Layered History of the Empanada
By Henry Walker
Buenos Aires
When I told people I was studying abroad in Buenos Aires, the first responses I got were always the same: “Steak!” “Tango!” “Mate!” No one ever mentioned empanadas. And yet, after living here for a few months, they’ve become the cornerstone of both my diet and, surprisingly, my education.
I came to Argentina to study political science—Latin American revolutions, dictatorships, Peronism—but I’ve ended up learning just as much from bakeries as I have from textbooks. It started the first week. I wandered into a neighborhood café in Palermo, jet-lagged and overconfident in my Spanish. I asked for una empanada, por favor. The woman behind the counter smiled like I’d asked for gold.
“¿De qué?” she asked. “Carne? Pollo? Jamón y queso? Humita?”
I stared blankly. “Uh... carne?”
She handed me one, hot and flaky, wrapped in a napkin. I took a bite on the sidewalk and paused mid-chew. It was better than I expected—savory beef, onions, spices, a hint of cumin, maybe some paprika. But it wasn’t just the taste. It felt important somehow. Like I had stumbled into something bigger than lunch.
So I started asking questions.
Empanadas, it turns out, have a rich history. The name comes from the Spanish word empanar, meaning “to wrap in bread.” They came to Argentina by way of Galicia, Spain, and then spread across Latin America, evolving region by region. In Buenos Aires, you’ll find them filled with ground beef (carne picada), hard-boiled egg, and olives. In the north, especially Salta and Tucumán, they’re juicier, spicier, often cooked in a clay oven. In Patagonia, you might find lamb or even seafood inside.
They're not just food—they're regional identity wrapped in dough.
I learned that in some provinces, there are competitions to crown the best empanada maker. Families pass down their dough techniques like heirlooms. In Tucumán, they celebrate La Fiesta Nacional de la Empanada, where thousands gather to eat, dance, and honor the craft.
In class, I studied revolutions; in cafés, I studied menus. Both told stories of resistance, culture, and pride. I started noticing how political everything felt here—how even food had history. During the dictatorship, many traditional foods were suppressed in favor of a sterile national image. But dishes like empanadas survived, quietly, in kitchens and family gatherings, until they could proudly return to the table.
One afternoon, I was sitting in Plaza Dorrego, writing in my journal and eating an empanada de humita—sweet corn with white sauce and a touch of nutmeg—when it clicked: this wasn’t just a snack. It was a symbol. A tiny, portable archive of history, migration, and memory.
My friends back home are still asking for steak pictures. But I keep sending them blurry empanada photos, telling them this is what Argentina tastes like. They roll their eyes.
Still, I keep eating them. At bus stations. In parks. Between classes. Some of the best ones I’ve had came from a tiny stall near Constitución station, sold by a woman who’s been making them since before I was born. When I told her I was studying here from New York, she smiled and handed me a second empanada, free of charge.
“Bienvenido a Argentina,” she said. “Now eat like one of us.”
And I do. Every bite, a lesson. Every fold, a story.
