In Buenos Aires, meals revolve around a few ritual moments rather than French-style courses. The day begins and is punctuated by mate, passed around; at noon or evening, the table gathers the family around meat, often grilled or stewed; empanadas are eaten standing, walking, or while waiting; and dulce, omnipresent, closes almost everything. It is a cuisine of the cultivated middle class, sober, without gastronomic fuss — exactly the sober world of Borges.

More than an ingredient, a gesture: the bitter infusion of yerba mate, shared from the same gourd and the same bombilla, structures Argentine sociability. For Borges, it accompanied reading, conversation, and writing.