Photo Credit: Marshallenrie at Wikipedia.
Everywhere we go in Buenos Aires and Colonia (Uruguay), we see people “drinking the mate” (pronounced “ma-teh.”). To join the fun, you need three things: a gourd-shaped pot, an odd metal implement resembling a cross between a straw and a slotted spoon, and a great, big, honkin’ wad of yerba mate.
Especially when dried and packaged in five-pound baggies, yerba mate’s dried, spongy, mossy leaves look and feel a lot like wacky weed. In fact, the yerba plant — a member of the holly family — has a lot more in common with green tea. (Folks here in BA say the drink has just a bit more punch than coffee.) And because making and drinking yerba mate tends to be a social affair — friends gather, stuff the weed into the gourd-shaped mate pot, pour on the hot water, chat while the brew steeps, and then pass the mate from person to person, sharing the single bombilla, or metal straw.
I had my first yerba mate while sitting in a fancy buffet that would never dream of serving the stuff. Fortunately, our trusty guide Pablo had brought along a supply, complete with a mate, a bombilla, and a baggie of dried herbs. After clearing everything with the management, he whipped out a thermos filled with hot water, filled his mate, poured in the water … and waited.
The waiting is part of the pleasure, providing the entire table with time to chat, time to reflect on the day, and time to savor the aroma of the steeping herbs, which smell a bit like a cross between lawn clippings and fresh pizza dough.
Pablo passed me the mate. I sucked on the bombilla, drawing in a mouthful of very hot liquid. The flavor of the brew reminded me more of spinach than anything else: dense, thick, green. I passed the mate to Clyde, who seemed to like it more than I did … and then he passed it to the boys, who seemed to like it even more.
I cannot imagine craving the mate — though Nigel, on staff at the Mira Vida assures me that, with time, it becomes a taste one looks forward to. The boys, though, are converts, and this afternoon, knowing that our departure time is looming, they rushed out to the local grocery store and picked up a five-pound bag each, along with their own personal mates and bombillas.
I would like to be a fly on the wall the first time campus police at Ole Miss stumble across a circle of young friends passing each other what appears to be an elaborate, brightly-painted pipe packed with a damp pile of musky yerba mate.
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