The Real History of Chimichurri and Why We Warm It at AsadoAdventure
- franciscoedualmeid
- 20 minutes ago
- 3 min read
What really shaped this iconic Argentine sauce—and why a little heat changes everything.
Every asado begins the same way in my home in Palermo Viejo. Before any steaks touch the grill and before anyone lifts a glass of Malbec, we light the fire. The flames take their time. They crackle, settle, and slowly turn the wood and charcoal into the steady heat that Argentines trust more than any thermometer.
It is around this fire that I teach guests how to make chimichurri and cover chimichurri history.
A few herbs. A little oil. A bowl. A spoon. Nothing fussy.
Many guests arrive assuming chimichurri is complicated. Some learned it with a food processor. Some added cilantro because a friend suggested it. Most built their versions around olive oil and fresh herbs. All perfectly valid—but very different from the traditional way.
Inside my kitchen in Palermo Viejo, the same neighborhood you can explore through our food and culture tour, sunlight filters in through tall industrial windows and lands on a worn wooden table. Everyone ties on an apron. Dried oregano joins parsley. Garlic meets a pinch of red pepper. Vinegar hits the oil and wakes the whole thing up. The room fills with a scent every Argentine knows by heart.
Then comes the part that surprises people: We warm it.
Not to cook it. Not to simmer it. Just a gentle pass over the fire. A short kiss of heat. It changes the texture and opens the herbs. The aroma lifts immediately. The color shifts. The whole thing becomes alive.
Guests always ask why.
The answer is simple: you understand it only when you feel the warmth of the grill on your hands and watch the herbs bloom. It is a small moment, but it becomes a memory.
The Myths That Refuse to Die
Chimichurri has collected more origin stories than a gaucho on a long ride.
One story insists that British soldiers desperately asked locals for “Jimmy’s curry,” eventually slurring it into chimichurri. Another tale claims an Irish wanderer named Jimmy McCurry rode with Argentine independence fighters and mixed up a sauce that people later named after him.
These stories survive because they are colorful, not because they are true.
They are as ridiculous as the legendary dulce de leche “accidental stovetop invention,” but that is a story for another day.
The Most Likely Origin, According to Real Chimichurri History
The real roots are almost certainly Spanish.
Early immigrants brought herb-based sauces that appear across Basque and Galician cuisine. The original word was likely ximixurri, a Basque term for messy mixtures of oil, herbs, and spices.
Ximixurri eventually drifted into chimichurri the way immigrant words often do.
Long before Europeans arrived with garlic, onions, vinegar, and oil, Indigenous communities across the Andes were preparing herb-based sauces with local plants, wild aromatics, and chili. What we now call chimichurri is not a single invention. It is a layering of old and new—European pantry staples folded into existing regional traditions. The result is exactly what you taste today: a hybrid sauce born from migration, adaptation, and the natural blending of cultures in the Río de la Plata.
“Chimichurri is not a single invention but a blend of European ingredients and Indigenous traditions.”
The Moment Guests Understand Chimichurri
When Jake visited with Judea, he captured the entire sequence. The hands at work. The herbs on the table. The fire settling into its rhythm. The small pan held above the coals. The moment when the chimichurri darkens slightly and becomes something deeper.
These images tell the story better than any recipe card ever could.
Guests often tell me, “I thought chimichurri would be harder.” But like many Argentine foods, it is built on patience, not complexity.
Good ingredients.
A relaxed afternoon.
Fire that never rushes.
People cooking together.
That is all you need.
A Tradition You Can Taste
Warming chimichurri is not required. The vast majority of Argentines serve it raw. But here in my home, during AsadoAdventure, we let the fire warm it for a moment.
Only guests who join us understand why.
It becomes part of the story they carry home, along with the scent of wood smoke and the memory of a slow afternoon in Palermo Viejo.
If you want to experience this moment yourself, join us for our authentic Argentine AsadoAdventure.
Most photographs in this article were taken by travel photographer Jake Matthews (Instagram: @jakesvisuals). The close-up chimichurri bowl and the blue pan warming over the fire are my own images.
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