Martín. I met Martín one evening in town and had a glass of wine—they drink their Malbec with ice in the hot summer months—with him and his two daughters. The day had been hot, nearly 100, but it was evening and cooler and we were sitting at a sidewalk table. People walked the cobblestone streets at casual paces. Chicharras sang out like distant table saws from the nearby paraíso trees. The more these birds sing, the hotter the next day is supposed to be, Martín told me. Crickets and soft-pitched street banter filled in the gaps in the bird singsong. He invited me to his house the following day for an asado.