El Asado en Quincho de Los Nevados

Pucón is famous for it's monsoon weather in May and June and the forecast called for 100% chance of showers all day Saturday, the day we scheduled to hold an asado, or BBQ, up in the foothills east of town. Our landlord has a quincho or rustic ranchhouse that we arranged to use at a campo called Los Nevados about 4km up a dirt road above the same Camino Internacional we followed to Argentina over May Day. Invitations had been sent out before the chicas had even arrived in town, and fifty guests were expected to attend a party for Joslyn and her six girlfriends, in celebration of the visit to Chile and Joslyn's 21st birthday.

As predicted, Saturday dawned under black clouds heavy with rain. There would be no horseback riding or outdoor games or trout fishing for entertainment. But a team of cooks were roasting lamb, beef, chicken, salmon and sausages over a bed of coals, enough to feed a regiment. A dozen salads and another dozen desserts were ready to be placed out on the buffet counters.

Big pitchers of Pisco Sours, bottles of Chile's famous German-tradition beer, fine white wines, and sodas for the kids were chilled and frosty. We worried that guests would hesitate to travel or perhaps get stuck on the unimproved road.













But we didn't need to worry. Chileans come from hardy stock, as do our gringo friends who choose to live here. We arranged for a big van to bring guests from the Language Pucón offices and another to bring us. Others drove their 4x4's and somehow or another, by 1pm, in pouring rain, the cabin began filling with warmth from the fireplaces and people ready to have a good time.













We started with hor d'oerves of suasage on baguette followed by seemingly endless trips to refill our plates at the fire and the salad buffet. Susan and Richard cribbed some remarks in both English and halting Spanish from scribbled notes and, misty-eyed, led the first toasts to their first child now come of age. Joslyn blew out her candles amid hope all her wishes will come true. The cake was served. Willy Jr., the proprietor's son, programmed a rasher of reggeton from his iPod and some played liar's dice, while others danced and drank wine or piscola, until the absent sunlight disappeared altogether behind the horizon and the tired revelers made their various ways down the mountain.