LUCKILY, I'D brought along my wife, Katie. She mistakenly assumed that this was some sort of fun couple's trip, but I was actually using her for her belly. My midwestern upbringing forbids me from leaving an unclean plate, and I figured that I might need backup to handle stray scraps.

If Katie and I ever seek marriage counseling, it will be over issues of foreign travel. Our styles are polar opposites. I like to keep things free and easy; Katie likes to plan. She thinks my method is lazy and leads to a lot of missed opportunities; I think of her method as a pair of strong, warty hands wrapped around the neck of spontaneity.

Because I was dragging her along on an adventure of my own devising, I agreed to bow to her desires. My efforts toward organization would have made a Secret Service man jealous. I read restaurant reviews going back 20 years. I talked to dozens of American and Argentinean beef connoisseurs. I even talked to people who didn't really know what they were talking about, because sometimes you can turn up surprising pieces of information like that.

What I learned is that locating the best steak in Argentina is like trying to pinpoint the whereabouts of Osama bin Laden. A cabdriver in Los Angeles told a colleague of my wife's that the best steaks come from the area around Bariloche. His opinion was in stark contrast with that of a friend of a colleague of mine, who suggested that the best steaks are more than a thousand miles north of there, near Iguazú Falls. He couldn't think of the name of the place, but he assured me that it was "on a main road near a bus station." Alberto Gonzalez, an Argentinean expat who owns one of my favorite restaurants in New York City, GustOrganics, explained that he couldn't in good conscience tell me about the best steak place. "Why not?" I asked.

"You would think I'm biased."

"Are you?"

"No, it truly is great. But it's owned by a friend."

"If you could tell me, what would you say?"

"I'd say, 'Happening. In Buenos Aires.' "

The testimonials suggested that I had to go just about everywhere. This was impossible, of course, so I settled on a plan to divide the country into three districts—central, south, and north, or Argentinean Beef Zones I, II, and III—and to conduct a whirlwind examination in each zone.

We started in Buenos Aires for the simple reason that that was where we landed, but, considering the history of Argentina, it was the perfect place to begin. Cattle were first introduced to Argentina in the northeast provinces by gold-and-silver-crazed Spaniards in the early 1500s. These early colonists didn't stay long, as they were harassed by natives and ran out of supplies. They abandoned many cattle when they retreated to Paraguay, and the animals turned feral and thrived on the verdant grasslands. When the Spanish finally returned, in 1580, to establish a permanent settlement in present-day Buenos Aires, they discovered a vastly multiplied and renewable export commodity that would enrich the city and provide the centerpiece of Buenos Aires cuisine for hundreds of years.

Katie and I planned to spend the next 48 hours eating steak for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Our first stop was a hard-earned recommendation I'd pried out of Clint Peck, the director of the Beef Quality Assurance program at Montana State University, in Bozeman, which pursues a "commitment to quality within every segment of the beef industry." Peck frequently acts as a beef liaison between the U.S. and Argentina. When I brought up the subject of Argentinean steak, he offered some potent opinions.

"I've got a well-trained palate for beef," he said, "and some of the best steaks I've had have come out of Argentina. I'm not shy to say that."

"Anyplace in particular?" I asked.

"Estilo Campo," he said. "If your hotel concierge in Buenos Aires tells you differently, he's likely taking kickbacks."