As I headed out of downtown El Calafate, the famous Patagonian wind began to pick up and whipped around my legs, making me stumble and sway. I was on my way to the home of a local chef named Sergio. He was going to teach me, along with other interested foodies, how to make the Argentinian classic - beef empanadas. Beloved by Argentine nationals and tourists alike, the empanada had become a big feature of my trip through Argentina. I had truly fallen for those little pockets of goodness - delicately spiced minced beef encased in a soft, chewy pastry shell. I had tried it at most available opportunies - at the bus station, at the pub with a bottle of Quilmes, at upmarket restaurants as an appetizer. But I was most excited to try it here, inside an Argentinian home, perhaps accompanied by a glass of Malbec. I stopped outside an interesting house, small but beautiful, wedged between two large gardens. The street was quiet and empty, with the exception of a couple of dogs that occasionally sprinted across the road with a flurry of barks and yelps. I pulled out my phone and checked the address - this was it. At that moment, the door opened and out stepped a large man, apron tied around his waist. "Hello! Hello! Come in! You're early! Please wait here! Do you want some water?". I removed my backpack, gratefully accepted the glass of water thrust into my hand, and stood by a large wooden dining table which seemed to occupy most of the ground floor. This is truly a house for sharing food, I thought to myself. Sergio hurriedly finished preparing something by the kitchen sink. I stood silently, taking in my new surroundings. His home was incredible, decorated from floor to ceiling with exquisite knick-knacks and collectibles from Argentina and across the world. Potted cactus plants lined the windowsill, which was framed with delicate fairy lights. Bottles of Malbec and Tempranillo were stacked precariously, filling various cubby holes, and vinyl records were presented like artwork along the wooden shelves. A knock on the door shook me from my awe, and Sergio rushed across the room, greeting the other students with the same animation as he'd met me. We gathered in the small kitchen, each of us grinning with nervous excitement, and Sergio began to introduce himself. He was not a trained chef, but had grown up with a passion for food, watching his 'madre' lovingly create classic Argentinian dishes for her family. The class began by preparing the filling for the empanadas. Sergio talked about each ingredient as if it was the one thing that held the dish together. As the pot bubbled and simmered on the stove, a savoury yet fragrant scent drifted under our nostrils. Sergio opened the refrigerator with glee. He rummaged a while and then turned around, arms filled with cured meats and cheese, and excitedly asked, "Picada?". Before we could answer he'd neatly arranged the platter of food, accompanied by bread rolls and crisps. He smiled and leaned over the kitchen island, as if this was his favourite part of the class. In fact, I think it probably was. At that moment I realised the privilege of being invited into this man's home, drinking his wine, sharing his food and hearing tales of a childhood lived in Buenos Aires. Sure, empanadas are delicious (by the time they came out of the oven I was very focused on enjoying every last morsel of them). But standing in Sergio's kitchen, a glass of red in hand, and laughter and conversation filling the room, I understood the reason why he offered these classes. People I'd only just met felt like old friends. New flavours tasted familiar and comforting. Foreign surroundings felt relaxing and homely. Perhaps that's the power of food - of sharing food in particular. Of traditions that have been upheld and passed down through generations. Of taking the time to enjoy and appreciate a culture that is different to one's own, and of finding common ground with people you initially think so different. Perhaps that's what makes the little things worthwhile. Perhaps that's what makes it not just an empanada.