Argentina 101: Mate
A beginner’s guide to Argentina’s favorite "drink".
"I heated water for your tea," Simone said.
I flinched.
My Dutch girlfriend made a lovely gesture, but calling mate “tea” hurt.
“It’s called mate1,” I said, flashing a sheepish, hopeful grin, hoping I didn’t sound pedantic.
She kept calling it tea for a while. Not on purpose, but to her, mate is just another tea: dried crushed leaves infused in hot water.
In her eyes, all the quirks like always drinking it from the same strange “cup”, pouring water constantly from a big thermos flask and sipping through a silver metal straw... are just... odd.
Writing about mate in English sucks. Every term feels wrong: cup, mug, vessel, gourd. Especially “gourd”.
Still, I choose English because I want to tell the world about an Argentinian tradition that is so obvious and mundane to us, that we assume everybody else already knows. In Uruguay and Paraguay, they love mate too, but I’ll speak for Argentina because that’s what it says in my passport.
Yes, “mate” is the name of the cup, but a cup can hold anything. A mate should only hold mate. Using it for anything else is like playing volleyball with a football: possible but painful.
The mate tradition resists being described with precision. It’s closer to music than accounting. How long you drink, how hot it should be, when it’s considered lavado2: those are things you just... know.
So Simone isn’t technically wrong. But looking at anything “technically” removes its soul.
Technically, Christmas is Jesus’ birthday party. You see? Everything can be stripped out of its magic if reduced to its physical components.
Mate isn’t tea, just as asado isn’t barbecue. Yes, there is meat on a grill, but to us it means so much more than that.
Which leaves us with the question:
If mate isn’t “tea”… what is it?
Mate is a ritual. A ceremony. A portable pause button. Like stepping out for a smoke, a chance to stare out of the window between sips.
It’s a tradition, but it's also a builder of traditions. The time of the day, the place where you sit, the thing you do while you drink it. It all becomes part of your routine, so it becomes a part of you, of your identity.
You decorate your termo3 with stickers of Argentina4, memes, and, of course, Messi and Maradona. You choose your brand of yerba5, maybe add orange peel or burrito6. You pick the shape and material7 that feels right in your hand and (usually) won’t spill on your laptop. You might even add sugar or sweetener. Or not, that’s the line that separates boys from men.
Every occasion for mate has a distinctive tempo.
Breakfast-mate is a soft wake-up call you share with your own grogginess and the kettle. Silent, slow, with frequent stares at the void.
Work-mate keeps the cursor moving like a drum on a rowing ship. Rhythmic, automatic. Short pours, quick slurps, eyes focused on the screen.
Social-mate stretches time and strengthens bonds. The cebador8 circles the mate around, making sure everybody gets a sip from the straw. It occupies the mouths of the talkaholics so the shy also get their turn at the mic. You with your friends, and your mate with its own: bizcochitos de grasa9, facturas10, or the almighty cremona11. Welcome to carbs-galore.
I even heard that some night-owls have after-dinner-mate. Can’t say much about that because it’s not really my cup of tea mate.
If you have a mate with you, you are never alone. Mate is company, but it also attracts company.
Abroad, mate works as a beacon for fellow Argentineans. Even if it’s for exchanging a few words like which part of Argentina we are from or what we are doing abroad. We feel at home for five minutes and then part ways, satisfied by the meaningless but meaningful interaction.
Simone is surprised that I spot mate drinkers everywhere. The same way your brain recognizes your own language even in the chaos of a busy market. I find people mateando12 everywhere: parks, beaches, and even on long-distance buses.
Every time, I feel obliged to point at them and say “Look, mate!”. She is now developing the same mate-radar, a small win in my plan to argentinise her.
I’ve met many Europeans who visit Argentina, fall in love with mate and bring one back home. Not as a souvenir, but as a new imported tradition that never sticks. Something is missing. Something they can’t touch, taste or smell.
That’s because mate is not something you do; it’s something you are.
Tourists drink mate because they are in Argentina. But a true Argentinian would drink mate even on the Moon, smuggling yerba in his ass.
Drinking mate is in our DNA. Argentina is mate, and mate is Argentina. Each sip sends me back home, to the jokes only we get and gazes that say more than words.
Simone isn’t there yet. She is a social drinker: she’ll sip if someone hands her a mate. Drinking alone, a silent milestone in our culture, hasn’t arrived... yet.
Part of me wants to make her more Argentinean. Or maybe I don’t want to argentinise her, maybe I just want to Pablo‑ise her.
She is the same, always smiling when I eat a broodje kaas13 for lunch, like a proper Dutchman.
We’re heading to Buenos Aires in November for a month. There, I hope she can taste the warmth of the tradition and not just the bitterness of the yerba. And understand, that drinking mate and sharing unos matienzos14 are technically the same, but actually worlds apart.
Mate is both the vessel and the ritual.
Lavado means “washed”; the flavor is weak. Time to change the yerba.
An insulated thermos flask for hot water. Typically of one‑liter.
For example, Ruta Nacional 40, the most scenic and famous road in Argentina. It covers 5,117 kilometers from Ushuaia to La Quiaca across 11 provinces and 21 national parks.
Yerba mate is the plant; we call the dried leaves yerba. I’ve never seen the plant in person.
Burrito (Aloysia polystachya) is an aromatic shrub native to subtropical South America.
Common materials: glass, plastic, ceramic, enamel, stainless steel, calabash, wood, and even bull horns (guampa).
The person who makes mate for the group.
Traditional, savory, and slightly salty Argentine biscuits. The brand “Don Satur” is the king of kings.
A wide variety of sweet pastries, typically purchased by the dozen from bakeries. They come in diverse shapes and sizes, many with unique names and fillings.
Savory bread made with tons of butter. It has a very unique shape and flavor.
Traditional Dutch cheese sandwich, usually paired with a glass of milk... a line I don’t think I’ll ever cross.
We coin endless funny nicknames for mate. Anything that resembles the sound of “mate” works. A few favorites: Matienzo, Matuidi, Matthew McConaughey (pronounced “matiu magonajiu”), Materiales, Matematicos, Matutinos, Matute Morales, Matioli, Mattarazo, and A Nisman Lo Matearon.
I didn’t even know what mate was until I met some Argentinians while traveling a couple of years ago. I’ve still never even been to Argentina, and my weak gringo palette doesn’t even *love* the bitter taste… but I absolutely ADORE the cultural ritual + community aspect of it, so I drink it all the time with my Argentinian friends anyway.
Apologies for the incoming hyper-American perspective, but I’ve always believed that mate could easily catch on in the U.S. (maybe Europe too, curious if Simone would agree) because: 1. folks giving up booze still want something social, 2. foreign things often become trends that spread like wildfire, 3. antioxidants! increased metabolism! wellness! 4. Messi in Miami — I could go on...
Unfortunately, we’d probably also find a way to bastardize it in classic American capitalistic fashion. But in doing so, someone would make approximately 10 trillion dollars. Perhaps this 101 guide is the first step towards el dominio global 🧉🇦🇷
A Nisman lo matearon es excelente. Sumo pasame un amaterasu a la lista