SpiceLines

In San Martin, Juan Carlos de la Torre, an oenologist who makes organic wine from his own grapes, opens a vat to check the fermentation process in his backyard.

We went to San Martin to visit a maker of conserves. Instead, we had a surprise tasting “tour” of a backyard winery.

Adriana laughs, “These things happen in Argentina.”

Mendoza is known for its delicious conserves, a tradition begun by the Italian immigrants who came here in the 19th century. Tomato sauce, pickled peppers and eggplant, figs in almibar (sugar syrup), jams of locally grown peaches and membrillo (a.k.a. quince), are just some of the delectable preserved fruits and vegetables simmered on kitchen stoves during the harvest season.

But when we arrive at a modest house on the outskirts of town, (named after General Jose de San Martin, who, with Simon Bolivar, freed much of South America from Spain), the conserve-maker, a wild-looking young man with long hair, is too shy to talk with me or even let us into his preserving kitchen. We are only permitted a glimpse through a dusty window of neat rows of jars filled with mixed vegetables cooling on a long table.

I'm broken-hearted. But then his handsome gray-haired father steps into the breach.

Zucchini blossoms from Whitted Bowers biodynamic farm were almost too beautiful to eat--but we managed.

In my next life, I will definitely have a zucchini blossom salon.

You know how designers are always talking about their inspirations? A trip to Mali or Macao, “pond scum green” paint, a study swathed in dark chocolate leather. (The reference? A bar of Salgado Venezuelan Ocumare 70% Chocolate Amargo, tasting of raisins and smoke.)

Right now, the dazzling colors of these biodynamic zucchini blossoms are giving me some delicious decorating ideas.

I can see the room now: Billowing chartreuse curtains lined in tangerine silk. A cool lime chaise plumped with pale lemon pillows. A soft orange Moroccan rug (like the one I already have) on a dark wood floor. Buttercream walls. Chairs in creamsicle suede. Mirrors to reflect the light.

It would be the happiest room ever, even on a dark and stormy afternoon.

Sigh. Why is the grass is always greener?

Zucchini blossoms are delicate and taste ever so slightly of baby squash. A simple batter of flour and club soda maintains their "lightness of being" when fried.

Argentina was full of surprises. One of them was how much Francis Mallman, this meat-obsessed country’s most celebrated chef, adores vegetables.

Oh, people flock to 1884, his rustic chic Mendoza restaurant, for three-inch thick steaks, braised cabrito, and pork ribs the size of a woolly mammoth’s tusks, all cooked over fiery algaroba (a.k.a. mesquite) wood coals. These primaeval hunks of meat are toothsome, but for real artistry, you must taste his vegetables.

In Burnt Carrots with Goat Cheese, Parsley, Arugula and Crispy Garlic Chips, for example, Mallman coaxes maximum flavor from the ubiquitous root vegetable by charring it on a smoking hot cast skillet until the inside is soft and the outside is crunchy with caramelized sugars. Then, for contrast, he tosses the carrots with peppery arugula, creamy Boucheron and bitter sautéed garlic.

You can find this recipe for this dish in Mallman’s cookbook, Seven Fires: Grilling the Argentine Way, (p. 47). But sadly there is no recipe for the appetizer that I really fell for...

Tip #8: At the New York Botanical Garden, time-trip to 14th century Granada by visiting the Alhambra exhibit. Watery reflections offer a transparent illusion of coolness.

It was like a furnace in New York last week. The moment I pushed open the door at La Guardia, a blast of hot dry air—like a hair dryer on high—hit me right in the face. The sidewalks radiated heat right up through the soles of my sandals. I took to carrying bottles of water as if I were on a grueling Gobi trek.

Still, there are ways to stay cool, even when the heat hits triple digits. Here, my own 8-step guide to surviving the summer in the city:

1. Dress for smoking hot sidewalks.

First, consider your feet: Ditch the stilettos. Flip flops are fine, but the truly chic are wearing gladiators and cut-out ballerinas Think ventilation, but watch out for strange substances baking on the concrete.

It’s 5 PM and 99 degrees outside. Just in case you were wondering.

Drinks at Brushstroke got me to thinking about the ways the Japanese cultivate the illusion of coolness on hot summer nights. A few years ago Amanda Mayer Stinchecum, an independent scholar of Japanese textiles, wrote about this beguiling practice for In Pursuit of Tea, an on-line purveyor of fine teas.

“Kyoto in the summer. Hot, muggy, many tropical nights, defined as night-time temperatures that don’t fall below 77 degrees. People who persist in traditional style have over the centuries devised many strategies that create an illusion of coolness. Gauzey kimono with see-through sleeves (never mind all the hot undergarments and binding sash); sliding screens made of reeds that let a breeze pass through; paper folding fans, often decorated with autumn motifs—chrysanthemums, maple leaves, bush clover, autumn grasses—turn the mind away from heat; chilled fruit served on a glass plate. Serving cooling foods and drinks in glass vessels—maybe because of their resemblance to ice—is a trope of summer in Japan…”

Stinchecum goes on to compare iced green tea to “a plunge into the cold waters of a northern pond.” And I’m sure it is. One of these days, I’ll follow her directions for an ice infusion and serve it in a “glass of cut crystal or handblown glass.”

But right now I’m craving a Japanese Cucumber.

6:05 pm Confiteria La Ideal. All the photographs in this post are by Adriana Groisman and have been used with her permission. These and many others may be found in her stunning book, Tango: Nunca Antes de la Media Noche and on her website.

Buenos Aires. Monday. 5:54 PM. Rush hour. At the corner of Corrientes Avenue and Suipacha, crowds elbow their way to the Subte. Buses screech to a stop, diesel fumes clog the air. Traffic is in gridlock.

But a few steps away, it’s utterly quiet. Inside Confiteria La Ideal, we find an ocean of empty tables and chairs. A half-drunk bottle of beer sits abandoned on the seat of a chair. Bored waiters loiter in the back. One flicks his white napkin at a fly.

The sound of tango music, muffled but alluring, floats from the second floor.

A woman rushes past us, running lightly up the marble stairs. She’s 40-ish and slender, with short red hair and a swan’s neck, wearing a black leotard, clingy skirt and leggings. A dancer, with all the grace and poise you’d expect. A little smile plays across her lips.

We pay 20 pesos for tickets, and follow her…

A fragrant basil bouquet from my summer herb garden: Lower left, anise-scented Thai basil; upper left and right, purple basil; center, citrusy lime basil.

It took me nearly 30 hours to reach Kochi, for millennia India’s most fabled spice depot. So I was slightly befuddled when I awoke the next morning. There was the Arabian Sea and a freighter chugging right past my window--pure romance, if you happen to be me. But I had a nagging memory of a 9 AM appointment for a massage to shake the jet lag.

“What was I thinking?” I muttered as I wobbled blearily from my room to the verandah. Still the vista alone was worth the effort. Beyond the palm-framed infinity pool, fishing boasts plied the grey blue waters. Marigolds and frangipani blossoms floated in a stone basin at my feet.

True bliss arrived in the spa with a glass of warm tea made with holy basil, lemon and honey. OK, that plus the foot-washing in a copper basin scented with rose petals. But it’s the purifying tea I most remember. It was delicious even with a pungent whiff of something medicinal wafting from the glass.

I didn’t mind, though. Holy basil, also known as Krishna tulsi, is native to India where it’s used to reduce stress, rev up the immune system and blast infections. I’m sure I needed all of the above.