Maté

Maté flows through the very veins of Argentines. Like a secret potion, it is carefully concocted as hot water is poured into tazas tightly packed with shredded mate leaves. And almost as if in a sacred ritual of hospitality and solidarity, the cup of maté is passed around for each person to sip heartily from a metal bombilla fashioned with a strainer.

On first sip, the maté is dark and has woodsy undertones. It is as mysterious and foreboding as Argentina’s complex and contrasting social and political scenes that draw you in on your first encounter, beckoning you to discover what lies at their cores. Its flavors are as capricious as the Argentina that transitions from fashionable metropolises in the city centers to absolute destitution, crumbling homes, open sewers, and streets strewn with trash in a matter of a few blocks.

The drink resonates with the spirit of Argentina. Mary sweetens hers with a heaping spoonful of sugar. Roberto likes his straight. Regardless, its full-bodied character inevitably emerges. And it is devastatingly bitter.