At This Buenos Aires Bar, the Fernet Is Older Than You

Yiyo el Zeneize, a legendary neighborhood gathering place, has collected bottles, and regulars, for more than a century.

Zeneize, in Buenos Aires’ Parque Avellaneda neighborhood. Luis was convinced he was dying and couldn’t bear the idea of parting the world without sharing a drink with his grandson. He picked a bottle of vermouth off a shelf, filled two glasses, and toasted: ¡Salud! Danilo’s mother was furious. His grandfather lived another decade. Years passed before Wortolec understood just how special that glass of vermouth was. When you walk into Yiyo el Zeneize, it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust. Football jerseys, guitars and salami hang from the ceiling. Turquoise shelves are lined with jars of preserves—black olives, green peppers, yellow lupin beans. You might spot patrons loudly shuffling dominoes or walk in on an impromptu tango concert. Direct your glance to the floor, and you’ll find a grated trapdoor. Squint your eyes and crane your neck just so, and you’ll make out antique bottles of amaro stacked like pyramids in the basement. Yiyo has sat on this corner for more than a century. Some bottles of Fernet-Branca, Campari and Hesperidina have been in the basement for nearly half that. “I always thought that the vermouth I drank here was what all vermouth tasted like,” says Wortolec.

June 7, 2024

PLACES

Kevin Vaughn is a writer, cook and tour operator based out of Buenos Aires, Argentina, for the last decade. All of his work connects a profound interest in the intersection of food, community, narrative, history and the sociopolitical.

Some of the antique bottles of Fernet-Branca, Campari and Hesperidina hidden in the bar’s basement have been there for nearly half a century.

By Kevin Vaughn Photos by Milena Pazos

anilo Wortolec was 14 years old the first time he tasted vermouth. He was hanging out with his grandfather, Luis, at their family’s market, Yiyo el

When you walk into Yiyo el Zeneize, it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust. Football jerseys, guitars and salami hang from the ceiling. Turquoise shelves are lined with jars of preserves—black olives, green peppers, yellow lupin beans. You might spot patrons loudly shuffling dominoes or walk in on an impromptu tango concert. Direct your glance to the floor, and you’ll find a grated trapdoor. Squint your eyes and crane your neck just so, and you’ll make out antique bottles of amaro stacked like pyramids in the basement. Yiyo has sat on this corner for more than a century. Some bottles of Fernet-Branca, Campari and Hesperidina have been in the basement for nearly half that. “I always thought that the vermouth I drank here was what all vermouth tasted like,” says Wortolec.

It wasn’t until he purchased a bottle of Cinzano from the grocery store that he realized he had been drinking from a privileged hoard of aged amari. When his grandfather eventually passed away, in 2020, Wortolec and his uncle, Omar Zoppi, took over and transformed the dilapidated market into a bar and restaurant. They counted about 2,000 bottles scattered around the bar. Wortolec wasn’t entirely surprised; his grandparents, he says jokingly, weren’t great at managing stock. New stuff came in and the old stuff got piled into the basement.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, I met with Wortolec to sample his stockpile. He grabbed a bottle of Cinzano off a shelf and dusted it with a dry cloth, careful to just barely graze the label. Based on the artwork, it’s likely from the 1960s. He filtered the vermouth through a sieve, cleaned and refilled the bottle, and poured two tasting glasses. It was black like diner coffee, thick like dark soy sauce, and smelled like cloves and citrus fruits. It flooded my palate with rogue waves of bitter chocolate, browned butter and oranges.

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When Wortolec and Zoppi initially discovered the bottles, they put them on the menu in classic Buenos Aires cocktails. But their reserves drained too quickly. “We went through dozens of bottles really fast and realized we needed to protect them,” Wortolec says. “These are heirlooms.” Today, they’re available in off-menu cocktails, like a Negroni or a Ferroviario (fernet, seltzer, red vermouth and a slice of lemon), for curious drinkers and bartender regulars—a gift to those happy to make the pilgrimage to the city’s residential southside and experience the family’s legacy.

Yiyo was founded in 1921 by Luis Egidio Zoppi, an experienced metalworker from Piedmont, Italy, who arrived in Buenos Aires in 1906 and went by the nickname “Yiyo.” In lieu of payment for a job, he was offered a piece of land to build his own metal shop. More passing truckers asked for food and a glass of wine than for help from a blacksmith. He quickly shuttered the workshop and built a pulpería, La Campana Piamontesa, a general store and restaurant where the family sold hot food, preserves and homemade jug wine. Between 1860 and 1930, Argentina welcomed roughly 6 million European immigrants. Eventually, some of them arrived at Yiyo’s doorstep. For years, it was where neighbors came to drink and play cards. It was also the first place in Parque Avellaneda to have a functioning phone, which is still nailed to the wall in the hallway. “Neighbors took phone calls from the old country in the old apartment in the back. It was the closest place the operator could find a line,” says Wortolec. “A call would come in looking for a family member and someone from the bar would run out looking for them.”

For years, Yiyo was where neighbors came to drink and play cards.

When co-owners Danilo Wortolec and Omar Zoppi took over Yiyo el Zeneize, they revamped the bar and kitchen program, but kept its signature character.

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“I always thought that the vermouth I drank here was what all vermouth tasted like,” says Danilo Wortolec, who discovered his grandparents’ stockpile after they passed away in 2020.

The turquoise shelves at Yiyo el Zeneize are lined with jars of preserves.

Over the years, the neighborhood gathering place has welcomed many immigrants, who’ve become regulars and friends of the bar.

“These are heirlooms,” says Danilo Wortolec of his grandparents’ stockpile of vintage amari.

When co-owners Danilo Wortolec and Omar Zoppi took over Yiyo el Zeneize, they revamped the bar and kitchen program, but kept its signature character.

During much of the first half of the 20th century, Buenos Aires was largely populated by immigrants, and they built new families in their barrios. At Yiyo, workers, regulars and friends were treated like extended family. Yiyo’s sons Luis and Bautista took over the shop in the 1940s, changing the name to “Yiyo el Zeneize” (“Yiyo the Genovese,” in the local dialect) as a nod to their father and the millions of other Italian immigrants that arrived from the Genovese port. Luis and Bautista opened nearly every single day until they passed at 91 and 93, respectively, in 2020. After their deaths, Wortolec set out to chart the bar’s rebirth. “As they got much older, the bar fell into disarray. First, they stopped stocking the cold cuts, then the pickles, until all that was left was wine, amaro and some preserves,” says Wortolec.

The vintage vermouth and fernet is no longer available on the menu. But regulars know to order off-menu Negronis and Ferroviarios to sample some of Yiyo’s family legacy.

Wortolec and Zoppi took advantage of the pandemic shutdown and got to work sorting through a century’s worth of photographs and antiques. They also partnered with chef and bartender Maxi Luque and restaurateur Cristian Díaz to add a bar and kitchen program. They refilled the old wooden refrigerators with artisan cheeses and charcuterie, and restocked the shelves with their own house wine, homemade tomato sauce and olives. Neighbors waited anxiously for their old neighborhood bar to return to its former glory. Like the old amari in the basement, Yiyo feels like a bar that has been macerating for half a century—its original character steeped and emboldened. These days, Thursday and Friday nights are meant for song and dance, and Saturdays and Sundays are for long lunches around tables packed full of plates of milanesa, vitel toné and eggplant Parmesan, just how the neighbors used to make. On either occasion, Wortolec is always waiting at the bar with a bottle of vermouth.

Some of the antique bottles of Fernet-Branca, Campari and Hesperidina hidden in the bar’s basement have been there for nearly half a century.

“These are heirlooms,” says Danilo Wortolec of his grandparents’ stockpile of vintage amari.

Yiyo’s sons Luis and Bautista took over the shop in the 1940s, changing the name to “Yiyo el Zeneize” (“Yiyo the Genovese,” in the local dialect) as a nod to their father and the millions of other Italian immigrants that arrived from the Genovese port. Luis and Bautista opened nearly every single day until they passed at 91 and 93, respectively, in 2020. After their deaths, Wortolec set out to chart the bar’s rebirth. “As they got much older, the bar fell into disarray. First, they stopped stocking the cold cuts, then the pickles, until all that was left was wine, amaro and some preserves,” says Wortolec.

In the back of the bar, framed photos of regulars who have passed line the wall.

The vintage vermouth and fernet is no longer available on the menu. But regulars know to order off-menu Negronis and Ferroviarios to sample some of Yiyo’s family legacy.