Log0045 | The Man Who Roasts

I’ve seen you before. I know it, though I cannot recall the occasion. Every time I’ve seen you, you were roasting. Asado. Always in Cochrane. This was your job I figured; you and your wife and son too. He helped with the cordero while she prepared all the other dishes; ensalada, sopaipilla, papas. You would handle the meat, tend to the fire, and carve it all in good time.

On Sunday, after floating down from Lago Cochrane, our group of close to forty kayaks made it back to town. The last event of the Festival del Río. At the closing of the event you'd been hired by the town to prepare the feast. Four corderos had been slowly roasting over a small fire, crucifixion style. The style that was famous of Patagonia and justifiably so. You and your son had worked tirelessly, and as the line of hungry paddlers and other celebrators formed you pulled the carcasses apart one at a time, chopped them into large chunks and your son dropped them into the massive metal dish for serving. All the while your wife moved about the tables ensuring a steady supply of sides and salads. 

At the end of the line you finished piecing the last of the quartet. Then you sat down beneath the roasting stakes to wipe the sweat from your brow and grease off your fingers. The work was done. The result, delicious. And the crowd, more than satisfied.