Part of it is the sheer ubiquity. Every place has it’s culinary shtick. You can’t throw a brick in new york without breaking the window of a pizza joint. Mexico has its street tacos, and Vietnam has their Bahn Mis. Those are all great.
But living in Buenos Aires, you would imagine everyone here lives off steaks and red wine. There’s a butcher shop next to my barber, my gym and my laundromat. I pass two on my way to the coffeeshop.
The butcher slicing off a steak and tossing it onto the scale with the ease and elegance of someone that’s been doing it for decades. Then smiles at you and asks what else you’d like. As you wait in line, the delivery man walks in with a half-cow on his back and carries it into the freezer.
When you bring it home, somehow it tastes better than any steak back home. Maybe it’s placebo. Maybe they’re actually better. Maybe after 2 weeks of daily steaks you’ve finally figured out how to get it just right.
That rib-eye steak at the butcher costs $3. $12 if you get it at a restaurant. It feels almost too easy.