Pinch yourself. Am I really in South America? This could be New York. On a Wednesday evening book a late table at Sucre before heading to Rumi for drinks and a dance (see PARTY). You will leave having sampled one of the largest cellars in the city, which sits, quite inconspicuously, in the middle of this hip, industrial, bomb-shelter space.
With the same net of owners as Bar Uriarte (see EAT) and El Diamante (see DRINK), you are guaranteed high-end style at Sucre, and while most concierges send their foreign guests here, Sucre continues to lure Buenos Aires’ trendsetters as well.
Head chef Fernando Trocca gives Sucre the edge over her sister restaurants as far as the food is concerned, but when you cross the bridge above the bar and survey the scene, you will appreciate also its understated finesse. For the at-the-coal-face Sucre experience book a table beside the kitchen, where pigs are being spit-roasted and an army of sous-chefs, led by Gonzálo Sacot, passionately chop away and squeeze their sauce bottles over their pans.
If you do fancy heading to Rumi afterwards (it’s just around the corner), ask for a table beside the window at one of the sofas, highly reminiscent of Bar Uriarte, for a little calm before the storm.