The grill was still sizzling with the last glowing coals. The roast had already passed, but no one moved from the table. It was that sacred moment of "yapa," when the wine continues to flow and someone, wise among wise men, brings out the blood sausage. Not just any blood sausage: a very black one, with a thick casing, barely charred, with crispy skin and a creamy interior.
"And the fresh cheese?" one asks, as if unaware it's always there.
"I have it here," the host replies, opening the refrigerator like someone revealing a treasure.
The plate comes out with chunks of fresh cheese, white as a summer cloud, cold and smooth, the perfect counterpoint. A bite of blood sausage, a bite of cheese. Combining the two was more than just eating: it was remembering. As children, at grandma's, when it was served without luxury but with love. As young people, at some impromptu gathering. As adults, at every gathering where tradition is honored with every piece.
No bread is needed. No protocol is needed. Just the knife that goes from hand to hand, cutting just the right amount, sharing the simple. And so, amid laughter, anecdotes, and a soft tango, an Argentine classic is consecrated: blood sausage with fresh cheese, just right.
La parrilla todavía chisporroteaba con los últimos carbones encendidos. El asado ya había pasado, pero nadie se movía de la mesa. Era ese momento sagrado del "yapa", cuando el vino sigue corriendo y alguien, sabio entre sabios, saca la morcilla. No cualquier morcilla: una bien negra, de tripa gruesa, apenas marcada a la brasa, con la piel crocante y el interior cremoso.
—"¿Y el queso fresco?" —pregunta uno, como si no supiera que siempre está.
—"Acá lo tengo" —responde el anfitrión, abriendo la heladera como quien revela un tesoro.
Sale el plato con trozos de queso fresco, blanco como nube de verano, frío y suave, el contrapunto perfecto. Un bocado de morcilla, uno de queso. Combinar los dos era más que comer: era recordar. De chicos, en lo de la abuela, cuando se servía sin lujos pero con amor. De jóvenes, en alguna juntada improvisada. De grandes, en cada reunión donde se honra la tradición con cada pedazo.
No hace falta pan. No hace falta protocolo. Solo el cuchillo que va de mano en mano, cortando lo justo, compartiendo lo simple. Y así, entre risas, anécdotas y algún tango sonando bajito, se consagra un clásico argentino: morcilla con queso fresco, como Dios manda.