El Pobre Luis

It rained the whole afternoon I spent at El Pobre Luis, and I cannot now imagine eating there in any other weather.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: Belgrano, framed jerseys, family run. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with burrata with peaches and basil, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Chianti Classico Riserva I wrote down in my notebook, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: entraña fina, the dish that puts El Pobre Luis on every short list. It arrived faintly hissing on a heated plate, the kind of small detail that tells you the kitchen still cares about the last twenty seconds before service. The signature touch — Uruguayan-style grilling, milanesa for the kids — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for pommes Anna and wild mushrooms in butter. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was tiramisu, just barely too much, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

It is not cheap. It is, in this case, worth it.