It looks like any other home on a quiet Maple Leaf street. Little do neighbors know that a beast lurks in the backyard: a massive brick beast of a barbecue that Argentine expats Roberto and Marisa Atschul built in order to replicate the asados of their youth in Buenos Aires (asado refers to both the meat and the event; asador is the grillmaster). A handful of times a summer they fire it up, invite 30 of their closest friends and feast the afternoon away.

Desperate to escape the dangerous military dictatorship in their country—“We lost a lot of friends,” Marisa says—the Altschuls moved to Seattle when newly minted Ph.D. Roberto was offered a job at the University of Washington. They’ve been here for more than 30 years. They make it back to Buenos Aires every few years to see family and friends, but the rest of the time they enact the awe-inspiring barbecue traditions of home in a style that puts the standard American backyard cookout to shame.

It starts with the special asado grill, which Roberto designed himself. The brick structure that houses it is big enough to fit a whole steer, and the grill is a double-decker marvel. The coals sit on a bottom rack, and the meat cooks on the top rack, which can be raised and lowered to control the heat. V-shaped conduits funnel away fat drippings before they have a chance to drop on the coals and cause flame-ups.

That’s the secret to Argentine meat: It’s slow-cooked on indirect heat for hours, resulting in some of the most tender, meat-a-licious beef in the world. The word for meat (carne) refers solely to beef (as in, “Do you want meat or chicken?”), and Argentines grill every part of the cow, including the udder, sweetbreads and testicles. This is no culture for vegetarians.

Roberto has bought his carne from Don & Joe’s Meats in Pike Place Market ever since he moved to Seattle. Back when butchers were sent whole sides of beef rather than discrete portions, Don used to take Roberto into the walk-in freezer to choose his own meat. In Argentina, cuts are thicker, the better to benefit from slow-cooking—there’s no place for feeble cuts like skirt steak. Elsewhere in the Market, the Altschuls stop at Bavarian Meats for blood sausage (“the best in the city,” Roberto maintains), and head to Mercado Latino and the Spanish Table for imported Argentine products like dulce de leche (the best caramel sauce ever), olive oil (darker, greener and fruitier than the Italian version, though they’ll use Spanish in a pinch) and special salt called parrillera reserved exclusively for seasoning meat at asado (it’s somewhere between kosher and fine salt in coarseness).

For today’s asado, Roberto’s chosen a pretty standard lineup: tri-tip, hanging tender, short ribs, Argentine chorizo (less spicy and juicier than its Mexican brethren) that they bring back themselves from a New York deli, blood sausage and sweet breads. As per tradition, the beef isn’t marinated—why mess with a good thing?—and as Roberto salts it, he explains that there are as many seasoning methods as there are asadors, with corresponding contention over when to salt, which cuts to salt and whether to salt at all.

Readying the coals is the first—and an ongoing—step in the process. Roberto lights charcoal in a grate beside the grill. When the coals glow red, he transfers them to the grill using tongs and a shovel. Throughout the afternoon, he has to continually create new coals. It’s hot, hard work. By the day’s end, he’s gone through three bags of mesquite charcoal, plenty of restaurant-grade charcoal from Cash & Carry, and hunk after hunk of hard wood that he’s amassed from friends’ yard-work projects over the years.

Two hours pass, and the coals are finally ready: time for the main event. The major meats—the tri-tip, hanging tendon and short ribs—are reverently laid out, making a satisfying sizzle as they land on the grill. After the big cuts get comfortable, Roberto adds the sweetbreads and the sausages. Over the next few hours, he tenderly watches over his meat, raising and lowering the grill to control the temperature. There doesn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to it; he’s guided by unerring instinct. He’s a meat whisperer.

It’s a torturous Argentine tradition that only the asador is allowed to sample the meat as it cooks. It’s also tradition that the women prepare side dishes while waiting. This is a welcome distraction. Just as the first tantalizing smells start to waft from the grill, Marisa brings out ingredients for empanadas and salad fixings.

The strangest salad involves cantaloupe, chopped hearts of palm and a dressing of mayonnaise and Worcestershire sauce. The sweetness of the melon contrasts with the saltiness of the hearts of palm and Worcestershire, and the mayo marries them together; it’s oddly refreshing and made more delicious by its unexpectedness. Marisa also makes what she calls the Complete Salad: mache, arugula, thinly sliced raw onion soaked in hot water to eliminate bitterness, tomatoes, sliced beets and hard-boiled egg, with a vinaigrette of Argentine olive oil and Argentine aceto, raspberry-flavored wine vinegar.

As the prep wraps up, guests trickle in: Roberto and Marisa’s neighbors, colleagues from the UW, their children. Someone opens a bottle of Argentine wine, and Marisa brings out golden-brown empanadas. The meat is flipped for a last-minute sear—the side that’s been nearest to the coals is caramelized, a sight to send any carnivore into raptures. Finally, five hours after the coals were started, it’s time to eat. Dinner is long and the conversation flows. The party works its way through the mountain of meat. Just as everyone puts their napkins down and pushes their plates away, one final course appears—fresh fruit and whipped cream.

The post-asado ritual usually involves lots of maté to stave off the inevitable food coma, but it’s getting late and everyone has work in the morning. People talk for a while, then drift off into the night to dream of meat and men.

Anna Roth is a Seattle-based freelance writer and unabashed carnivore. More information about her can be found at www.anna-roth.com.