Foamy Platform Shoes Are All the Rage at Argentina's Cowboy Fair

On a recent trip to Buenos Aires, everyone was wearing those split-toe Nike Air Rifts that were big back in '02. All the cute girls were wobbling on stacked platforms–picture studded, leather, peep-toe, ankle boot type of stuff. Anything goes around here in terms of footwear, as long as the platform's chunky and foamy. I was later told it's a practical measure: The pavements are too fucked up to risk wearing heels. For a country more known for its swarthy machismo, it was all looking a bit too Urban Outfitters to me, so we took a 40 minute bus ride out west to La Feria de Mataderos.

It's been rolling out weekly in Buenos Aires' westernmost district, Mataderos, since 1986, and is still home to the central beef market that feeds Buenos Aires' insatiable appetite for meat, processing an incredible 50,000 cattle per week. Originally known as 'La Nueva Chicago' in the late 19th century— after the American slaughterhouse capital—this district was always the entry point for the surrounding region's gauchos. They came to trade cattle and do the usual stuff cowboys get up to do: Get pissed drunk, horse around, and engage in singing battles known as payadas.

Many international slaughterhouses have always been considered exploitative (see Upton Sinclair's 1906 seminal work, The Jungle, for brutal descriptions) employing migrant workers or itinerants, so the area was considered pretty rough around the edges. Today, it's home to large populations of Bolivians and Peruvians.

In 1986, Argentina was coming to terms with the aftermath of its vicious military dictatorship. Tens of thousands of people 'disappeared,' or were assassinated by state-sponsored paramilitary and secret police. A lot of the so-called 'Dirty War' fighting happened in the mountainous provinces of northwestern Argentina, which are culturally linked to the Aymara and Quechua. As in all authoritarian narratives, they sought to repress regional identities, enforcing a homogenous culture of Italian and Spanish heritage with tango, parilla, and empanadas—all imports. It was with this in mind that Sara Vinocur decided to start the Feria de Mataderos in order to celebrate folkloric practices, whether in craft, cooking, or dance.

The fair itself is a mishmash of gaucho gear, harassed-looking animals for the kiddies to ride, and—unlike the dubious junk at most indigenous fairs—you can actually see old grannies knitting away at their poncho stalls. There's a real sense of the local, and it's miles away from the tourist-centered markets like San Telmo: Here, families bring picnics and impromptu sound systems belt out bolero ballads. Plenty of older couples joined in the central dance too, many in well-worn cowboy boots waving silk handkerchiefs.

The food stalls themselves still revolve around the duopoly of empanada or choripan, a glistening chorizo sausage in a roll that's slathered with salsa criolla (lightly pickled pepper and onion), but there are interesting regional varieties on offer. Factory line assemblies with ladies in smart white outfits bash out empanadas by the hundred. Every region has its own variety: Tucuman, stewed beef cubes with paprika and scallion; Salta's picante, spicy minced beef with egg and red pepper; Catamarca, with onion and garlic; Paraguayan with Manioc flour. A neat little pattern in the dough (flour, water, and beef fat) is used on the fold to identify them, and they are then deep fried to crisp perfection.

The Andean influence is heavy, with lots of corn-based dishes like locro, a bean stew thickened with starchy corn and pumpkin, and the fantastic tamales, a steamed corn mash concealing succulent stewed beef, much fluffier than the Mexican variety.

South Americans are pretty democratic about royalty, where most stalls claim themselves to be the king of something. The choripan kings here certainly worked in volume—they were filling flagon after flagon of runoff chorizo sausage fat. At the end of the day, they shoveled the grease-soaked sand into sacks and carted it off into the night.

One of the main draws at the festival is the Corrida de Sortijo, a traditional Gaucho contest of horsemanship based on Medieval European jousting. The gaucho, in all his finery, gallops full pelt down the road (I felt for the horse's feet), pulls out a little stick, and tries to spear a tiny ring hanging off a frame. Its all pomp and circumstance type of applause, but the real stars were the crew of kids who re-hung the target. There was a clear hierarchy here: Those with tiny ponies and Espadrilles got to gallop around while their younger lackeys looked on in envy.

As the day drew on, the streets got increasingly frantic, so we sat at an outside bar where a Jerry-curled man got up on the mic—admitting to having just woken up—and launched straight into some Cumbia belters.

The Quilmes beer flowed and the middle-aged crowd got pretty hot and heavy. There were even scuzzier bars heavy with leopard-skin Lycra outfits and heavy gold jewelry, and toothless men clapping in on the action drunkenly. It all felt a bit like the opening to Shameless if it were starring rural Sicilians with perms.

Completely unconnected—but only because there hasn't been enough beef to ogle at—here's some of the best I ate later that day: Morcilla blood sausage and asado de tira, extremely short ribs impeccably grilled at Parrilla Peña.

At any given time, chances are a whiff of Buenos Aires air will be thick with the sweet smell of grilled kidneys or the rendering of flank steak fat. The gaucho, as both keeper and deliverer of these sacred flocks, is almost as monastic in his importance, operating in a parallel world to regular society. In the same way as the River Plate Port areas are noticeably Southern Italian and Basque, Mataderos proudly identifies itself as the traditional gateway for Andean people and gauchos. Whether in foamy platform shoes or cowboy boots, one thing truly excites all Argentines: The carnal joy of meat juice running down one's chin.