I’m eating dinner in the upscale Recoleta neighborhood in Buenos Aires inside a lavish 19thcentury-era apartment turned artists’ residence and gallery decorated with elaborate paintings of cunnilingus art. I’m sitting at a long, rectangular table with a prominent Argentine government official, an ex-prostitute and her pink poodle, a producer for MTV, and an exiled cult member from Alabama.
We’re eating a five-course aphrodisiac-inspired tasting menu including oysters meant to be “sensually slurped” and white “cum shots” accompanied by a brush to body paint fellow diners. It was just another night at a restaurante a puertas cerradas, or closed-door restaurant, the underground dining concept that has become all the rage in Buenos Aires. It’s a trend that’s received much hype in recent years, from features in Lonely Planet to articles in the New York Times. But what most people don’t know about the craze is this: most closed door gatherings, including the one I just described, are totally illegal. A majority of these establishments don’t have a permit to sell food, don’t comply with health or safety codes, do not pay taxes, and serve alcohol without a license.
I’ve eaten at dozens of closed-door restaurants in Buenos Aires, and spoken with countless cooks, chefs, restaurant owners, and diners (nearly all of whom declined to disclose their names in fear of angering others in the restaurant community) who say the same thing: that while most closed-door eateries here violate the law—which pisses off a lot of traditional restaurants around here—these laws are never enforced. And that’s a good thing, if you ask most serious food lovers in these parts: with its secret and exclusive feel and access to bold flavors and dishes that go far beyond a monotonous steak and empanada culture, the allure of the closed-door restaurant is overwhelming. “It’s not just a meal at another restaurant,” diner Ann Lang told me, “It’s an experience. It’s exciting.”
Modeled after Cuba’s paladares, closed-door restaurants have existed in Argentina for decades, but increased in popularity after the 2001 financial crisis. In a volatile economy with lax government oversight, these speakeasy like restaurants became a way for cooks and chefs to open low risk businesses without compromising creative control—inviting a limited number of guests two to three nights per week inside their homes for a prix fixe dinner.
For standard restaurant owners, the costs of running business can be high. Juan Pablo*, a seasoned chef, told me he paid a whopping AR $180,000 (aprox US $17,000) upon opening his “legitimate” restaurant to cover all costs and permits, in addition to over AR $40,000 (aprox US $3,600) each month in fees that he claims closed-door restaurants don’t pay.
Laura Tripe*, an expat restaurant owner who has diners booking months in advance for a spot at her puerta cerrada told me: “I wasn’t about to drop a massive investment on opening a real restaurant.”
Buenos Aires now boasts nearly 100 closed-door restaurants, with probably fewer than a handful that have actually taken steps to become legit businesses.
The model has evolved into different forms; from restaurants inside refurbished shared commercial properties to amateur cooks transforming living rooms into makeshift dining areas.
According to Attorney Sergio Mohadeb, an expert on Buenos Aires city laws, any place that charges for food and promotes itself as a restaurant must comply with both the Federal Code on Foods and a local statute related to business practices. This means registering with the city and passing an inspection—something that most closed-door restaurants don’t do.
“I wouldn’t step foot inside a closed-door restaurant—ever. It’s a travesty,” said Miguel Santos*. “It’s just a scam to make money,” he went on, the veins on his neck bulging. “Those who say they want to give an intimate, secretive dining experience—it’s all a lie. They are totally full of shit. They should be ashamed.”
“Closed-door restaurants are to gastronomy what pirated DVDs are to the film industry.” Maco Lucioni tells me, a Sommelier, food and wine Journalist, and 15 year veteran of the restaurant scene. “They shouldn’t even be considered restaurants. I doubt that in a civilized countrypuertas cerradas could exist as freely as they do here.”
Yet there is still little fear of a government crackdown.
“Breaking the law is no concern,” Tripe said, with a chuckle.
Martin*, who has run the FOH at a closed-door restaurant for the past five years said that ambassadors and other prominent Argentines regularly eat at his place. “We even had the right-hand man to the mayor who is supposed to enforce these laws,” he told me. He then added that he pays police officers AR $500 (approximately US $45) per month to keep them quiet.
“It’s fucked up. But that’s Argentina,” Juan Pablo said. Nonetheless, he insisted, he would never call an inspector on a closed-door restaurant. “We aren’t rats,” he told me.
It was well past midnight one evening last month, and I was still going strong inside an Argentine-American couple’s cozy Palermo home. There were eight of us who had arrived as strangers six hours earlier, but after lively, drunken conversation—and eating our weight in food—it was like we were old friends at a dinner party. Just as we thought the night was over our gracious hostess busted out a spoon, brown sugar, a lighter, and a bottle of booze, “I like to call this poor man’s absinthe,” she explained as she poured me a shot of the locally distilled 90 proof alcohol. I kindly accepted the challenge, heating up the spoon like I was about to do some heroin, and downed the shot. Everyone cheered. Maybe it was the cum shots, the company, or the fact that the chefs let us light stuff on fire, but it’s really hard to consider going back to legal restaurants from here on out.
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