The other day a English friend and I went out for meal, which was very tasty, but possibly the most politically incorrect lunch I have ever had.

It was not politically incorrect in the way that many people talk about food ethics, such as eating Foie Gras, out of season vegetables flown halfway round the world, or microwave ready meals. It wasn’t even the distressingly common over-enthusiasm with the ice in drinks. Dominicans are obsessed with getting drinks as cold as possible, which is a good thing on a hot day, and Dominican beer is certainly pretty good when very cold, and pretty vile at any other temperature. A useful hint is to always have a good look at a very cold bottle before opening it, as having to wait for the beer to defrost is rather frustrating. I can forgive their sinful habit of putting ice in whisky, as Americans almost always do it, but I will never be able to stop myself being shocked when I see Dominicans get out the ice bucket for a bottle of red wine. The automatic action to make all drinks near freezing is very distressing for me when, as happened the other day, I see someone in a bar paying around £30 for a bottle of rather fine red Rioja, then sticking it in to chill. Of course, it is their money, and they have the right to do anything they want with the drinks they buy with it, and so I always manage to stop myself from either denouncing their sacrilege or laughing at their philistine ways.

Our meal seems innocuous enough, we went to a nice Argentinean restaurant, ordered some nice food, and had a nice bottle of red wine (at room temperature). The bottle of wine was necessary as I had to interview someone I particularly dislike in the afternoon, so needed some sort of anaesthetic and relaxant, but midday drinking aside, there were three reasons why it was politically incorrect.

Firstly, Argentinean food is notoriously based upon bits of cow, and we managed to order the only vegetarian food on the menu, for which we got slightly frosty looks from the manager. One Argentinean once commented to me that the only purpose of salad is to make the plate look nice. It is rather like going into a curry house and ordering fish and chips, an affront to all that the chef holds dear. I am always tempted to subvert food ethics of certain establishments – back home I get my organic vegetables from the hippy vegan shop, but I make sure I visit it after picking stuff up from the butcher and the fishmonger. For this, and other sins, I have been repeatedly threatened with a permanent ban, but the hairy hippies never go through with it.

Secondly, despite the grand abundance of Argentinean wines, we managed to order the only Chilean bottle in the place. There were a few French and Spanish offerings, but they didn’t offer the same political opportunities.

Finally, and most crucially, we (two Britishers) went to an Argentinean restaurant on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the start of the Falklands conflict.

I did suggest singing God Save the Queen before we ate, but with all the steak knives around the place I had sincere doubts that we would get out alive.