Choripán (Argentinian Chorizo Sandwich)

Can a city smell like a certain food? What does it mean when it doesn’t? I couldn’t help but wonder as I lingered in the locker room after my morning swim. It was the day after the divisive far-right libertarian Javier Milei was sworn into office as the president of Argentina. His speech promised hard times ahead to meet his campaign promises, like deregulating the financial market and sacking renters’ protections, which, depending on which side of the spectrum you stand, are necessary to “save the economy” or an attack against the majority of the population. Yet the more pressing conversation in the changing room was choripán—or the lack thereof—at the inauguration. 

“¿Viste? No one was selling choripán,” an older man commented to his workout partner. “It’s too popular,” his friend responded. In political speak, “popular” translates to populist. When someone suggests going to eat somewhere popular, it’s to visit a spot with zero pretensions—a meal fit for anybody. And if there’s a meal fit for anybody and everybody, choripán sits toward the top of the list. I wondered: Was a lack of smoke and fat perfuming the Plaza de Congreso a symbolic slip? Were only some of us invited to the table? 

Choripán is exactly what it sounds like: “chori” is short for chorizo and “pan” means bread. The sandwich—a smoky, paprika and garlic-spiced beef and pork sausage snug within a crusty baguette—is usually sold at sardine tin-sized grills, street stalls, or weekend fairs, where it’s wrapped in a paper towel that quickly moistens with the chorizo’s juices while diners eat on their feet. The best choripán is made by vendors who cook the chorizo whole (rather than the equally popular method of butterflying it up the middle to appease hurried diners) to keep the juices in the sausage, rather than waste it on the coals below. 

As a rule, the bread is toasted just enough to provide a satisfying crunch while still allowing it to absorb ungodly spoonfuls of herby chimichurri and sharp salsa criolla, a chunky vinegar-based sauce made with onion, tomatoes, and bell peppers of every shade. Across Argentina, mini baguettes are sold in grocery stores and bakeries for sandwich making. Outside Argentina, you can use French bread or a hoagie roll.

In an issue of my newsletter Matambre, local editor and art historian Clara Inés writes that the choripán—what she describes as “the great Argentinian sandwich”—breaks hierarchies and destroys the status quo of our modern lives. There are plenty of beloved Argentine dishes enjoyed by everyone—milanesa, pasta, pizza—but few that invite people from every walk of life to rub elbows with one another. Choripán is the soundtrack we all share, its portability and simplicity a cultural unifier. You’ll find choripán at the Friday “parrilla de obra,” when construction workers and site engineers take a break to have a meal on the sidewalk, and at sandwich trucks in Buenos Aires’ park district, where people travel from every corner of the city and suburbs to share a patch of grass. You’ll see it when people—in the middle of a protest or street party—stop for a quick bite when grills on push carts or parrillas fashioned out of old shopping trolleys suddenly appear to feed the masses. 

I don’t want to say that Buenos Aires smells like choripán every day. At least, not the way the morning smells like fresh medialunas (crescent-shaped Argentinian pastries). But, on certain days, when people gather en masse, the smell seems to permeate the city. And when it doesn’t, it doesn’t feel like a real celebration. I don’t know for a fact that there wasn't choripán surrounding the inauguration. I can, however, confirm that my gym mates’ day was sullied by the apparent absence of this unifying sandwich.