A few days ago, a friend shared an interview with Roberto Bolaño, in which he talked about the red wine and empanadas of his native Chile. So I said...
But Bolaño was wrong: the best empanadas are not in Chile, but in Argentina. More precisely, in Salta, Argentina.
Although Chileans are indeed proud of their empanadas. Back when Allende was pushing his socialist reforms in the 1970s, he said it would be a plan “filled with the flavor of revolution and red wine, and the aroma of empanadas.” No wonder Bolaño wrote in his book that now, you can no longer taste either one, just like a stillborn revolution.
Let me first try to answer what an empanada is. It’s a food popular in South America and Spanish-speaking countries; I wanted to call it a giant fried dumpling, but that still felt off in too many ways. Then suddenly it hit me: a baked baozi!
Yes — the baked baozi from Xinjiang!
Two foods so far apart in time and space, yet somehow so wonderfully connected.
If you’ve never had baked baozi either, I can only tell you that it’s a dish where meat filling is wrapped in dough, sealed shut, and baked in an oven (a naan pit), waiting for the crust to turn golden brown, until it yields an exquisite texture and taste, as if 42 itself were sealed inside this little puffed-up world.
The difference is that Xinjiang baked baozi only uses lamb, while South American empanadas — from here on, let’s just call them empanadas — can be filled with chicken, beef, seafood, beans, and even fruit. Latin Americans stuff in all the ingredients they love.
Downstairs from where I stayed in Buenos Aires was an empanada restaurant, and it was always busy at mealtimes. I often went there to join the crowd, ordering a few different flavors and a bowl of stew, eating while watching a live Boca match.
The empanadas in the capital are huge; just a few are enough to fill you up. Carefully cutting open the crimped edge feels like opening a gift box from an art piece, and heat and aroma burst out at the same time, satisfying your sense of smell before your sense of taste even gets a chance.
The elaborate crimping is not just decoration; it also distinguishes the different flavors. Romanticizing something simple feels very much in keeping with Buenos Aires’ urban character.
If that still isn’t enough to satisfy your craving, just take one to go and eat it on the way, while it’s still warm, soothing the last bit of wildness in your stomach. I thought this was already the best empanada in the world — until I came to Salta.
Salta lies on Argentina’s northwestern frontier. By Chinese standards it isn’t considered a big city, but it is still a notable regional center. Seen from above on a map, Salta is already the last stronghold of the green expanse. Beyond it, the desolate, weathered loneliness between the Andes and the high plateau follows you like a shadow.
Several hundred kilometers to the south, the better-known Córdoba was one of the first colonial settlements the Spanish established in Argentina, and at one point even became the capital. Salta, meanwhile, was the northwest birthplace of the May Revolution that led the drive for independence.
For a moment, I couldn’t think of a better analogy for the relationship between the two than Xi’an and Yan’an (I’m just saying that — teachers, please don’t take it too seriously).
At the foot of Bernardo Hill outside Salta stands a statue. While most other Argentine cities honor General José de San Martín, Salteños revere General Güemes. With little support from the capital, he started with almost nothing, united every force that could be united, organized local gaucho guerrillas, and surrounded the cities from the countryside... wait a minute, why does this plot sound so familiar?
Not far away is a well-known empanada place. It calls itself a specialty shop, but the menu is limited to just two flavors: beef and cheese. If I had to offer a weak explanation, it would probably be that they just want to focus on doing one thing well.
Salta’s empanadas are very special: small in size, with a touch of delicacy that feels completely at odds with the rugged character of the northwest. One serving looks more like an appetizer. Served with a homemade spicy-and-sour tomato sauce, it shows a level of respect for empanadas that you don’t find in the capital.
Start with the cheese one. The moment you cut into it, the cheese, already melted into silky strands, wraps around the corn, with an intensely rich flavor. The beef version also includes chunks of potato and minced onion; the savory seasoning is not heavy at all, but instead leaves your mouth full of flavor.
A round of these little empanadas just isn’t enough, so I ordered another round — three times in total — and it started to feel a bit like being in a sushi restaurant.
In the end, I could only finish the job with a big Potosina. Potosí is a Bolivian city north of Salta, so you could see this as the marriage of food between two cities. The Potosina’s chicken filling is fresh and juicy; bite into it and the broth pours out, no different from a soup dumpling.
Strangely, in Potosí this food is called Salteña, as if the two cities were each modestly deferring to the other, both trying to give credit for the birth of the delicacy.
My first meal in Salta was enjoyed in this courtyard, just as the heat of the day was beginning to fade — a truly delightful meal.
After the meal, I took a walk through the city. Salta has no skyscrapers; along the streets are low-rise houses, none taller than three or four stories, spreading out like a scattered constellation into the distance.
At noon, the northwest sun is scorching and no one is around, but every time night falls, it feels as if the gate to a new world has opened.
Every few steps, a cute little restaurant seems to appear from nowhere. The small bars we call bodegas are where the owners are gradually bringing tables and chairs out onto the sidewalk. Behind any half-closed door, the smell of baked empanadas might drift out.
The sunset settles at the end of the road, wandering aimlessly through the streets and leaving itself to instinct at every intersection. Chasing the sunset makes city walks increasingly delightful.
Although it has endured war and earthquakes, many of its colonial and neoclassical buildings have been largely preserved intact.
The heart of the district is the Church of San Francisco, whose bell tower rises high into the sky and can be glimpsed from many corners of the city. The blue hour, when the lights come on at night, is especially moving.
Not far from the church, Plaza 9 de Julio is bustling with people. Following the noise, I found local dancers performing in a small park in the middle of the street. Their feet stamped rapidly as they moved and spun, at times like a drawn bow, and the powerful dance finally ended in a deep kiss.
Salteños are no less proud of their hometown dance than they are of empanadas. Here, Spanish and indigenous gaucho folk music and dance have merged into something that has become an essential part of everyday life.
In Salta, the word Peña has a unique meaning: it can refer either to a folk dance gathering place or to the act of dancing itself. At many parties, someone will shout, “Esta Noche, Hay Peña!” (“Tonight we dance!”), and then everyone dances until dawn.
What enchants people late at night isn’t only the dancing, of course, but also the food. Unable to resist temptation, I ended up ducking into a local restaurant. This time, besides empanada, there was also the Northwest’s national dish, locro, on the table. 
Locro is basically a corn-and-vegetable meat stew. It’s simmered slowly with potatoes, white corn, green peppers, onions, tomatoes, and beef until it becomes a rich, thick soup. On the sparsely endowed Northwest plateau, one big pot of stew can feed an entire family for a meal. It truly deserves the title of “mom’s cooking.”
Naturally, as someone born to love stews, I ate with great satisfaction. And on the rest of the trip, it kept appearing on my table again and again.
Even when resources are limited, people can always find the best ways to tame food over the long course of history. In the Andes, corn and potatoes are the locals’ best partners. The next day, I returned to that restaurant and ordered a corn tamale and a plate of potato and egg stir-fry. The corn tamale, Tamal, mixes corn purée with cheese, then adds minced meat and vegetables before wrapping everything tightly in corn husks. The result is fragrant, tender, and richly textured.
Revuelto Gramajo, the potato-and-egg dish, uses only three ingredients: French fries, eggs, and ham. I imagine it was also born when someone, one day, stir-fried whatever leftovers they had on hand and stumbled upon a delicious code. So many classics in the human cookbook are really second acts for leftovers. 
But the true star of the table will always be the empanada. No matter what else you order, a serving of “baked stuffed buns” is always indispensable.
The diner at the next table told me that empanadas should be paired with the finest local Malbec, and the Northwest is one of the best wine-producing regions.
All right then—out with the cola, in with the wine. Tonight, let’s drink until we drop.
The original origin of the empanada is impossible to trace; it has probably long been swallowed by time. But it is fairly certain that the Spanish brought it to South America, where it then spread and flourished.
The Spanish brought several important things to this continent—language, religion, architecture, and food—some of which even outshone those in Europe itself.
The true homeland of the empanada, so to speak, is Argentina. 
If you look closely, the empanada’s trail did not stop in South America.
In southern Fujian and Guangdong, the fried New Year treat yóujiǎo is said to have been brought to Quanzhou by Spanish sailors during the Age of Exploration, and then developed across the lands of Fujian. Even today, the filling inside has long since become sesame, sugar, and chopped peanuts.
Still, the meaning of wrapping up good fortune and sweetness may well come from the word empanar (“to wrap”). At this very moment, while I’m reminiscing about my “spiritual hometown,” I’m sitting in a hotel in Kuala Lumpur.
The streets below are lined with stalls selling Malaysian curry puffs.
This classic Malaysian snack is also said to have been brought to Southeast Asia by Portuguese ships from the Iberian Peninsula, and through continual blending with local foods, it became what it is today.
What a wonderful culinary migration. I’ll stop here—I’m heading downstairs to buy a curry puff right now, as a small tribute to my longing for the empanada.
Salta travel guide: among the readers of this article, I imagine very few will ever make it to Salta. But if you ever do have the chance to come to Northwest Argentina, please don’t rush past this city I love so much.
There aren’t many sights in Salta itself, and they aren’t exactly top-tier. Whether it’s churches or art museums, you’ve probably already seen enough of those in Buenos Aires.
And yet this is a city that’s perfect for wandering. Isn’t that what travel is for—discovery and relaxation? Besides, there are countless restaurants and bars here that won’t let you down, so take your time and experience life in Salta.
On Plaza 9 de Julio, there is a museum I especially love: the High Mountain Archaeological Museum.
Inside are three well-preserved child mummies discovered atop the Andes, from Inca child sacrifice rituals. It is deeply moving.
The museum is small, but the displays are beautifully designed. It made me think again of the writer Pamuk I admire and of something my teacher once said: “Small museums and small parks are both great human inventions.”
Outside the city, Cerro Bernardo is perfect for climbing up to take in the view.
That time, I had wanted to just lie flat at the guesthouse, but in the end I forced myself up and hiked the mountain anyway, and was rewarded with a beautiful afternoon.
For trips around Salta, there is the town of Cachi, and you can sign up for a day tour.
- The End -
Other Northwest Argentina content:I went to the South American Zhangye