved
In Argentina, everyone has their own gourd. Everyone. So, of course, I had to get my own too! My first full day in Mendoza, I stopped at a store selling artisan mates to begin my own mate journey. I picked a pumpkin gourd wrapped in leather, with a pattern on it. I even got it engraved with my name, a boat, and the Argentine sun at no extra cost!
The first thing I had to do was to cure it, which is to let the Yerba flavor soak into the pumpkin walls. If you don't do this, the mate will have a woody taste. The people in the hostel helped cure my mate, which involved putting Yerba in it and letting it sit for about 12 hours. After those 12 hours, overnight, I was able to remove the Yerba leaves and then scrape away with a spoon the soft, outer wall of the pumpkin to reveal a deeply stained, dark green layer that now will provide a deep, smokey and earthy flavor to the mate instead of just tasting like wood.
When I say that the people at the hostel helped me cure my mate, I don't mean they told me what to do when I asked. I mean that I pulled out my brand new gourd to show to them, because, of course, I was proud of it, and immediately after complimenting its beauty, they told me I had to cure it. They rushed to the other room, grabbed everything I'd need, and started going through it step-by-step with me. I became their minion, just following whatever steps they nearly forced upon me to ensure that my mate will taste good in the future.
Though the pumpkin mates are the most traditional gourds to use, nowadays, they aren't too practical. They require extreme care to ensure that they stay dry and aired-out frequently. Otherwise, they grow mold. To avoid this problem, people mostly have glass and metal mates they bring around with them day to day, leaving their cured, authentic pumpkin gourd back home. Interestingly enough, Stanley (the same company that makes the famous water bottles in the US) makes their own metal mate "gourds," and I've seen them all over the place. It seems like practically everyone has one.
I had been made abundantly aware when I bought my mate just how much effort is needed to take care of a pumpkin gourd. And I did all I could. I never let it sit in a dark, enclosed space while damp, I never kept Yerba in it for more than an hour or two, and I always kept it face-up while drying, even placing it at the foot of my hostel bed to ensure nobody tampered with it. That being said, hostels are—places—and with so many people, damp towels, and whatnot in a hostel room, clearly, there was too much moisture in the air to allow my mate to dry completely. So, I woke up one morning to the unpleasant surprise of white mold growing in my gourd.
I asked one of the hostel staff if she could help me, and she sprung into action. She alerted me that I needed to go buy alcohol (mind you, this was 9 AM on a Tuesday—I found isopropyl alcohol at a drug store), and that we'd light it on fire to kill off the mold. I caught it early enough that the mold was only surface level, meaning that a few quick burns and a soak followed by scrapes at the outer layers should do the trick. So, we went ahead and put the rubbing alcohol in the mug, swirled it around to coat the edges, and lit it on fire, soaked it, and scraped it. Four times. But, it did the trick!
To combat future mold problems while traveling in non-ideal environments, I bought myself a glass mate with Córdoba's soccer team's logo printed on it. More about why I chose that in particular coming up next. The mate in this glass gourd is certainly more sour and strong. The pumpkin really does help tame and soften the taste, even after only one curing and a few uses.
That afternoon, while my gourd was still drying out from our fire & water treatment, I was getting some planning done, and was offered mate by one of the other kids in the hostel. He was from Buenos Aires and is staying long-ish term in Córdoba while he finds a record label to produce his music. He sat the mate gourd in front of me—the classic "have a round" invitation—and I began drinking. He was surprised I'd had mate before, and that was my cue to explain my whole mold adventure to him. He was devastated by my news, and needed to do a thorough inspection of my gourd before returning it to me with his seal of approval. And we weren't even using my gourd! We were using his!
We also shared a mate later on, during the River vs. Belgrano soccer match. Keep that in mind...
It is hard to overstate just how obsessed Argentina is with this drink. When I'd sit down in a hostel, I'd get offered some mate. People in parks are sitting on blankets in circles, talking about life while sharing mate. Friends at rest points in hikes or watching soccer games on the TV and couples in bus terminals will grab a seat in the middle of their busy plans and partake in a cup or two.
But what I really want to introduce in this section is the interplay of two things. First, Argentine society is deeply knowledgeable about mate. About the different kinds of Yerba, about the methods to cure and clean gourds, and the whole ritual and ceremony around sharing mate. The Argentines are among the friendliest people I've ever met, and showing even the smallest interest in their mate will result in them explaining everything you have to know to "do" mate properly. Despite mate coming from Guaraní tradition, it is baked into the everyday routines of every Argentine.
The second thing is the social aspect of it. Mate culture, as I said, is inherently social. It involves sharing the same cup and the same straw, even the same leaves with the people around you. The only thing that is unique to your experience in a mate session is the exact Yerba-steeped water that you drink.
The combination of these two points highlights the largest counterpoint to the oft-argued point that Argentines are just wanna be Europeans: they share. Drinks are not individual. They are to be enjoyed by everyone around. By everyone you love, by everyone you appreciate. If someone's presence in your conversation or in your day makes you smile, they too can participate in your mate.
Fernet and Coke
It's not sufficient to say that Argentina isn't westernized or Europeanized. It certainly is. It feels it. Between the food, the architecture, and manner of expression, Argentina doesn't present itself like the rest of Latin America (that I've explored, at least). And I think the perfect idiom for this is the Fernet and Coke.
Fernet Branca is an aromatic Italian spirit. It tastes very bitter and herbal. It tastes like menthol, and you don't need much of it in a mixed drink to know it's there. Though it's from Italy, Argentina consumes nearly 75% of it worldwide each year. And the classic? Mixing it with Coke.
I became very aware of Fernet and Coke throughout my six days in Córdoba. The drink is primarily a younger-person drink, associated with modern music, soccer, and partying. In that way, I'd liken it to the hard seltzers we have in the US. But what you can't quite compare is just how tied the Fernet and Coke is to the regional identity in Córdoba, and Argentina more broadly. This is their drink; they know it, and they're proud of it.
My first exposure was at a beer garden, grabbing a dinner on a Friday night, and besides it being my first Fernet and Coke, I have nothing else to say about it. I just sat at my table alone, unable to muster up the courage to say hi to either group of students around me. But my idea of Fernet and Coke really started to change on Sunday night.
I told you to put a pin in that River vs Belgrano game, during which I shared a mate with the other kids in the hostel. River Plate is the Buenos Aires soccer powerhouse that has a cult following all across the country. Belgrano is a good, but regionally appreciated team out of Córdoba. By complete chance, my time in Córdoba intersected with the final of the Summer/Fall soccer season. The game was in Córdoba, featuring their own team against the institutional giant River Plate. Belgrano, since their founding in 1904, had never won this tournament. But that changed with a third goal scored against River in the last few minutes, pushing the final score to 3-2 for a thrilling Belgrano win. I, along with thousands of others, immediately ran to Córdoba's main square to celebrate.
It was total chaos. Belgrano flags, blue smoke bombs, horns, and the smoke rising from dozens of impromptu choripan (chorizo sandwich) street vendors was truly a sight that neither I, nor anyone in this city, had ever seen. But among the chaos, one thing was clear. Fernet and Coke was a necessity. Before I could get one myself, some people near me happened to guess I was a foreigner and introduced themselves. The got my attention not by waving at me, but by pointing directly to their one liter bottle of Fernet and Coke and instructing me to take a sip.
The "classic" way to drink Fernet and Coke is by taking an empty 2L coke bottle and cutting it down the center. Then, you get two 1L vessels that you can fill 20% with Fernet and 80% with Coke.
I took a sip of their plastic half-bottle and handed it back to the person who gave it to me. She then immediately handed it to her son, who handed it to his friend, and it went on and on. Once others got word that I was a foreigner, I had no less than four groups of people passing their Fernet and Cokes to me, making conversation, asking to take pictures, and asking me how I liked Córdoba and if I rooted for the right team. (My Belgrano hat I'd bought at the stadium earlier that day certainly gave the proof that I was on the right side of history!) But what I noticed about each of these drinks is that it belonged to everybody and nobody at once. When you were done, you just passed it to someone around that you knew, or even just wanted to talk with. Generally they stayed within social circles—among friends or within families—but at this time, families and friends came out in the dozens. So even though it never left a general trusted circle, that circle was still very large here.
Does this sound familiar? This is mate culture, but brought out of its Guaraní roots and adapted to this mix of European culture and American megacoorperation globalization. They passed the cut plastic bottle with same ease with which they pass the mate gourd. Nobody's concerned about germs or even anyone messing with the drink. Because the society understands that this is how it works, and this is a sacred thing that we do. It's best not to mess with it.
I stayed late into the night, fueled by the energy and buzz, the Fernet and Cokes, but even more by the conversation and community they welcomed me into. From the single act of passing a cup to me, I shared a conversation with an Aerospace Engineer comparing our fields, I received tips on how to cook a traditional Argentine stew, and I took dozens of selfies with new friends.
The next day was a national holiday. And I was sick of drinking. But we must forge on. I'll cover the Locro Competition I attended for the holiday in an upcoming post, but one thing I certainly won't skip is the evening. I attended a large outdoor festival including a traditional soup (locro) competition and a full afternoon of live music and comedy. Right before the headline act, featuring a famous Argentine musician who takes traditional folk music and brings it into the modern age, the emcee came on stage and said something so perfect. [Translated from Spanish]
"Isn't it something major we lost with the pandemic: being able to share a glass with someone? A mate? Six years ago we couldn't do this. But it's back."
And looking out into the audience, everyone had a drink in their hand that was way too big to be theirs. You can see dozens of drinks being passed from hand to hand all around. This is what she was referring to.
The idea of this post had already been brewing in my head for a few hours before she said this, but this made it so concrete. We were about to watch a folk musician perform for 30,000 people. And he wasn't performing techno, reggaeton, nor any other modern genre. He was performing songs that are as well known by the grandparents in the audience as they are by the kids. He was performing traditional dances, songs glorifying the legends, the heros, the nature, and the people of the country. Sure, with a more modern style, but still, unmistakably recognizable as the Folclore songs this country knows and adores. So for the emcee to preface this performance of something so distinctly Argentine with such a strong statement about what was going on in the audience—the sharing of fernet and cokes, of mates, and of just beers—tied the two in my head.
To me, there is nothing more Argentine than sharing a drink while enjoying folk music, while celebrating your regional or national pride, while sharing what this country has with a foreigner.
Conclusion
Argentines are the most social people I've met. They always want to share, they always want to converse and converse deeply. Despite having traveled solo in this country for nearly three weeks, I have hardly ever felt alone. I have felt the warmth, the sharing, and their appreciation for me. When I engage in elements of Argentine culture, I get patted on the back and given fist bumps.
Can I prove that this outward living of life, this need to be social and to share everything with everyone is a direct consequence of the Guaraní's mate from over five centuries ago? Of course not. But it seems far too coincidental in my experience to be completely unrelated.
Argentina is not European, but it's not Native American either. It's not modern, and it's not behind. It's a special mix. The socialization and trust of one culture has mixed with the cuisine, architecture, and style of life from another to produce something unique to Argentina. Argentina can only be described of as Argentine, and to be able to know what that means, you have to come here and experience a glass of wine, a mate session, and a shared Fernet and Coke for yourself.
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