Lunch in La La Land: At the Rincon Atamisque, guests linger under the trees drinking wine while trout caught in the owner's pond is cooked to order.
We heard this again and again as we drifted through the Valle de Uco:
“It’s just like Napa, only 50 years ago.”
Argentina’s highest altitude vineyards—900 to 1,200 meters above sea level--are nestled here in the foothills of the Andes, about an hour south of Mendoza. Road signs point to clusters of bodegas, many of them, like Salentein and O. Fournier, owned by European winemakers who’ve been lured by cheap land and the kind of growing conditions (dry climate, hot days, chilly nights) that produce knockout wines with big, intense flavors.
But except for the occasional trucks loaded with dark purple grapes, we see almost no one else on the road. The vistas are magnificent: expansive blue skies and neatly ordered vineyards stretching almost to the rugged Precordillera and the shimmering snow-capped peak of Mt. Tupungato. At the wineries, there are half empty parking lots, rose bushes baking in the sun, the sound of gravel crunching under your feet (and only yours), and a deep, meditative tranquility.
Nowhere did I get that sleepy oldtime Napa vibe more than at Rincon Atamisque.
Atamisque is an old estancia newly owned by a French family which has been making wines there—Malbec, Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and more—only since 2007. On one side of the modest drive is the bodega with dramatically peaked slate tiled roofs patterned after those in the French and Italian Alps. On the other side, there is the Rincon, a small curiously barren restaurant of weathered stone and stucco. Nothing much is happening inside….
But if you walk out the backdoor on a sunny fall day, as golden leaves gently drift through the air, you’ll find yourself on a wide wooden deck overlooking a grassy glade shaded by stately trees. Five or six tables, laid with pale blue linens, are scattered randomly here and there. The staff set up a few more in the grass. It’s after one o’clock but we’re the first to arrive.
Two blackboard easels chalked with the day’s menu and wines are plunked down at one end of our table.
To eat there is mostly trout, plucked, fresh and undoubtedly quivering, from the Rincon’s own tank, and cooked to order. How will you have it? In seviche? En croute with herbs and quinoa salad? Or roasted with a garlicky gremolata and mashed potatoes rich with olive oil?
You cannot go wrong. It is all delicious.
To drink, maybe a bottle of Atamisque’s 2010 Torrontes, a flowery, fruity white wine made from one of the most widely planted grapes in Argentina.
And then, glass in hand, you wait. Contentedly. An autumn breeze stirs the air as dry yellow leaves fall to the ground. A dog waits motionless for a morsel of bread to fall. A few more guests arrive—among them, a blond, “medium-famous” soap star and her camera crew—but there’s no quickening of the collective pulse. They’re just here to eat fresh trout like the rest of us…
This is La-La Land, wine country version. No tour buses, no bustle, no smarty pants wine talk. Just 15 or 16 people engaged in a low murmur of pleasant conversation, looking forward to a leisurely outdoor lunch. It’s so laid back that I almost drift to sleep, dreaming of my own little vineyard with a plot of lavender to tend alongside the grapes…
At last the trout arrives. No foams, no fancy sauces, no deconstructed anything. It’s the kind of food you could make yourself at home (if only you had that well-stocked pond in the garden). The fish is fresh, bright with flavor, as vivid on the plate as it is in the mouth. The young Torrontes was the right choice: its light citrusy flavor balances the richness of the herbs and olive oil in which the fish has been cooked.
A striped tabby cat strolls past our table, alert for handouts.
Somehow two or three hours slide by. It’s time to go. On the way out I glance into a side kitchen where the mounted head of an enormous speckled trout presides over a jug of fading roses.
If there were a little cottage nearby, with a soft inviting bed, I’d linger for another day.
