The Steak, The Storm, and the Slightly Damp Table: Our Night at Don Julio’s— Possibly the Best Meal of Our Year of Family Travel

When we decided to spend a year traveling the world as a family, we each had a few “non-negotiables.” For Lila, our daughter and resident meat enthusiast, it was Don Julio Steakhouse in Buenos Aires.

This is a kid who has been ordering rare steak since she was five. Five. While other kids were asking for chicken fingers or mac and cheese, Lila was out here ordering filet mignon and giving side-eye to anything cooked past medium rare. So when our trip itinerary included Argentina, home of some of the best beef in the world, she was laser-focused on one thing: eating at Don Julio.

Unfortunately, despite having crossed time zones and continents with spreadsheets and good intentions, we didn’t plan this part very well. By the time we arrived in Buenos Aires and checked online, the restaurant was booked solid for the next three months. Lila took this news with quiet devastation. We, being parental professionals, offered distractions like “Well, there are other steakhouses!” and “Maybe they have takeout?”

No dice.

But then—travel magic. The staff at our hotel gave us a secret tip: show up at Don Julio around 5:30pm. The restaurant wouldn’t open until 7pm and no one in Buenos Aires eats dinner before 9, but the staff would be there and, if you were early enough, they’d hand out a limited number of tickets with designated times for tables later that night. The only catch? You had to be okay with outdoor seating. Sold. We didn’t fly thousands of miles and raise a steak-obsessed child to give up that easily.

So, at 5:45pm we walked away victorious, ticket in hand for a 10:30pm seating. That ticket felt like a golden pass. We had time to wander, snack, soak up the city, and return for the carnivorous main event.

Until... the sky exploded.

And I don’t mean a little drizzle. I mean biblical-level rain. Build-an-ark rain. Street-turned-river rain. Around 9:30pm, with umbrellas nowhere near up to the task, we debated giving up. But we’d already committed three hours to this mission, and what did we have to lose? We sloshed our way through puddles the size of kiddie pools, passed a couple downed trees, dodged a few wildly spraying taxis, and arrived at Don Julio looking like damp tourists with a dream.

The scene was chaos. Everyone who had been given outdoor tickets was packed into the entrance, holding soggy umbrellas and being gently told to try again another night. We were handed glasses of sparkling wine (thank you, classy consolation prize) and the same heartbreaking news.

And that’s when it happened.

Lila didn’t cry or pout. She just stood there, quietly devastated. And maybe that’s what did it—or maybe it was pure magic—but just as we turned to leave, a woman working the seating chart (who had clearly had a night) caught us and said, “Wait.”

She made no promises. Just a “maybe.” But if we didn’t tell anyone else, she’d try to find us something.

Reader, she found us something.

Fifteen minutes later, the rain let up and we were shown to a slightly damp but covered table out front. No complaints. We would have eaten steak in a canoe at that point.

And the meal? Completely worth the wait.

The beef empanadas were unreal. The steaks were perfection. The chimichurri was the kind of thing you want to bottle up and take home. Even the tomatoes tasted like they'd been grown by angels. Our waiter was kind and funny and brought extra empanadas for the kids, which just about made Lila’s whole year.

Would I go back? Absolutely. Would I make a reservation next time? Also yes.

But honestly, I wouldn’t trade this crazy, soggy, magical night for anything.