This is a love letter to a very special choripan. You know who you are:

I didn’t expect you to come into my life. But I guess we meet the one when we are least expecting it. Cliché, I know, but so true.

Life has thrust so many choripans at me. Those first choris during that rainbowy coming-of-age moment of self-discovery: lusty choris of questionable merit that I devoured at countless stands outside train stations at 3am. Evy was by my side. We were all in it together. We can’t all be wrong, right? The woes of our early twenties, I suppose

I didn’t know I deserved more. It was fun. But I couldn’t see the writing on the wall. They are gone now. A series of one anonymous choripan after another that blur together like the nights of cut open bottles of coca cola and fernet that accompanied them.

There was a choripan in Córdoba that had that little foreign flair. It was irresistible. It said all the right things. Chimichurri picante. Heck, it was vacation. I paid no attention that said chimi was splashed out of a 5 gallon paint bucket. But after spending a 10-hour car ride with my head in a barf bag I swore you off for the rest of my life. Choripan is trash, I told myself, I’m going vegan.

We both knew that was a lie, right? We always go back.

*giggles sagely into taco*

I grew. The years stacked up. I matured and my tastes evolved. I got a little wiser. I started therapy. My wallet got a little fatter. I deserve better than this. I know I do.

I brought chori especial to family asados. I was a hero. He’s really come a long way, they all thought to themselves.

I spent countless nights at the now infamous yellow church eating artisanal smoked chori sandwiches with sautéed mushrooms and strokes of orange, or lamb chorizos dressed with yogurt sauce and hierbabuena. I traveled to eat chori de ñandu and llama. I was getting mine. Bouncing from one to the other. I was free. I was feeling myself. But I wondered, was I overcompensating for something?

And then I met you. Simple. No drama. No games. You came as you were and you were so effortless about it. You reveled in your starkness.

You can’t know what you don’t know, you know?

Now I know. There is no turning back.

You were a cheap date. Only $100. You came on a crusty bun. A little over-sized but you owned it. You were dressed cazzzh. Just a smattering of chimichurri to keep your buns squarely planted on the ground but with that tinge of sour to add the right amount of excitement. You were everything at once: freckled with herbs and savory spices. Is that a touch of nutmeg on my tongue or is that just the power of love? Juicy like hot gossip; you burned my lip and stained my jeans but I barely noticed. You were plump and dense and made a loud popping sound with that first bite. You grew in intensity and I felt surrounded by a cloud of fireworks. My cheeks flushed. Is this a rom-com? Is this what it feels like to be a contestant on Flavor of Love?

Yeahh boiiiii!

I still don’t have all the answers. I just know this feels right. And I thank you for that.

*whispers* “I will always love you.”

*takes another bite out of taco*

Chancho Chico

Address: Av. Dorrego 1594, Colegiales

Hours: Monday through Saturday from 10am to 8pm

Price per person: $100 for a choripan

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