Sexual politics of meat

My literary hero Julie Powell once described some marrow-based dish as tasting like sex. That's kinda how I felt about my lunch today. I've been in Extremadura all of about three days now and (still) haven't really eaten anything particularly extremeñan. There's nothing else to do here in the afternoon anyway, so I decided to blow some money on a big lunch; what I thought was the restaurant associated with a local cooking school (the Lonely Planet fucks up again) turned out to be an Argentinian steak house. No suckling pig or artisenal cheeses, but omigod that was a good piece of meat. Big and thick and tender and barely cooked with big rocks of salt on the outside. How is it that Argentinian food is so good and Chilean food is so bad, when they're right next to each other? Don't the Chileans know what they're missing? In a pathetic attempt not to gain ten pounds in a single day, I ordered water instead of wine. About halfway through I decided that was the nurtitrional equivalent of taking a bus instead of a cab to go blow all your money at the casino. Red meat that makes you want to moan needs red wine. I just won't eat for a few days--it was worth it. The meal came with a free shot of some Argentinian liquor; it was kinda sweet but I'm not sure really what it tasted like. I tried asking the waiter, I really tried, but all I got was "It's like Coca-Cola." Hmmm. I can't understand Argentinians. They have these strange accents and they might as well be speaking Catalan or Portuguese. But I'd run away with one tomorrow if he'd only cook for me.

Anyway. Badajoz has some not bad art museums. And a gun club. This is the first I've heard of guns for personal use in Spain, I thought they were illegal. Apparently hunting is a big thing here. Even kids can join the gun club, with a parent's permision.