The Uruguayan Grill

At the top of the Salida a Querétaro between the Hotel Refugio del Molino and the Pemex station, a couple of small shopping centers have sprung up. One—Plaza Primavera—houses several casual restaurants; among them, an Uruguayan grill.

Uruguayans love grilled meat. Life is tough for vegetarians down in the southern cone.

Naturalmente Uruguay Restaurant will not disappoint meat lovers. The menu includes bife de chorizo (a thick steak), asado de tira (a huge, thin steak that blankets the entire plate), even a three-pound chunk of beef—intended for sharing, I think. For appetizers, there are several kinds of sausages, among them morcilla (blood sausage). There's organ meats too, such as mollejas (grilled sweetbreads).

All the food is prepared on a two-part grill. Mesquite logs burn in a U-shaped metal basket. Coals drop onto the bricks. These then are raked under the canted parrilla, where they provide intense heat and smoky flavor.

Good grilling requires lots of heat. Ponytailed owner-chef Alonzo (El Rojo) intensifies his fire with a blowpipe, putting blasts of oxygen right where they're needed.

All that meat would be problematical for Laura and me. We describe ourselves as piscetarians—fish-eating vegetarians. (Laura does better at this than I do. Every other month or so I sneak off to Vicente's for carnitas.) Fortunately the menu at Naturalmente Uruguay Restaurant includes tuna and salmon and even pizza cooked right on the parrilla.

But the real secret to this restaurant is that when Alonzo isn't cooking, he's entertaining the customers. Wearing a gorra (asador's cap) and surgeon's mask, he sings Cuban and Veracruzana songs in a rich, resonant baritone. Here he's imitating the sound of a trombone by humming through pressed-together lips.

He calls his instrument a jarama, and says it was carved from a single piece of cedar with a machete. It carries eight strings in five courses: the top and bottom strings are single, the three inner ones are doubled as in a mandolin. Weird.

With a pair of Indonesian maracas tied to his strumming hand, El Red draws bouncy rhythms from his jarama—and smiles from his audience.