There are some foods that are better if you take the first bite before asking too many questions.
Chinchulines are one of them.
If I tell someone they're about to eat beef intestines, I can almost see their expression change. If I put a perfectly grilled chinchulín in front of them first—crispy on the outside, tender inside—the conversation usually goes in a very different direction.
That's why I always say: try one first. Ask questions later.
Growing Up with Chinchulines
In my family, chinchulines were simply part of the asado. Nobody made a big speech about what they were. They went onto the grill with the sausages, and when they were ready everyone reached for a piece.
By the time I was about thirteen, I was already braiding them before putting them on the parrilla. It was one of those jobs you inherit without even noticing.
Years later, after moving to London, I realised they weren't normal everywhere.
The Day I Couldn't Find Them
You can find ribeye almost anywhere. Hearts and kidneys aren't impossible either.
Chinchulines are different.
Because they come from the digestive tract, they require more careful handling, refrigeration and stock rotation than many other cuts. Most butchers simply don't bother with them.
For months I thought I'd have to live without one of my favourite parts of an asado.
Then someone gave me unexpected advice:
"Try the African butchers."
They were right.
In several African countries these cuts are part of everyday cooking and are known as matumbu. Walking into those shops reminded me that Argentina isn't unique in respecting the whole animal. Different cultures reached the same conclusion in different ways.
Finding matumbu in London meant I could cook chinchulines again.
The Argentine Way
Here's where I have strong opinions.
I never boil them first.
I don't aggressively flush them with water either. Some people wash them with vinegar or lemon. I think that also washes away part of what makes them taste like chinchulines.
They go onto the grill at the very beginning of the asado over a medium fire, away from the fiercest heat. They stay there patiently while everything else cooks.
Early on they're slippery enough to fall through the grill, so I use a fine mesh until they firm up.
The goal is simple.
Deep golden colour. Crispy outside. Tender inside.
If they're chewy, they need more time.
If they're dry, you've cooked them too long.
Different Countries, Different Textures
Peru also has a tradition of grilling intestines alongside anticuchos.
I've enjoyed them there, but I still prefer the Argentine approach.
We chase crunch.
That crispy exterior is what makes people stop thinking about anatomy and start thinking about flavour.
Watching People Change Their Minds
One thing I've learned from serving Argentine food in Britain is that the biggest obstacle isn't the taste.
It's the idea.
I've watched people say, "No chance," when they hear what chinchulines are.
Then they try one.
A few minutes later they're reaching back for another piece.
I never try to convince anyone.
I simply offer one bite.
Sometimes that's all it takes.
Maybe that's why I like chinchulines so much. They're a reminder that good food often asks us to leave our assumptions behind. And every now and then, the best bite of the day comes from the cut people almost walked away from.