Chimichurri at Maria's Table in Mendoza

Parsley falls green under the knife. Somewhere outside, a fire is being built for the asado, and the smoke comes in through the open window and lies across the counter. Argentina pulls at you in a way that is hard to name. Maybe it is the tango, all close holding and sudden turns. Maybe it is the long grass of the Pampas, running on until the sky gives up. For me it was always the food, and at the center of all that beef sits a sauce almost as much a symbol of the country as the dance: chimichurri.

Walk the streets of Buenos Aires and you could be forgiven for thinking chimichurri is a birthright. It is spooned over grilled meat at every parrilla, its green bright against the dark crust of the steak. Where did it come from? Its history, like that of so many good recipes, is tangled in myth, rumor, and a generous pinch of guesswork.

One story says the name comes from “Jimmy McCurry,” an Englishman who supposedly fought beside South American troops in the 19th century. The locals loved his sauce but could not manage his name, and over the years “Jimmy McCurry” wore down into “chimichurri.” I would love to believe it. The records are less romantic: there is no sign such a man ever fought in those battles.

Another story goes back to the Mapuche, among the region’s early indigenous peoples, and a sauce called “chimi churin,” of chili peppers, garlic, and herbs. It is easy to imagine Spanish settlers arriving, tasting it, and reworking it with ingredients they knew, laying the ground for the chimichurri we eat today.

Wherever it began, by the time I met chimichurri it was rooted deep in Argentine life. A visit to a family ranch outside Mendoza showed me how deep.

The evening began with the father, Roberto, building the fire. As the flames rose and the sun went down, laying orange light over the vineyards, his wife, Maria, waved me into the kitchen.

On the counter were the makings: parsley, oregano, chili flakes, garlic, vinegar. She told me every household in Argentina has its own blend, handed from parents to children. The secret was less in what went in than in how it came together, each family guarding its own balance.

As we chopped and stirred, Maria told me about her grandmother, who swore chimichurri could heal. “She said it could cure a fever, lift your mood, even mend a broken heart,” Maria laughed. Watching her hands, I could see the years going into the bowl along with the garlic.

The meat came off the fire hissing and dripping. We sat down under a sky full of stars. I took my first bite, heavy with chimichurri, and something opened. The sauce was sharp, green, hot and sour all at once, and it made the meat taste more like itself. It tasted of the country, its history, its hard years and its good ones.

When I left the next day, Maria pressed a jar of her family’s chimichurri blend into my hands. I held it the whole drive as if it might spill. It was a jar of spices. It was also a jar of her grandmother’s voice.

Now that the world is smaller, chimichurri turns up in kitchens from New York to Tokyo. Like the tango, though, its heart stays in Argentina. A sauce can cross every border and still remember the road home.

In Argentina chimichurri is inheritance as much as sauce, with old stories in every spoonful, and like any good story it changes a little each time it is told. The jar from Mendoza is long empty now. On my own counter the parsley falls green under the knife, and through the open window comes the smell of somebody else’s fire.